In the end, identifying the possible locations was surprisingly easy—well, surprising to John, anyway. Two hours after that quick phone conversation with Mycroft, John was amazed to look up and see the Great Man himself walking into the conference room, folder in hand. He ignored Sherlock's instant grabby-hands motion and dropped the papers in the middle of the conference table.
"There are three possibilities," he announced, directing his speech primarily to Greg Lestrade, in a very finely-tuned motion towards professional courtesy. John was suddenly reminded of the fact that these two men had had an alliance of sorts for a number of years now. There was no question but that Mycroft Holmes recognized the value of what Greg had offered his brother over that time period.
He picked up the topmost paper and handed it to Greg. "I have ranked them in order of probability. They have all made high-dollar purchases of scientific equipment in the assigned period, but that particular location has elements to its ownership that invite suspicion. There are several shell companies involved, for no particular reason other than to obfuscate the involvement of the actual active principals." He finally looked over at Sherlock, who was now glowering like a frustrated toddler. "Interestingly enough, one of those principals is an old acquaintance of yours—Allan Cumberland."
John didn't recognize the name, and looking over at Greg it was clear he was in the dark as well. Sherlock, though, abruptly went very pale, before standing up and beginning to pace rapidly. "Cumberland is clearly just the money here," he finally said. "He has no medical background; no background in anything, really, except being a well-heeled trust fund baby."
"A well-heeled trust fund baby who is also, in all likelihood, both a sadist and a psychopath," Mycroft said quietly. He looked over at John and Greg, both still wondering what, exactly, was going on here. All three men looked over at Sherlock, who, predictably enough, completely ignored them while poring through the material in the folder. Mycroft finally sighed and gave in.
"Allan Cumberland," he began, smoothing down his jacket and sitting in one of the uncomfortable conference room chairs. "Heir to a shipping fortune. Educated at Eton and Cambridge, though he never graduated from the latter. He ran in a set that included Sebastian Wilkes and a few other young men of a similar disposition." He looked over at his brother and cleared his throat. "He was also one of Sherlock's chief tormentors at Cambridge."
John and Greg swiveled their eyes over to Sherlock, who, amazingly, did not fly into a rage. "Oh, please," the detective said derisively. "I was an undersized 16-year-old who had no idea that genius was a criminal offense at uni. My 'tormentors', as you call it, consisted of the bulk of the student body."
"Yes," Mycroft said smoothly. "But only one beat you to the point where you were unconscious for two days."
"The fuck?" interjected Lestrade, before he could rein in his mouth. "And how exactly is he still walking around free? Did you report it at the time?"
Sherlock opened his mouth to reply, but Mycroft beat him to it. "We did, once we found someone who could tell us who was responsible. My parents and I went to the university administrators as well as the police. The former, unlikely though it may seem, were more effective than the latter. Cumberland's family had enough influence to get the assault charges dropped. But the Holmes name was much more effective at Cambridge than Cumberland's—we were at least able to see that Cumberland was permanently sent down, in exchange for not bringing a civil action against the university. It turned out, you see, that Cumberland had been reported for similar offenses twice before, but the university failed to take any action."
"And you let it go at that?" John said skeptically, while Sherlock rolled his eyes.
"Not quite," Mycroft said smugly, looking idly down at his hands. "The following year Cumberland's father was the subject of a government investigation into racketeering and immigration violations. The legal expenses for his defense ran, I believe, somewhere north of two million pounds. He didn't go to prison, sadly, but he paid a fine that represented nearly 20% of his net worth."
"And Allan himself was tragically mugged while out for the evening in London," Sherlock added drily. "Unfortunately, the culprits were never identified. He spent two weeks in hospital."
"Jesus," said Greg. "Remind me never to piss you off, Mycroft." Mycroft gave him a serene smile.
Sherlock had finally reached his limit with all of this. "I think that's enough of this fascinating ancient history, don't you think? Unless you're in the mood to start dragging out baby pictures."
