Summary:
Sherlock purges himself of his first memory. It's as painful as it is cathartic.
Notes:
Fair warning-some things in this chapter are fairly traumatic. Wanted to make sure everyone is aware that there is violence, death and its aftermath here.
Part of this speaks to my own head-canon that Sherlock was a manipulator and strategist in his missions, not an assassin. To me it always seemed illogical to think that-it wouldn't be the best use of his talents, nor would it be in keeping with his personality (sociopath-yeah, right).
A note about formatting-as before, any sections entirely in italics are memories; the section that is both bold and italics is a memory within a memory.
Budapest- April
Mycroft had always maintained that coincidence was the last possible reason for events—"the universe is rarely so lazy." In retrospect, then, it was ironic that Sherlock's undoing was almost certainly the result of coincidence, or just plain filthy bad luck. After all, what were the odds that one of the few people who knew Sherlock well enough to be able to recognize him in (an admittedly minimal) disguise should turn up here, a thousand miles from London?
The casino was only about half-full; unusual with an international convention in attendance at the hotel, but then bankers weren't prone to true gambling—at least not since the last round of financial death spirals. Sherlock was subbing for one of the other dealers; he was supposed to be off-duty tonight but took the extra work out of sheer boredom. Pasha told him not to. They were less than 24 hours from wrapping up the last loose ends and turning the trafficking operation over to Interpol. But if Sherlock had to spend one more night sitting in that decrepit farmhouse with those terrified girls (and their children—don't forget the wailing children, usually hungry/tired/frightened) he was going to say or do something unforgiveable to Pasha. Sherlock was losing his last reserves; he couldn't edit his behavior anymore.
If Pasha left, he wasn't sure he could continue.
It was strange. He'd worked alone for years before John. Of course, part of that time he'd had chemical help. But he'd never been conscious of being alone even when he was clean. John had apparently cracked the lid he'd kept over that awareness, and now Sherlock couldn't seem to go back into the emotional stillness he used to wield like armor. He felt frayed, like important bits of him had gradually eroded away under the constant need to be someone else; that never-ending fear that even the most casual mistake would end not just him, but also John and anyone else he cared about. Pasha (bear-like, sweary and fatherly) was now, without question, on that list.
So here Sherlock stood, looking (by intent) like the Archangel Gabriel, waiting for enough customers to sit at his vingt-et-un table and start another game. He had dyed his hair and brows a pale blonde and let his curls grow into pre-Raphaelite ringlets, much longer than usual. He had stopped wearing the contact lenses he'd purchased before leaving England; he'd had three different eye colors in the past eighteen months, but decided his natural, changeably-pale eyes went best with his current appearance.
Manipulating his looks was an indulgence. He knew it, knew he'd be safer to try and make himself look unremarkable. But he'd allowed himself this; told himself that as long as he looked completely unlike Sherlock Holmes, it didn't matter. And creating an attractive persona made it easier to subvert the people he needed to manipulate. The casino owner's wife had proven the truth of that. Petra liked very young, blond men, and Sherlock had played on his ability to knock ten years off his true age. Petra assumed he was not long out of uni, which fit him right into her preferred profile, and, occasionally, her bed. At first that aspect had been unsettling, but Petra's enthusiasm, combined with Sherlock's, well, loneliness, had meant that basic biology ultimately triumphed. These activities had also provided an ideal opportunity to hack her husband's computer records unimpeded. Petra was a very sound sleeper.
Sherlock stretched and checked his watch: three hours before he could close his table for the night and head back to the farmhouse to pack up for the move to Serbia. From habit he scanned the room, collecting data randomly on everyone he saw without any real intimation of danger. He glanced over to the doorway at a group of new customers, and found himself looking directly into the eyes of Sebastian Wilkes. And Sebastian, after a startled moment, clearly knew exactly what he saw.
Oddly enough, Sherlock's first thought was of John. He could hear John's voice: "Sebastian FUCKING Wilkes." John always referred to him that way, in exactly the same tone of voice he used when he mentioned "camel FUCKING spiders". John detested Sebastian; Sherlock had never understood why. It apparently had something to do with Sebastian's treatment of Sherlock. It was very confusing.
His second thought was that he had to leave, now, immediately, and he had to get word to Pasha. Sebastian would almost certainly come to Sherlock, and the ensuing commotion would make it clear that the (French/recent uni grad/occasional boytoy) dealer Alaine was in actuality Sherlock Holmes, disgraced and, oh yes, dead, English detective. It would also alert Anatole, Petra's husband and Moriarty compatriot, that Alaine's friend and sometime-drug-dealer Pasha (only twice—Pasha refused to do it again. John can't know.Delete) was also not likely to be what he seemed. And that would lead, inevitably, to the farmhouse, the girls, the children.
Sherlock casually turned his back to the main entrance (where Sebastian, predictably enough, was talking excitedly to his fellow bankers even now) and sidled through the employee entrance at the rear of the casino. He stepped into the office of Amelie, the floor manager, and told her that he needed a replacement for the rest of the evening—migraine. That approach had two advantages: first, Sherlock had already established a tendency to miss shifts because of migraines (real ones, unfortunately—the remnant of a concussion suffered in a bar brawl in Russia); and second, the shock of seeing Sebastian had evidently given him an appropriate pallor. Amelie was quick to agree, but reminded him that he needed to take his uniform down to the dressing rooms for cleaning first.
Sherlock hurried down the metal staircase to the lower level, using his mobile phone to ring Pasha at the same time. Damn—no signal. Not too unusual here—phone towers were few and far between, and the thick walls of the hotel/casino made for spotty reception regardless. He would try again as soon as he left the building.
He all but ran to the basement changing room, stripping off the uniform and digging in his locker for his clothing. He dressed quickly in skinny jeans, a lightweight grey jumper and a black hoodie, but remembered that he needed to check for any damning materials in his locker—this would be his last shift here, and he'd rather not leave an easy trail. A quick shuffle turned up nothing that could trace back to him. He picked up his uniform and hung it on a hanger, then turned down the hallway to the laundry room. He'd made a point of being harmless and friendly to all of the "backroom" people—you never knew when you'd need an unusual favor from the people most others overlooked. So he wasn't surprised when Maxim, the cleaning attendant, greeted him with a smile. "Leaving early, Alaine? Or are you meeting Petra? She was looking for you earlier."
Sherlock rolled his eyes dramatically. "It's such a burden, you know—being irresistible." He held the uniform out. "Can you get this cleaned? I'm not back on until Monday so there's no rush."
Maxim reached for the hanger, but then the desk phone chimed. "A moment. That's the office line—Amelie is much more important than you!"
Sherlock tried to stand at ease, preventing himself from throwing the uniform down and running out of the building by force of will alone. He was aware his hands were trembling slightly but couldn't seem to stop it. He wanted desperately to call Pasha again but couldn't leave the room without turning in the uniform, and couldn't call from here without having Maxim hear every word. Not an option. Texting was also out—Pasha's elderly mobile phone didn't have that capability.
Maxim continued to listen to Amelie, making faces for Sherlock's benefit. But when Sherlock mimed putting the uniform down and leaving, Maxim shook his head firmly and held up his hand in the universal symbol for "wait". Maxim was required to check the suit over for damage before letting employees leave—otherwise Maxim would be responsible for paying for any repairs.
Sherlock's nerves chittered urgently when Maxim turned to look at him, apparently in response to something Amelie had said. "I'll send him along," said Maxim, and hung up.
Finally, finally, Maxim took the damn uniform and gave Sherlock his return ticket, showing that he'd turned it all in appropriately. But—"Amelie wants to see you before you go. Apparently someone wanted to speak with you?"
This was definitely a Bit Not Good. It was clear that Sebastian had been quick to let management know who "Alaine" was. Sherlock estimated he had at most five minutes before Amelie realized he wasn't coming, and that would almost certainly lead to her calling Anatole. When in doubt, Amelie always called Anatole—she had no real authority to make any decisions on her own, and this situation would clearly be above her pay grade.
Sherlock had no intention of doing anything other than taking to his heels as soon as possible, but the last thing he wanted was to give Amelie advance notice of that. So- "I'll head up there right now," he told Maxim, and smiled as he casually opened the door and stepped back out into the grimy basement corridor.
As soon as the door closed behind him, Sherlock sprinted down the dimly-lit corridor towards the back door, dialing Pasha as he went. Still no signal. He kept running until he came to one of the main underground corridors that led across to the hotel proper. This was fairly heavily travelled, so he couldn't take the chance of being seen running for no apparent reason. He slowed to a brisk walk, with the air of someone who had Places to Go. It was amazing how many times one could easily traverse forbidden territory that way—looking busy was almost as good a disguise as looking official, most of the time.
Just as he reached the intersection of the two corridors, he was aware of movement in the near-darkness to his right. He jerked aside reflexively, but not quickly enough to avoid the large arms that grabbed him and yanked him over into a cluster of three dark-clad men. One of them shoved a needle roughly into his neck, and everything started to fade. The last thought he had was of John's voice one more time. "Sebastian FUCKING Wilkes."
Countryside, near Budapest
The first thing Sherlock was aware of was the heavy smell of onions, mixed with dirt. He then realized that (1) he was lying on a hard wood surface; (2) the surface was jolting and rumbling; (3) there was a secondary smell of diesel; and (4) his head would, most likely, spontaneously explode in the near future. His false migraine had clearly upgraded into the true version. Given his pain level, explosion would be a relief. It was also very cold—his hoodie wasn't geared to an open truck in near-freezing weather.
Some time afterward those initial impressions coalesced enough to make him understand that he was in the back of a truck previously used to transport farm produce, with his hands cuffed in front of him. His feet were hobbled with heavy cord, though loosely enough that he thought he could stand if he had to. The truck was barreling across the countryside somewhere—he could see glimpses of the dark outlines of trees through the slats in the side of the truck bed. He recognized the two men he could see through the window in the back of the cab—one was Aron, Anatole's bald, tattooed enforcer with an addiction to cheap cologne, and the other was the hulking form of Tamas, Petra's nephew, who worked as a general errand-boy-cum-janitor around the casino. That was good news—if Sherlock could deal with Aron, Tamas would be no threat. Tamas liked "Alaine", and was very slow, mentally and physically. Sherlock had made a point of being kind to him; he despised the general air of contempt he'd seen directed at Tamas by Anatole and the rest of the staff.
After an undetermined time (head pain was making it impossible to estimate accurately, and they'd taken his watch and phone, though not his wallet) the truck clattered to a stop in a brightly-lit barnyard. Sherlock quickly opted to play "unconscious" for the time being—that would give him more time to listen for clues to what Anatole had planned for him, and figure out a way to neutralize Aron. As it happened, the tactic was not as successful as he would have hoped; he briefly smelled Aron's cloud of cologne before Aron simply dropped the tailgate, grabbed Sherlock by the back of the hoodie and dumped him forcibly out onto the dirt of the barnyard. The agonized gasp Sherlock couldn't repress when his head hit the ground put paid to any attempt at remaining "unconscious", though the resultant surge of splintering, nauseating pain made insensibility sound remarkably attractive.
Sherlock still intended to wait for his opportunity to deal with Aron, and then convince kindly, trusting Tamas to let him go. That made the shock all the greater when kindly, trusting Tamas strode forward and gave him a full-force kick in the chest with his right combat boot. As Sherlock choked for breath while dealing with the agony of what felt like several cracked ribs, Aron bent forward and grinned. "So, you thought Tamas would still be your friend, right? Oh no, Tamas knows, now. I told him all about what you did to his poor auntie Petra. Forcing yourself on her." He chuckled, looking sideways at the glowering Tamas. "I even explained to him exactly what that meant—he wasn't sure at first, you know." And Tamas drew back his boot again and kicked Sherlock in the side of the head, and Sherlock slammed back into oblivion.