Mycroft rolled his eyes. "I hardly think that having your fellow investigators know the nature of their opponent lacks value, brother mine."
Sherlock made a rude noise. "I sincerely doubt that Allan Cumberland would deign to dirty his hands in this business—he's much more likely to be a silent partner. Receiving money without expending any effort—much more his style. And in the end, it doesn't matter either way. Our only objective is to find the girls, and if this building represents the best opportunity for that, I suggest we focus less on personalities and more on building plans."
Neither John nor Greg could argue with that, certainly.
By the end of the hour they had their plans in place. Mycroft had left after delivering his packet of information (though not without a few additional brotherly jibes back and forth—John figured this was the Holmes version of affection. He'd only start to worry if weapons were drawn). John, Greg and Donovan starting drawing up plans and assigning troops to go after all three targets; while certainly they agreed with Mycroft's assessment of which was the most promising (how could they dare otherwise?) that didn't mean they could afford to ignore the other two. Sherlock busied himself with a variety of internet searches on the principals Mycroft had identified, as well as the plans of all three buildings.
Donovan was dispatched to secure court orders to allow searches of all three targets, to Sherlock's vocal disdain. Sherlock was becoming increasingly restless, which was never a good thing—items at Baker Street tended to mysteriously explode under those conditions, and people at the Yard would find themselves stripped naked, figuratively speaking, if they were unlucky enough to cross his path. John, well-tuned to the detective's moods, decided to find a distraction. He headed off to the coffee shop down the street from the Yard, getting requests from both Sherlock and Lestrade ("Hot cider and chocolate croissants," barked Sherlock. "And don't let them give you the ones left over from this morning.")
John was standing in line at the coffee shop when he realized he'd forgotten to ask Lestrade what he wanted in his coffee. When he reached into his pocket for his phone, though, he was annoyed to find he'd forgotten that as well—it was presumably still sitting in the conference room. He settled for ordering the coffee black, and had the staff put a variety of flavorings, sugar and cream in the bag with Sherlock's croissants.
When he got back to the yard he headed directly to the conference room, but was surprised to encounter Lestrade in the hallway by himself. He held the coffee and the bag up and nodded towards the room, and Greg trailed along behind. When he pushed the door open, though, he was surprised to find the room empty. "Where's Sherlock?" John asked, putting the drinks and pastries on the table.
"Beats me," said Greg. "The loo, maybe. Nothing doing at the moment, you know—Donovan called a bit ago and said it'll be another half-hour for the court orders. Sherlock was getting pretty bolshie about it, but there's nothing I can do."
John sat down and pulled out one of the croissants while taking a sip of his coffee. He noticed his phone sitting on the window ledge, though, and got up to retrieve it. He settled back down in the chair and was about to return to his coffee when he noticed a text notification. What he read made him curse, drop the pastry, and instantly attempt to call Sherlock, who, predictably enough, didn't answer.
Greg picked up on the urgency immediately. "What? What's happened?" he asked, as John stood and jerked his jacket back on. John held the phone up for him.
I have intelligence that indicates movement at the target location, including large trucks and at least one private ambulance. No CCTV available. MH
It was painfully obvious that Sherlock had received the same message, most likely twenty minutes before. Greg swore and howled for a car and driver as they both pelted out the door.
The cabbie made very good time, and Sherlock was happy to supply the extra twenty quid he'd promised if the man was willing to run a few lights on the way. He had the man stop up the block from the building, if only so he could evaluate the movements in and out and ascertain if Mycroft's intelligence had anything to do with their suspects.
He hovered at the corner of a building across the street and simply observed for a minute or two. It was immediately apparent that this was indeed relevant: two ambulances were idling by the front doorway, and a moving crew had just rolled a large and very expensive microscope to a waiting van equipped with a lift platform. A large number of men in khaki jumpsuits milled about loading a variety of materials, high-end furniture and the like, into a semi-trailer, while two men in pale blue jackets, holding clipboards, tried to keep track of what went where. The blue-jacketed men were likely part of the staff of Cumberland's operation. The building had a modern silver sculpture of an infinity symbol on the front driveway, and the blue jackets had matching logos on the front pocket.
Sherlock quickly slid around the rear of the building. The door, unfortunately, was electronically locked and alarmed—a surprising level of security for what purported to be a high-end minor surgical clinic, though consistent with the building plans Mycroft had supplied. It was annoying, since it meant he was going to have to find an alternate mode of entry. He soon identified a potential vulnerability—one of the furniture vans was parked along the side of the building, awaiting its turn at loading. In the meantime, however, the driver had wandered off and left the truck unlocked. And sitting on the passenger seat was one of the khaki jumpsuits.
It wasn't ideal. The jumpsuit was laughably big around the midsection, but almost three inches too short in the legs. It would have to do, though. Sherlock crept around the far side of the idling truck until he encountered a group of khaki-clad men. Then he attached himself to the rear of the group and strode confidently into the building.
The khaki suit proved to be a mixed blessing. It had certainly ensured a painless entry into the building. But it also constrained Sherlock's movements; he had to appear as if he were working, and in general that meant staying close to at least one other worker. After making one trip out to the truck (helping to carry a conference table, with three other men) he came back into the building and darted into the loo, where he quickly stripped off the jumpsuit and emerged in his normal black suit.
He followed his usual procedure in these instances—appearing to have Somewhere To Go was usually the very best of disguises—and moved busily into the less-frequented hallways, cautiously trying doors as he went. Most, unfortunately, had electronic locks on them that he had neither the time nor equipment to subvert. He needed to either find a control panel or acquire a keycard. He was painfully aware of the passage of time—the longer he had to wander uselessly around the building, the more likely it was that Cumberland's people would evacuate the girls and move them God knew where.
In the end Sherlock decided to take the direct approach, even if it reduced the amount of free time he was likely to have before discovery. He headed back towards the more populated areas of the building and looked for a victim—someone isolated from other people, and unlikely to put up much of a fight.
His chosen donor selected, he moved quickly back into the side corridor and waited for the victim to approach. The slight, weedy-looking man, perhaps 45 and paunchy, let out a wheezy squeal as Sherlock grabbed him abruptly about the throat and dragged him into the empty washroom. "I don't especially want to hurt you, but I'm perfectly willing to do so if necessary," Sherlock said in an arctic voice. "If you make a sound when I let go of your throat I will do so. Do you understand?"
The victim nodded frantically, and Sherlock let go of his throat while maintaining a firm grip on his shoulder. "Give me your badge," he commanded. "Then take off your clothes, down to your vest and pants." The man stared. "Quickly," Sherlock snapped, and the men starting ripping at his jacket and shirt.
Sherlock pocketed the man's badge and powder blue jacket—it fit very poorly, so he would have to stay away from other people as much as possible. Then he improvised bindings by tearing the man's shirt into strips, and stuffed a sock in his mouth. He dragged his wriggling victim into a shower stall in a side room—apparently this was an on-call facility as well as a toilet—and pulled the stall door closed.
Back in the hallway, he immediately pulled out the badge and started opening doors. There were no markings at all—every door looked like every other door, and might open onto a patient room (where a hospital cot was surrounded by the trappings of an opulent hotel suite), or a conference room, or an office. He soon realized, though, that what appeared to be decorative markings on the floor were in fact markers, or trails. Patient rooms had blue lines that trailed away from the myriad colors lining the hallway, offices were yellow, storage rooms red, and conference rooms white. He fought the temptation to investigate the offices—it would be very valuable to find an unattended computer. But he was too aware of the passage of time—Nicky was still in this building somewhere, but who knew for how long?
He was becoming increasingly frustrated by the procession of empty rooms, and had progressed to a slash-and-dash approach: trot up to the doorway (patient rooms only at this point), slip the card through, shove the door open and take one quick look, then move on. He was somewhat concerned when he heard footsteps somewhere near, but he couldn't afford to stop his increasingly frantic search. At the last moment, as a group of at least three men came up behind him, going by the sound, he straightened up and began walking purposefully but quickly towards the upcoming right-hand corridor, planning on taking to his heels as soon as they were out of sight and looping back.