He came reluctantly back to consciousness, aware that his surroundings had changed. He slit his eyes just enough to see, focusing on giving no clue that he was now awake. He saw nothing remarkable—he was now slumped in a wooden chair in a dilapidated kitchen. The handcuffs had been shifted; his right hand was now cuffed securely to the side rail of the chair. But he realized dimly that this was a positive; he now had one hand free. Bonus points: his feet were no longer tied either. No fog of cologne, so Aron appeared to be absent; that was also a plus. On the negative side, his migraine (or another concussion?) was now causing blurred vision in addition to head pain, and he was fairly sure at least one of his ribs was broken.
He slowly, cautiously raised his head from his chest and opened his eyes enough to see more of the room, and found himself looking directly into the face of Tamas, seated in another kitchen chair five feet away. So much for stealth. Manipulation, then.
"Where's Aron?" was not what Sherlock actually planned to lead with, but that's what came out of his mouth. Certainly he wanted to know, but… apparently this was concussion, then, not migraine.
Tamas glowered, but answered in a truculent tone. "He went to take care of your mess. That's what he said."
Sherlock's heart momentarily seized as he thought of what that 'mess' almost certainly was, but he managed not to react in any way Tamas could see. "I don't understand," he moaned in as helpless a tone as he could manage. "I didn't make a mess anywhere, Tamas. And I didn't hurt your aunt Petra. I promise." He gave Tamas his most sincere, wide-eyed look.
Tamas gave him back a stony glare. "Aron says Auntie told him. I don't believe you. And when Aron comes back we're going to hurt you and make you sorry."
Sherlock couldn't stop himself. "You already hurt me, Tamas." He regretted that as soon as it came out of his mouth—why couldn't he keep control of this conversation? This was normally so easy. Poor Tamas shouldn't be a challenge, surely.
Tamas looked momentarily confused and, perhaps, a little ashamed. "I'm not supposed to talk to you", he blurted, and turned his face away like a child. As he turned, Sherlock suddenly saw the pistol tucked carelessly into his waistband.
Sherlock was becoming increasingly concerned about the passage of time. He didn't know how long he'd been unconscious (either time), and had to, had to speak to Pasha to let him know that Aron was coming. He dimly recognized the feeling shimmering along his nerves as terror—if Aron found Pasha before Sherlock had time to warn him… he had to expedite this conversation. He had to solve this. Right, then. Manipulation had been of limited effectiveness. On to brute force, reluctant though he was to harm Tamas.
He leaned forward again, squeezed his eyes shut, and gagged. (Harder than he expected to keep that gag from becoming the real thing. Definitely concussion). He looked up at Tamas with beseeching eyes. "Tamas, my head hurts and I'm, I'm sick. Can I at least have some water?"
Ah, excellent. Tamas was looking at him with concern; this was, after all, still his friend "Alaine", and what harm could water do? Tamas shuffled over to the sink, pulled an old mug off the counter and filled it with water, then carried it carefully back towards Sherlock.
Sherlock reached his cuffed hand down and grasped the chair leg firmly, then planted both feet firmly on the floor and gathered himself. As Tamas came close and held out the mug, Sherlock stood in one motion and swung the chair around towards Tamas' head and shoulders, gasping "Sorry!" as he connected.
The chair exploded into component parts in a satisfying fashion, but from there things took a turn for the worse. Sherlock had clearly miscalculated the effect of the size differential; Tamas had perhaps three inches on him in height, but easily six to seven stone in weight. The blow from the chair staggered him momentarily, but not enough for Sherlock to complete his grab for the pistol in Tamas' waistband.
Tamas lunged forward and grabbed Sherlock's shoulders, now clearly furious. Sherlock tried to jerk away, but Tamas' mass made it impossible to break free. All Sherlock accomplished was to pull them both off-balance, and they fell to the floor with a stunning crash. Sherlock was half-underneath Tamas, his right hand trapped and still cuffed to a small remnant of the chair. He had managed to keep his head from taking the impact, but that meant his shoulders and already-battered ribs bore the brunt of it, making it difficult to breathe or think.
Tamas recovered too quickly. One hand snaked up and grabbed Sherlock's hair, while the other slid around his neck. Tamas began to squeeze Sherlock's throat while periodically slamming his head down by his hair. Sherlock tried frantically to break free but was hindered by the head-slams; he would not stay conscious long if that continued. By now he was sobbing for breath and pulling, pushing, kicking at Tamas. He suddenly remembered the pistol, and forced his free hand in between the two of them. He managed to yank the pistol free and struck Tamas in the temple with it.
Tamas grabbed at the pistol with his right hand and fought with Sherlock for it, and kept banging Sherlock's head on the floor with the other and he wouldn't stop and he wouldn't stop and he had the damn pistol with Sherlock's hand and nostopstopstopstop and suddenly Sherlock's hand cracked backwards and the pistol went off. Blood flowed into Sherlock's eyes and his mouth and Tamas wasn't moving and he was on top and…
Sherlock slowly came back to himself, dazed and breathing shallowly, unsure where he was or what had happened. It took several moments to pull sensations together: he was lying on the floor; he was wet, somehow, and had a vile taste in his mouth; there was a soft, very heavy weight along his right side that was making it difficult to breathe, although the pain in his ribs was contributing to that as well. He suddenly realized his eyes were closed. Had to think about that for a minute. Finally remembered how to open them, but still couldn't make sense of what he saw. The room undulated around him, and a distant voice in his head said "oh, yes, concussion" in a mildly interesting way.
He waited hopefully to see if the voice was going to submit any additional information, but nothing was forthcoming. There was apparently a disconnect between portions of his brain; he could access sensory information but was struggling to put the data to practical use. Perhaps if he napped a while? Sounded attractive, but there was something nagging him… something about time. Somewhere he needed to be?
He thought about trying to move the weight off, but his mind skittered immediately away from that. Bad, bad, bad. Leave The Weight alone. Don't think about The Weight. Let's nap some more, yeah?
But that nagging feeling about time and a place to go was still there. So he had to think about The Weight, because he was pretty sure he couldn't take The Weight with him. Finally, reluctantly, he turned his head towards The Weight, and memory slammed back into him, sending him gasping and jerking to try and get out from under Tamas' corpse.
He managed, after an effort that left him panting and dizzy, to slide out from under the body. That detached, observing part of his brain noted the extensive loss of bone from the skull and dispassionately identified internal brain structures now exposed to view. The remainder of his mind recoiled in horror and despair, and motivated him to scuttle on hands and knees to the far side of the kitchen.
He could feel himself start to slide towards a panic attack and ruthlessly suppressed his surging breath in an attempt at calm. The pieces of his mind abruptly slotted back together, though his thoughts were jagged and erratic. And Pasha—he remembered Pasha with a blast of fear that pushed him, swaying and gagging, to his feet. His head pounded and squealed, his vision made the walls and floor slither in and out, but he was up and needed very much to stay that way. He feared he could never get back up again if he fell.
He braced his back against the kitchen wall and tried to think rationally. He had to get back to the farmhouse. He needed transport. He needed to know where he was currently, and where that was in relation to the farmhouse. And he had to contact Pasha. Christ, Pasha, the girls, the children.
He wiped his face off on his sleeve, shook the last shards of chair arm out of his handcuffs, and made himself check the rest of the house. He staggered through the four rooms looking for a phone, hoping to God he didn't have to search Ta—the corpse. And, of course, found nothing. It took an embarrassingly long time to force himself back into the kitchen. Sentiment.
In the end, he managed. He knelt by the body despite the blood; bending over with the walls wavering was just not on. He averted his eyes from the mess at the head while going through pockets, breathing through his mouth as the smell of blood was increasing his nausea. Blood had never bothered him before, but now…
In this instance, finally, he got lucky. In one of the jacket pockets he found a new, working, and extremely expensive satellite phone, complete with GPS. Either someone had been very generous to… to Tamas, damn it, or, more likely, Aron had left it with him to use in the event of trouble. Sherlock immediately dialed Pasha, heart thundering, and had to rest against the wall momentarily when, after six rings, it went to voicemail.
"Get everyone out now. They're coming; I'm blown. Have Kolya meet me at the farmhouse." Kolya was Pasha's son, a younger, less bear-like version of Pasha. He was due with the truck at 4AM, and if Sherlock or Pasha weren't there his orders were to proceed to Belgrade alone. Interpol was due at the farmhouse at six, and Sherlock couldn't be there when they arrived.
Sherlock looked at the phone again and shivered. It was now just after 11PM, which meant he'd been a captive for two hours. In looking at the GPS he found that he was a little under 20 kilometers from Pasha's farmhouse; that gave him five hours to find transport and get there before Kolya left. He would keep calling Pasha to make sure everyone was safely away, but for his own sake he had to move.
He headed out of the house and stumbled down the steps into the barnyard. No vehicle; perhaps in the barn?
The trip to the barn seemed to take much longer than it should have; he was having difficulty tracking time and distance, and the ground moved as if it were boiling slowly under the surface. Thankfully both great doors were open; Sherlock wasn't sure he'd have the strength to open them at the moment.
He staggered into the barn, momentarily blinded by the shift between bright security lights and near-darkness; the barn was lit by two dim, bare light bulbs on long wires. He smelled hay, manure, dampness and animals, and could see several stalls on the far side. As he moved closer he could see movement in a couple of stalls. The first held an unhappy Jersey cow who clearly needed milking; Sherlock unlocked the stall, if only because he wasn't sure if anyone would think of the animals once his escape was discovered. The other occupant was both more promising and more daunting: a heavy horse wearing a wool blanket, maybe a Clydesdale, maybe one of the other similar breeds. Gentle, tireless, originally bred to carry knights with a hundredweight of armor on their backs. But not ideal for Sherlock's purposes: even if he could manage to mount, there was no way he had the strength to strap on a saddle—come to that, he didn't see a tack room or any other area that might hold one.
Sherlock stared at the horse, and the horse whuffled and stared back. Sherlock's errant memory prodded him suddenly, and he remembered Pasha once again. Dialed the phone—voicemail again. Sherlock left another message: "Call me. As soon as you can." He left the number for the sat phone and hung up. He didn't want to think of Aron already having found Pasha. No reason to think that; they'd been very careful not to leave a trail coming or going. But the silence was worrying Sherlock. He couldn't remember how long it had been since he first called; surely Pasha would have had time to get that message by now?
He needed to move. The only available option was the horse; he clearly couldn't walk that distance in time (and the way the landscape was shimmering around him, likely couldn't walk it at all). So. He stepped into the stall with the horse, which seemed interested rather than annoyed, thank God. Sherlock was a sound rider—he'd ridden often as a child. But he thought it unlikely he could handle an uncooperative heavy horse at the best of times, and certainly not now.
He was relieved to see a halter and reins hanging over a post. This he could handle; the horse lowered its head obediently, though Sherlock had a bad moment when he had to reach high to put the crownpiece behind the ears and his ribs howled at him. He leaned his palms against the horse's warm, blanketed side until he could catch his breath, while the horse mouthed at his curls in a friendly fashion.
He managed, after two painful attempts, to mount the horse by dint of climbing up on the stall railings (in the first attempt he lost the reins and had to climb down to regain them. The horse was perplexed but patient). It was unlike any other horse he had ridden; more like sitting atop a high, firm sofa than anything else, wide and deep, especially with the upholstery-like tartan blanket. His legs stuck out on either side to a ridiculous degree; it was like riding on his first pony, at 4.