This was not as successful as he would have hoped. Just as he started moving away, one of the men spoke up. "Hello? Who's that?" He kept his face averted and continued moving forward, at which point one of the men—there were definitely three—sped up and trotted towards him. Sherlock immediately changed tactics.
Coming to a stop, he turned around and viewed his pursuers—a man in one of the blue jackets and two unfortunately professional-looking guards. He gave them a harassed look and spoke with a sigh and a Bristol accent. "I'm Travers. I'm supposed to be signing off on the gas monitors in the operating theatre right now." He looked pointedly down at the hand on his arm, belonging to Guard No. 1.
Blue Jacket was having none of it. "No you're not. I don't know who the fuck you are, but we don't have anyone named 'Travers', and your bloody jacket doesn't fit. Let me see your badge." He held out an imperious hand. And Sherlock, with a mental sigh, reached out towards it, but instead of holding out the badge, he grasped the wrist, flipped it, broke it, kicked the man firmly in the balls on the way to grappling with Guard No. 1. He moved in, smoothly, quickly—the man was trained but not as good as Sherlock, nor fast enough, and he slapped his hands hard, hard, over both ears to rupture the eardrums while bringing up a strong knee to the groin, and he moved quickly out of range before moving back in to finish it, and-
Guard No. 2 hauled out his Taser and pulled the trigger.
Sherlock dropped like a stone, every muscle seizing. He had bitten his tongue and blood flowed out, past his clenched teeth and onto his shirt. He could barely breathe, his diaphragm seizing along with every other muscle. Guard No. 2 helped Guard No. 1 up. Guard No. 1 then wrenched his stiff arms behind his back and secured his wrists with zip ties, and then kicked him in the side in retribution before stepping to a panel on the wall and punching a button. Lights began to strobe in the hallway, though no sirens went off. Sherlock's muscles were beginning to unclench, though the muscle exhaustion he felt was like he had just climbed Mount Everest while carrying a Sherpa on his back.
He was aware of a certain amount of confusion and vertigo—not severe, but then he was lying on the ground. He wasn't sure he could get up at this point without help. Hurrying footsteps came up the hallway and stopped near him, while Blue Jacket and Guards 1. and 2. stuttered out their report. "Flip him over," came an oddly familiar voice. Guard No. 1 grabbed him by the shoulders and dropped him on top of his cuffed hands, and he found himself looking into the astounded face of Allan Cumberland.
Cumberland reached over, grasped his chin, then shoved it away and gave an incredulous chuckle. "My God," he drawled, "it's Ickle Sherlock."
Cumberland directed the guards to drag Sherlock down the corridor until they reached a large, opulent office that still contained furniture. They hauled him inside and roughly dumped him on the floor. Cumberland then dismissed the guards, pulled the door closed, and slid a chair over to where Sherlock huddled, trying to keep his weight off his cuffed hands.
"Well," he began. "I can honestly say I didn't expect this. Though in retrospect it does make sense—I knew someone had been trolling through our electronic records; hence this quick removal. But I see now that Mycroft Holmes would be a likely candidate for that. And of course, he would have enlisted his dear baby brother to make a 'hands-on' investigation."
He stood abruptly, moved over and gave Sherlock a hard, quick kick to the stomach, leaving him wheezing in pain. Then he grabbed his tied wrists and hauled him over to the closed door, where a large coat-hook projected from the back. He reached out and unbuckled Sherlock's belt, at which point Sherlock decided to make a serious effort to break free, kicking out with both feet as he landed once again on his now-throbbing hands. Cumberland deftly sidestepped and cuffed Sherlock hard enough on the temple that his vision greyed momentarily. Then he grabbed Sherlock's belt again and slid it free of the belt loops. "Relax," he grunted. "I have no designs on your virtue. At least not right now." Then he looped the belt through Sherlock's tethered arms, snaked the end of the belt over the hook, and then pulled Sherlock up by the belt until he could re-buckle it. Sherlock was now essentially anchored to the door by his pinioned wrists, his arms and shoulders painfully wrenched upwards to the point where breathing was difficult.