He gave the reins a tug and jolted his heels a bit into the wide sides, and the horse moved ponderously out of the barn and into the barnyard. The lights remained on next to the barn and house, but once they left the yard they would move into the blackness of the countryside. Sherlock turned the GPS app to "voice" so that he didn't have to rely on his increasingly problematic vision, but made an attempt to memorize the map in case he lost either signal or battery power en route.
He swung the horse out of the barnyard and was quickly enveloped in a chilly darkness. A half-moon, yes, but clouds occluded much of the light. The small lingering patches of snow here and there did add a certain amount of reflection, though; just enough that the horse clopped confidently along the dirt road. Sherlock initially tried to speed the horse up to a canter but his head couldn't stand the jolting – he nearly blacked out again. He tugged on the reins in desperation and the horse settled into a smooth, though slow, walk.
A new (or rather, recurring) problem then surfaced: Sherlock was again overwhelmed by the smell of blood, this time from his soaked hoodie. He struggled to ignore it; then he had to stop suddenly and heave over the side of the horse, which left him exhausted and dizzy. He tried to continue, but five minutes later found himself once again gagging. In desperation he peeled off the hoodie and threw it away; better cold than this.
And it was cold, bitterly so. Perhaps a degree or so below freezing, judging by the amount of snow still drifted in hollows along the sides of the road. Yet another reason why he needed to keep moving—his light jumper would do little to protect him, and he couldn't get off the horse to take the blanket since he'd never be able to get back on. At least the horse should be warm enough to keep going, and he did get some heat from the animal's body if nothing else. His hands were becoming numb, though, so he pulled the ends of his sleeves as far over his fingers as they would go, and then tucked the fingers of his left hand up under the edge of the horse blanket as well, holding the reins with his right.
He abruptly startled as Pasha once again surfaced in his erratic memory. He knew he had lost his ability to accurately track time, but was increasingly concerned that Pasha had not called him back. He pulled the reins in to stop the horse and pulled the phone out of his pocket, hitting "redial" and waiting. Once again the call went to voicemail, but he felt compelled to leave another message even though he was sure the first two? three? had gone through. "Pasha. I'm on a horse. I'm coming. Tell Kolya. Call me. Please." That made sense. Did it make sense?
While he had the phone out, he checked the GPS again. It told him soothingly in Hungarian that he had come 5 kilometers and still needed to continue straight ahead. That was helpful, since that was also the only way he could go unless he wanted to set off cross-country. Judging by the map he had memorized, he only needed to make two turns to reach the farmhouse, and both were a fair distance away at this point. He put the phone back in his pocket, picked up the reins and clucked at the horse to get it moving again.
He started shivering badly. He began to alternately flex and release his muscles—anything to keep blood moving. His torso and ribs were stiffening, though, so he had to limit his efforts to his arms and legs. He was becoming confused; he couldn't remember when he had last called. He stopped the horse and pulled out the phone again, but couldn't figure out how to pull up his record of outgoing calls. That was alarming; shouldn't he be able to do that? He tried again, but gave up when he realized he couldn't read the display clearly anyway. He hit redial. "Pasha? I don't know where I am. Do you know where you are? I think… does someone need to come get me? I have a horse." He was queasily aware that something about that sounded wrong.
Sometime later he decided that he should just talk to Pasha. Surely Pasha could hear him?He realizes he is no longer on the road; he is back in Russia, waiting with Pasha in the truck. Pasha is a driver for one of Moriarty's lesser operations, a smuggling run that delivers guns to the Chechen mafia in exchange for opium or processed heroin. Very lucrative, clearly, and the money is used to fund a vast number of other activities across Eastern Europe.
Pasha, though, is an old-fashioned criminal: while he had no problem with running guns, he had been outraged to find that the payment was in the form of drugs rather than cash. That had been Sherlock's "in"— Pasha's daughter had died of an overdose, so he was receptive when Sherlock suggested that breaking up the operation might be in everyone's best interests. Sherlock couldn't believe his luck in meeting Pasha—a chance meeting with someone intimate with one of his future targets, and sympathetic to boot.
It was a very simple plan in the end—basically Pasha had found another "agent" interested in taking over the operation on a cash-only (i.e., non-drugs) basis. The right information was placed in the right hands, a trap was laid, and now Sherlock and Pasha have made their delivery/pickup and are due to be "hijacked" along with all of the other trucks in the fleet. The new "agent" would be making simultaneous raids on each of the warehouses and headquarters. It was immaculately planned; even Sherlock was impressed by the level of organization involved. Criminals, yes, but thorough criminals.
Everything seemed to be going well. They had already heard frantic messages from other drivers as trucks were attacked; the intent was to make this as bloodless as possible (death was bad for business as a rule), but Sherlock had few illusions about how some of the drivers would end up. These were Moriarty's tools, but only at several removes. He had resigned himself to collateral damage to the semi-innocent, but felt little joy at the prospect.
Pasha, on the other hand, was ecstatic. He firmly believed that this was an appropriate revenge for his daughter's death. Russia bred a certain romanticism, certainly, but also intense pragmatism in the face of the inevitable. This trade needed to stop; the other drivers knew they were transporting poison; therefore, their removal was necessary. He was so ecstatic, in fact, that he insisted they stop at a bar along the way for beer and food, since they were not due to be "overtaken" for another two hours. He laughingly told Sherlock that it was unbecoming for him to worry about being late for a hijacking.
And of course, Pasha being Pasha, he couldn't be satisfied with just one beer. He had several, and insisted Sherlock drink as well (though Sherlock drank one to every three of Pasha's). And of course the bar ultimately erupted in a brawl; every Russian bar seemed to have at least twobrawls a night, judging by the dives Pasha regularly dragged Sherlock to. This time, though, things went more pear-shaped than usual. In the process of heading towards the door, Sherlock turned his back on the combatants and took a full bottle to the back of his head, immediately losing consciousness. So Pasha carried him out of the bar and laid him on the truck seat. Pasha then continued on the route to their rendezvous.