"Now then," said Cumberland cheerfully. "You know, this is like a little gift just for me. I always wanted another opportunity to beat the crap out of you, especially after your fucking family ruined my life. My father disowned me—did you know that?"
Sherlock sneered. "It's amazing how little things change. You only feel brave enough to attack when your opponent isn't able to respond in kind. But you no longer have 5 inches and 5 stone on me, so you have to work a little harder at it." He looked Cumberland up and down and clearly found him lacking. "Take me down from here and we'll make it a fair fight. Although—I guess to make it really even, you can leave my hands tied behind my back."
Cumberland threw back his head and gave a great hoot of laughter—but then he brought up his hand and backhanded Sherlock full-force across the face. "You haven't changed a bit either—I remember that tongue," He leaned in close, murmuring in Sherlock's ear. "But here's the thing, you little prick. I don't care about a fair fight. Your brother was right in one thing he said of me. I am indeed a sadist, and this is one of my very favorite activities. The fact that it's you is just icing on the cake."
While Sherlock was still trying to catch his breath, Cumberland walked over to the desk and picked up a cricket bat that was standing against the side. He passed it from hand to hand thoughtfully. "Dr. Patel is a great fan of cricket, it's very convenient—he goes to practice several times a week directly from his officer here, so it's always around." And he brought it whistling around to connect with Sherlock's ribs.
"So now," he said, while Sherlock gasped for breath and tried to compartmentalize the pain, "here's how things will go. I'm going to get as much enjoyment as I can out of you—not as long as I'd like, since the clock is ticking. And then I'm going to fucking kill you, and then I, and my money, and our research subjects, will climb on a plane and never have to think about you, or your fucking brother, again." And the bat came swooping down again, this time across Sherlock's left shin.
"Mycroft will kill you this time. Personally," Sherlock gritted out. At which point the bat came towards him again, this time connecting with his head, and he lost all interest in the proceedings.
Sherlock woke slowly, aware only that he was swimming in a sea of pain. Cumberland had evidently reverted to fists after the cricket bat inconveniently rendered Sherlock unconscious—he felt twinges from his ribs and face in areas the bat hadn't touched. One ear felt like it was bleeding still. Probably left here not long ago, then. He checked quickly—his mobile was gone, so no way to tell the time and no way to contact John or Lestrade.
That was a question—where was "here"? He opened his eyes briefly before quickly closing them in dismay. His vision was blurry—yet another concussion, apparently. John would be very displeased. His other senses were problematic as well—apparently a side effect of Tasering, for him, was a ramping up of his hypersensitivity. While he normally had iron control over his inconvenient reactions, he was currently experiencing symptoms he hadn't felt in years—his clothing felt like sandpaper, the slight aural hum of electronic equipment was a maddening itch, and the combined smells of chemicals, paint and cleansers were making him nauseous. Keeping his eyes closed seemed best—if his other senses were this agitated, sight might tip him over the edge, and he simply could not afford a meltdown here and now.
Freeing his hands was the first order of business. He managed, though not without a gasp or two, to force his legs between his pinioned arms and bring his hands around to the front of his body. He did not enjoy the process; his shoulders and upper arms had not liked their suspension from the coat hook, and his hands were very swollen. He laid still and breathed until he could manage the pain, then made the quick snapping motion to break the zip ties. The shrieking in his wrists forced a small cry from his lips, and he was startled to suddenly hear movement from his right, and a shocked voice say "Locket?"
In the end, he was going to have to open his eyes—there was no other way to get them both clear of this. And to be truthful, Sherlock realized that he needed to see her, on a visceral level. Because in a hidden part of his heart, he had come to believe that he would never see her alive again. But he couldn't do that quite yet, not and stay in control of himself.