Sherlock is now awake to see their "hijackers" arriving, and watches in a nauseous daze as Pasha greets the two men, Chechens by their accents. Sherlock's head hurts badly enough that he is having trouble following the conversation, but it's clear early on that something isn't right.
The Chechens argue with Pasha, gesturing angrily at Sherlock. Pasha is playing his "dumb Cossack" role, trying to insist that Sherlock is his cousin. The Chechens know better; no family in Pasha's village ever produced an exotic creature like Sherlock, currently sporting ginger curls and turquoise eyes. Unfortunately Sherlock's too dizzy to argue effectively, and his accent keeps slipping. The Chechens shove Pasha out of the way, reach into the truck and drag Sherlock out while he bats feebly at them. And then Pasha strides up behind them, shoves a pistol into the backs of their necks in turn and pulls the trigger…
…and Sherlock abruptly came to himself, disoriented and shivering. He was back on the horse—had apparently passed out for a time, or fallen asleep. He hadn't fallen off, thank God, and the horse had assumed that he was ready to stop for the night and simply ambled over to the side of the road to nibble on trees. Sherlock had fallen forward over his hands; the right, handcuffs and all, still held the reins and the phone. No way of telling how long he'd been out; it was now a little after 2AM. He checked the GPS; still 6 kilometers to the first turn. His mind was somewhat clearer, and he abruptly thought of Pasha. He looked at the phone again—no messages. The fear was now oppressive; he could think of no reason why Pasha wouldn't have called him. It had been three hours, ample time to clear everyone out and get on the road.
He knew there was no reason for it, but he called again. "Pasha. Please call me. Please. I'm coming." He didn't put the phone away; he felt better holding it in his hand, even though his constant shivering meant that he had to concentrate hard to keep from dropping it.
He tried again to urge the horse to a faster pace. The great beast was willing enough, but the jarring was so great that Sherlock could only tolerate it for five minutes at a time before his vision flickered in and out. He set himself a schedule: five minutes walking, five minutes canter. It felt like a kind of waking nightmare—painfully cold and dark, with no landmarks visible to measure progress against. Every third cycle he tried again to call Pasha, though he eventually realized that he didn't always actually use the phone to do so.
Finally, finally, he reached the first turning. From here, he had only 3 kilometers to the last turn. His shivering was now violent, strong enough that he put the phone away for fear he'd drop it. He shook his arms and legs harder to try and generate heat, but knew that he would soon reach the time when the shivering would stop and he would fall asleep; if that happened he would never wake. He took to reciting the periodic table, then the Fibonacci sequence-anything to retain focus.
At last he reached the final turn. Unfortunately, he also reached the end of his strength. His shivering was slowing, and he was finding it almost impossible to stay upright on the horse. He had only one real chance now—get to his destination quickly or not at all. He fumbled the phone out to check the GPS again—3 kilometers to go. At a walk it would take thirty to forty-five minutes. He simply didn't have that long. So, speed. At a gallop, even a slowish gallop from the heavy horse, he could be there in ten minutes, perhaps less. All he had to do was stay on the horse.
He had to rely on the horse's instincts. The road was a straight shot—the farmhouse was the only habitation along this stretch, and the house and barn would almost certainly be brightly lit, as they always left the generator running all night. He had to hope that, even if he wasn't able to direct it, the horse would head for those lights when it saw them. Barns, after all, meant hay and warmth, and the horse had to be almost as cold as he was.
He made the best preparations he could. He tied the reins in a loose loop around his right wrist, leaving plenty of slack on the bit, and shoved the phone far down in his pocket. Then he carefully stretched forward, panting against the excruciating pain in his ribs. He extended both arms along the horse's barrel, grabbed firm handfuls of mane and lowered his head to the warm neck. Then he briskly kicked both feet into the horse's sides, and the horse gave an insulted bugle and lurched into a thudding gallop down the dark road.
It was…Sherlock really didn't have words for it. Agonizing came close—certainly pain was there, his head, his ribs shrieking and pulsing. But there was also a dreamlike element—the increased speed meant that his compromised vision couldn't keep up, and the dark shapes around him smeared into each other. Breathing grew more difficult as the muscles and nerves around his damaged ribs spasmed. He found himself counting his own heartbeats for focus, or maybe for comfort—it was his earliest coping mechanism as a child, and he reverted to it when all other forms fell away.
Time blurred and stretched, and he lost track of the world. But then something changed; the jarring slowed, and he could see light. He knew that was important, but at first wasn't sure why. Eventually, though, connections came, and he saw. The farmhouse was here. He could stop now. The relief made his eyes sting and his mouth tremble.
The horse stopped in the farmyard, clearly wanting the barn but not sure how to enter. Sherlock sat up and swayed drunkenly, but managed to get both legs on the left side of the horse. He took the reins off his wrist and slid/fell to the ground. His knees immediately folded, throwing him to the packed dirt. The horse hovered anxiously, nuzzling at his hair.
At first he tried to call. Easier to get Pasha to come to him than to try to stand. He shouted Pasha's name, then screamed, while his head and ribs screamed in harmony. The horse shied away at the noise, but no one came. So, Pasha and the girls had headed out as planned. That was good, anyway.
He had to get up. With Pasha and the girls gone, all he had to do was get inside, make sure the evidence for Interpol was still safe, and wait for Kolya with the truck. But most of all, he had to get warm. So. Hands and knees first. That was…unpleasant. He panted for breath while blood sang through his ears, but he stayed conscious and upright, so that was progress. The next step was getting his feet under him and standing, and the best option for that was the horse, which had sidled back closer to him once he stopped shouting.