He made his queasy way across the room, staggering a bit and holding one arm in front to navigate past any obstacles, while Nicky sobbed. He had to briefly stop halfway across—it was either that or vomit. But after a bit he was able to subdue the impulse and continue. When he reached the cot—it must be a cot- she grabbed onto his shoulders with frantic strength, and he allowed it, leaning against the hospital bed and relaxing slightly. But she quickly subsided into stroking the side of his face, and he had to step away, his breath stuttering. He heard her gasp and tried to explain.
"Nicky. Do you remember when you were small, and I would sometimes have trouble with being touched, or touching things? And how I had to stop seeing and hearing so much?"
He heard her sniff, and she answered in a voice that shook only a little. "When you would worry about the Red Zone?" she asked. He could hear her trying to calm her breathing—it made him feel very proud of her, under the circumstances. "Is that—are you having a Red Zone? Is that why you're all bloody, and you can't open your eyes? What can I do? I can't get out of the bed by myself, Locket. They did some sort of surgery on me this morning, I just woke up, and I'm all dizzy."
Sherlock had to stifle his immediate reaction to that. Concern would do nothing—he needed to get them out, and quickly. "No, it's not that bad." Not yet, a distant voice said inside his head. "But if you're going to touch me, it can't be soft, and it can't be quick. If it's a problem I'll tell you, and you must let go at once."
"OK," she said gravely. "But how can we get out? The doors latch by themselves, and you can't open either side without a badge. And they're moving us somewhere today—the other girls are already gone, and it's only poor Daisy and me left."
Oh, that was bad. He could, if they were lucky, manage to escape with Nicky, even in this condition. But a second girl—
"Where is Daisy? And why 'poor' Daisy?" he asked carefully.
Nicky hiccupped on a sob, not as calm as she was earlier. "She's next door—they have her on a lot of machines. She's really sick—the medicine… it's just like Andrea." Sherlock could hear her erratic breathing as she tried not to cry. She knew how it had always annoyed him.
He quickly went through some of his old centering exercises, forcing down the building agitation under his skin, forcing calm. Then he made himself open his eyes.
He was immediately bludgeoned with a tidal wave of overwhelming input. CotsheetsidetablesheetssheetslightmonitorlightYELLOWYELLOWYELLOWcontrolpanelcotNickylightREDsinktapslightYELLOWYELLOWYELLOW—he quickly snapped his eyes back shut and breathed and shook. He hadn't been this bad since he was 20.
He forced down the reaction ruthlessly again. Then he worked carefully through the exercises again, and once again, before he opened his eyes, and this time focused his attention solely on the cot before very slowly moving his vision to the rest of the room, a little at a time. A limited focus sometimes worked, at least in the short term.
Nicky was huddled in the center of a state-of the-art hospital bed, on a par with the rest of the room, which gleamed with a host of sophisticated monitoring and surgical equipment. This side of the large room was apparently used as a recovery area, but the middle had an operating table and all of the expected accoutrements.
Nicky, thankfully, looked well, aside from a paleness that was undoubtedly a combination of fear and anesthesia reaction. She still had an IV cannula in her arm but was otherwise free of equipment. And she was now looking at him with deep concern. "Locket, you're really hurt, aren't you?"
He gave what he hoped was a reassuring look, while forcing down another mild wave of nausea. "It looks much worse than it is." Well, except for the hypersensitivity, that was probably true. "But we have to get out of here, and I need to decide how we do that. I need to know about Daisy—can she be moved?"
Nicky shivered. "I don't think so. I heard the nurse say they were putting her on a breathing machine."
Sherlock tried to keep his reaction off his face. "Then I think you and I must go, and we'll send in help for her once we're outside." He turned his back on her and starting to carefully examine the room as a whole. "I need you to not speak for a bit, Nick. Can you do that? And remember not to touch me?"
"I can do that," she said stoutly. And she did.
The answer came quickly, once he was able to detach himself from his cascading physical reactions. As he mentally ran back through the building specifications Mycroft had supplied, the answer was clear. His eyes popped back open, and he turned back to Nicky.
"Got it," he said. "We'll set the building on fire."
It was to Nicky's eternal credit that she didn't argue with him.
The plan should work. Sherlock knew that. The only potential problem would be if Cumberland had put some sort of guard on the back door. But they had to take the chance. He explained things to Nicky as best he could—his sensory issues were pressing hard enough that speech was difficult to navigate at present. Her only request was that they go first and tell Daisy what was happening, so she wouldn't be frightened.
Of course they both knew that Daisy, by all accounts, would never even know they were there. But he dutifully unhooked Nicky from her cannula, covered the small wound with a plaster from the bedside table, and guided her with an arm around her waist to a door on the far end of the operating theatre. This door wasn't locked or protected—it led to a simple high-level patient room, with much more sophisticated equipment than the glorified hotel rooms offered the normal patients.
Daisy lay motionless on the cot. The only sound or movement came from the respirator hooked to her mouth. She was noticeably swollen, much like Andrea had been, and a catheter bag with a small amount of dark brown urine was hooked to the side of the bed. She was clearly gravely ill.
Nicky stiffened at his side. "Daisy? Can you hear me?" She waited a beat, then asked again. "Daisy?" Nicky gave a shaky sob at the continued silence, but gathered herself up immediately. "Daisy, we have to leave now. We can't take you like… we have to bring back help. There'll be a loud noise and some smoke, but it's OK. They'll be back for you." She paused, shuddered again. Then softly, "I'm really sorry." And she nudged Sherlock and turned back towards the main operating theatre.
In theory this should be easy. Find something flammable, strike a match, and voila! Instant fire. In practice there were other considerations.
To begin with, unlike most modern hospitals, this glossy version didn't use paper-based sheets or gowns—everything was high-end cloth. There were a host of plastic items that would certainly burn, but would also potentially give off a high volume of potentially toxic smoke that he and Nicky would have to breathe in. There was gauze, though not a great quantity—many of the supplies had clearly already been boxed and removed. And they ideally needed something that would burn slowly but consistently. They didn't want to accidentally immolate themselves before the doors opened.
Beyond that, they had to physically set up the fire so that it would remain contained—they didn't want to endanger Daisy any more than she already was. So before doing anything else, Sherlock bundled up several fine sheets and stuffed them tightly under the door into Daisy's room, creating as air-tight a seal as possible. If the back room had had any windows he would have opened them, but this was the best they could do under the circumstances.
In the end he decided on a mix of gauze and a pile of surgical drapes he found in a drawer—still cloth, but with a high cotton content and some sort of starch ironed in that would likely be fairly flammable.
He had searched the nightstand next to Nicky's cot and found a soft gown that would provide more coverage than the open-backed version she currently wore. He turned his back while she pulled it on (though she pointed out tartly that he had, after all, changed her diapers once upon a time). He helped her off of the cot and settled her next to the closed door to the hallway, along with two flannels he had dampened at the sink.
Finally, he arranged his materials in a pile at the far corner of the room, on top of the operating table. Because he wanted the flames and heat to siphon up (towards the smoke detectors and, presumably, the sprinkler system) and not sideways, he shoved the table up against the back wall and heaped everything up in the corner. Then he fished out the match sewn into the back of his jacket lapel, struck it with his thumbnail, and lit the pyre.
At first, everything went well. Sherlock watched from next to Nicky while flames crept steadily across the gauze, until a small fire burned steadily. Once the fire reached the surgical drapes, though, things started to go awry.
Sherlock and Nicky both had their damp flannels in their hands, ready to clasp them over their nose and mouth if smoke became an issue. What Sherlock had not realized, though, was that the flammable component of the starch used on the bedding produced both flame and smoke—a lot of smoke. As it expanded to the rest of the room, the low-hanging cloud burned their eyes and seared their throats, despite the flannels now clutched to their faces. Nicky was largely fine, but Sherlock was suddenly reminded painfully of his experience with the burning oven. And he began to cough, and cough, and cough.