The reins dangled from the horse's neck, and Sherlock managed to grab them before the horse moved away. That wouldn't help him get up, but at least he could keep the horse beside him while he worked his way to his feet. He reached up and grabbed the horse blanket with his right hand and the top of the horse's leg with his left; the horse snorted but allowed it. Then he pulled with both arms and shoved with his legs, and somehow, somehow, made it to a shaky standing position slumped against the horse's chest. He rested there until he was sure he wouldn't fall again, then forced his head up. It made sense to head for the back door; that way he could lean on the horse most of the way and lead it to the barn at the same time. Couldn't leave it out here in the cold—he felt a fair amount of fondness for the great lump, all things considered.
He held the reins loosely and rested his right arm over the horse's back, and clucked to get the animal moving. True to form, the horse willingly accepted this unorthodox technique and let itself be guided simply by the pressure of Sherlock's body. Sherlock lurched along, leaning heavily against the horse, until they reached the end of the barn nearest the back door. Thankfully one of the barn doors stood open and a light shone from inside, so Sherlock looped the reins up onto the horse's back and tucked them under the blanket for now. Then he pushed himself to a full standing position and gently smacked the horse's withers, and it ambled gratefully into the barn. Sherlock turned towards the back door to the farmhouse.
The Farmhouse
Sherlock pushed open the door. He was fervently glad it wasn't locked; his keys were God knew where, and picking a lock right now was definitely beyond his capabilities. The house was so warm; it was amazing, marvelous. He almost sat down in the kitchen floor just to enjoy it for a bit, but that distant feeling of "something to do" was back, nagging again.
His faulty memory finally spat out what was needed: check on the Interpol evidence. Before Kolya showed up with the truck, Sherlock needed to be sure the packet with the memory stick was securely in place, anchored inside a brick in the fireplace. He wavered off towards the decrepit parlor, hoping none of the girls had been stupid enough to build a fire in there. The giant wood-fired cookstove easily warmed the small house and had its fire tended round the clock, but Sherlock had twice come home to find a fire burning in the parlor as well. He'd been staggeringly rude about it; hopefully the lesson stuck.
The parlor was still full of scattered possessions—magazines, toys, a forgotten jumper in the corner of one of the tatty chairs. But no fire in the grate, thankfully, and when Sherlock leaned against the hearth and pulled out the loose brick he saw the packet and the memory stick, just as he had hoped. His message to Interpol had given the precise location of the data; when they arrived at 6, this particular leg of Moriarty's web would be swept away. Sherlock felt relief that the evidence was still there, but not accomplishment; he'd lost that, some time ago. Now all he felt was exhaustion and, to be truthful, a small amount of despair. He had begun to fear he would never reach the end; every rock he turned over unearthed yet another pool of decay to be drained, and the tasks he undertook were never clean. People were ruined, people died, people wished they had, and some days Sherlock was one of them. Mycroft would be appalled.
He was suddenly conscious of the world again, not sure how long he'd been leaning against the hearth, thinking of nothing in particular. He fumbled through his pockets and fished out the phone—a little past 3AM. Kolya would be here in an hour; Sherlock needed to gather his few possessions and change into warmer clothes. He pushed off from the hearth, wobbled until his balance was secure, and walked carefully down the hallway towards the bedrooms.
He realized, much later, that his subconscious had recognized the smell before he was consciously aware, and set off his newly-acquired aversive reaction to blood. He was already retching in the hallway when the scent sank in—the normal odor of the house (wood smoke, cooked cabbage and an underlay of cheap perfume) and the metallic tang of blood that swirled over the top. When his stomach finally gave in, conceding that there was nothing to bring up, he forced himself to walk into the first bedroom, the one he shared with Pasha. It was empty, though there were signs of a struggle. No blood here, then.
He turned back into the hall towards the other, larger bedroom, the one that had served as a dormitory for the three girls and their children. The scent was stronger here; his stomach gave another harsh push up his throat before he wrestled the reflex under control.
He saw the feet first: bare, twisted in the remnants of a long nightgown. He recognized the garment, and then the girl it tried to cover. Her name was Anya; she was 15, not terribly attractive, not very bright. But she had a warm heart that would do John Watson proud, despite Sherlock's all-too-apparent impatience with her, with all of the girls, in fact. When Sherlock had migraines, she would sit outside his darkened room and sing, very softly, until he slept.
No more singing.
Sherlock lost time again. When he was next aware, he was back in the kitchen, sitting on the floor and shaking. He needed to not be in this house anymore. He needed warmer clothes but could not make himself go back to the bedrooms. He wasn't able to think clearly enough to deduce what had happened in any detail, but clearly Aron had found the farmhouse before Sherlock's first message to Pasha. He hoped the clear signs of struggle meant that the others had gotten away, despite the loss of Anya. There was no evidence of a firefight, and no other bodies, but Pasha would never have allowed himself to be taken prisoner. The lack of additional blood, then, was a good sign.
He remembered, thankfully, that Pasha had left some outdoor gear in the barn, warm clothes he used for dirty jobs outside. They wouldn't fit—much too big, much too short—but a down coat and snow trousers were a lot more useful right now than tight jeans and a thin jumper. He could also try to get the bridle off the horse while he was there, and with the generator still running the space heater would make the barn almost as warm as the house. He could wait for Kolya out there.
He managed, painfully, to get back down the steps to the barnyard without falling, and limped slowly to the open barn door. He was greeted by the affectionate horse, lingering just inside the door for some reason. He took the reins and started to lead the horse to one of the empty stalls, but the animal refused to move, twitching its ears nervously. He gave up—not enough energy for this, and he needed the warm clothing more than the horse needed a stall. He wanted desperately to pull on the coat and lie down in the musty hay, but knew he had to stay awake to be sure Kolya didn't leave without him.
He staggered into the tack room, where the old garments hung from hooks, pulled the filthy coat and trousers on over his clothes, then decided to go sit near the space heater at the back of the barn. He wouldn't be comfortable—didn't think he could be comfortable at this juncture—but at least he'd finally be warm.