He also began to worry. The smoke detectors should have set off the sprinklers by now. And, according to the building plans, the initiation of the sprinklers should have instantly closed a circuit that automatically called the fire department and unlocked every door in the building simultaneously. But the room stayed dry and the doors locked.
The fire began to spread. The storage bins that Sherlock had left open in his search for materials began to smolder, then burn. Sherlock, by now severely alarmed, dragged a chair over to the center of the room, grabbed a bit of smoking fabric from the edge of the fire and held it directly up to a sprinkler head while he coughed and gasped for breath. But nothing happened.
He suddenly heard an ominous hissing, creaking sound from the far side of the room, unidentifiable but threatening. He had just managed to scuttle back to Nicky and cover her with his body when there was a massive bang and a metal spigot from the wall behind the operating table dislodged itself and shot across the room like a missile, lodging itself three inches deep in the opposite wall. Then, with a spitting roar, the entire back wall of the room burst into flames.
Sherlock panicked. For a moment he feared they would both die here. He was just at the point of looking for something to batter or pry the door with when all of the lights in the room abruptly went out. And then, thank God, he heard a dull thunk as the latching mechanism of the door released.
It took far longer to reach the medical facility that John and Lestrade would have wished. Despite Lestrade's creative cursing and use of the car's siren and lights, the crush of traffic kept them crawling along for the better part of twenty minutes. Greg had radioed ahead and ordered additional officers to the scene, making sure that no trucks or ambulances were allowed to leave the site. John had also texted Mycroft to advise him of the situation, but had yet to receive a response.
They arrived, finally, to a chaotic mess of trucks, movers, and police officers in front of the building. They pulled around to the parking lot in the rear and tumbled out, intending to head back to the front. But just as they moved away from the car, a small blast came from the rear corner of the building, and they moved instinctively in that direction. Flames began shooting out through the roof as Greg frantically put in a call for fire equipment. And just at that point, the back door swung open and Sherlock tumbled out, a gowned girl clutched to his side as he ran/staggered away from the building.
John reached them just as Sherlock's knees went. Sherlock managed to let the girl down gently as he hacked and gagged, the coughing making him bend at the waist with its force. John had just come to the conclusion that the girl—likely Nicky—seemed largely unharmed when Sherlock lurched to his feet and started back towards the building. He grabbed Sherlock's arm and the man turned and gasped "Daisy's still inside". John let go and yelled for Greg, then turned to run after Sherlock.
They had almost reached the door—John perhaps 30 feet away, Sherlock 15 feet closer—when there was a great rumbling roar and, as a tremendous buffeting blast of heat and air came at them, the building exploded into flames. John was thrown back flat on his back, and gazed astounded at the sky as Sherlock flew over his head, to land somewhere behind him.
Greg reached him first—it took John a moment to get his jangled senses back under control. By the time he got there, Sherlock was fighting to get up, making a sound like a wounded animal as he struggled to get back to the building. Lestrade laid on top of him as he fought, and John came to help, as Sherlock's keening turned again to horrible, rattling coughs. He was still weakly struggling when an ambulance shrilled around the corner and skidded to a halt beside them. As the paramedics tumbled out, though, he suddenly stopped—no more fighting, no more coughing, thank God.
But in the end, when John turned him on his back, he was profoundly glad the paramedics were there. Because Sherlock, in addition to stopping fighting and coughing, had also stopped breathing.
Notes:
The description of the gas spigot flying across the room is not fiction. Most modern surgical units have gas lines (oxygen, nitrous oxide, surgical air) run in the walls of operating theatres. Those lines lead to large tanks for the gas held elsewhere in the building. When those tanks are exposed to enough heat or pressure change they can rupture. I read a description of a hospital accident where the oxygen tank had this happen, and the spigot in the OR shot across the room and severely injured someone. In this case, of course, that would have also vented large amounts of oxygen to feed the fire.
See, I don't just make this crap up!
And yes, I know-another %(*&$%(* cliffhanger.