It was dark at the back; the one unshielded light strung from the rafters didn't reach much beyond the first 15 feet, so the back half of the barn was a field of shadows. But the heater was back there; Pasha had a small workbench set up, and a ramshackle chair and table he used when he was doing close work on broken equipment. Sherlock tottered slowly in the dim light, supporting himself by one hand on the walls of the empty stalls. He was distantly aware of a small, very small, sound—a kind of light tapping noise that got slightly louder as he neared the large open space around Pasha's workbench.
He suddenly found himself gagging again, and smelled blood, fresh and close, but could see nothing—it was very dark, but there were no obvious sources for the smell, no bodies, no signs of struggle. As from a great distance he realized that something was very wrong. And then something gently touched his head. He flinched badly and came very near to falling, but saw nothing and no one. It happened again, on his shoulder this time. He staggered carefully in a circle, confused and alarmed. And then something, something, made him look up. He put out an arm against the workbench and tilted his head up carefully. And—"Oh." But that really wasn't enough to say, was it? To respond to this?
Because there was Pasha, strung from the rafters like Christ on the cross. He was still bleeding slightly, the blood pattering gently on the hay-covered wood of the barn floor. But clearly no heart was pumping the blood out; this was, Sherlock thought, more like drainage, as the great gaping slash across Pasha's throat emptied the last drops. Sherlock couldn't look away, but didn't want to see, see the missing eyes, and the hands, the fingers were…
Sherlock abruptly hurtled out of the chair, spun and vomited into the sink, gasping and sobbing and clutching the counter. And then, just as John reached him, he put his head down on his forearms, and wept like a lost child.
Later, much later, Sherlock sat on the sofa, an old afghan around his shoulders and a warm cup of tea between his shaking hands (second attempt—the first, distressingly, came right back up). John sat next to him, their shoulders and legs nearly touching. Sherlock made no attempt at eye contact, nor did John expect it. But he did finally speak, in a rough, flat tone.
"Kolya found me, found us, when he arrived. I have no memory of it; I was not conscious. Not for nearly a week, in fact. He put me in the truck and drove me to Belgrade, as he had promised his father he would do. He took me to a charity hospital, carried me inside and left. I never saw him again." John made some small movement; Sherlock lifted his eyes briefly. "I don't blame him. I got his father killed."
John sighed. "No, you didn't, but I don't expect you to believe that yet."
Sherlock continued, as if John had never spoken. "He did do one other thing: he called the emergency number I had given Pasha, the one to a secure line for Mycroft's people. Mycroft couldn't come himself, obviously. He sent Anthea—she posed as my sister, and had me moved to a private MI6 facility. You understand this is only what she told me later—I was unaware of any of it. Fractured skull; three broken ribs; exposure.
They ended up not doing surgery, but they considered it before Anthea got there—had already cut off part of my hair, in fact. That ended up working in my favor—Aron's people were looking for a man with long blond hair, but by the time I was moved no one remembered my hair color when I arrived since it was dealt with in A&E. I understand it was also matted with a great deal of blood, so even on arrival it would have been hard to tell the color."
John flinched again. Sherlock grimaced. "Stop. I'm fine now." John huffed, and Sherlock smiled slightly. "Well, relatively speaking."
Sherlock resumed his tale, looking back down at his trembling hands. "I spent almost a month in hospital—developed pneumonia, on top of everything else." He cut his eyes over at John. "I have reflected since that you were proven right about my eating and sleeping habits—apparently being two stone underweight and sleep-deprived does have an effect on the healing process after all. I never intended to tell you, though—I knew you'd never let me live it down."
"Quite right," John said smugly. Sherlock flashed another quick, sideways grin.
Sherlock shifted, stretching out and leaning his head on the back of the sofa, eyes closed. "Let's see. What else?" He handed the cup of tea blindly to John, who sighed again but took it without comment. "When I woke up, I had Anthea send people to the farmhouse. Kolya had taken the horse and… and…his father." Sherlock stopped; his face crumpled momentarily but he made no sound. John silently reached over and took his hand; Sherlock didn't pull away. They sat that way for several minutes, until Sherlock took a shaky breath and continued.
"Anthea's people buried Anya under the trees by the farmhouse; Anthea asked me, but as far as I knew Anya had no family. And I think that she had been at least somewhat happy there. The other girls and the children were gone without a trace." He opened those pale eyes and looked at John. "They were a commodity, you see? We, Pasha, had rescued them when we left Russia, had Kolya take them off the smuggling trucks when the "hijackings" took place—they'd been on their way to slavery, essentially. Anatole or Aron could sell the girls to the Chechens as prostitutes, or to the new owners of the gun-running operation. The children—infants could go to illegal overseas adoption agencies, and older ones could be used as drug mules and held as surety for their mothers' cooperation. And when they got old enough, they too could be sold to the Chechens. All grist to the mill," he said with a bitter smile. John squeezed his hand but kept silent.
"When I was well enough, I made Anthea take me back to the farmhouse. And I burned it and the barn to the ground. Then I went back to Belgrade, Anthea left, and I went after the last link in the chain."
John waited, long enough to make sure Sherlock was finished. "Do you want to talk about that part now?" he asked, very gently.
"No," said Sherlock, in an exhausted rasp. His eyes were shut once more.
John squeezed Sherlock's hand again and tugged to get his attention, and Sherlock opened his eyes. "I'm glad you did this, Sherlock. I'm glad you trusted me enough to do it." He released Sherlock's hand and rose, moving to stand directly in front of him. "Now in a minute I'm going to give you a sedative, and you're going to bed. But before that, I have to ask you a question, and I want you to think about it for a moment before you answer. But I need an honest answer. Can you do that?"
Sherlock gave him a wary nod.
"All right, then. I know this was hard, and I know you're physically exhausted. But, in here," and John reached over and patted Sherlock lightly on the chest, "how do you feel? About all this?"
Sherlock blinked slowly, visibly considering, and a surprised look came over his face. And—"Better", he breathed.