The Dragon

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Chapter 6 of 10

The Bomb

When the bomb went off, Mycroft had just opened his mouth to explain why his plan involved turning Sherlock over to Moriarty.

When the bomb went off, Donovan had just made eye contact with Greg Lestrade for the first time since she admitted she loved him.

When the bomb went off, Molly had just reached for her backpack under the table. She'd brought a kit with her from the lab that included a microscope and vials of catalyzing chemicals.

When the bomb went off, Lestrade was wondering how he never noticed that Donovan cared for him. She didn't hate Sherlock for the reasons other people did – because he was Sherlock. She hated him because he made the man she loved look like a fool.

When the bomb went off, John already sensed it coming. Thanks to his time in Afghanistan he knew that the crescendo of sound and vibration wasn't an earthquake. It wasn't enough time to duck or even yell. It was only enough time for his eyes to meet his best friend's and go wide.

When the bomb went off, the bag of dirt Mycroft retrieved from Moriarty's shoes was blasted out of Sherlock's hand. Curious, he watched its flight into the air. It fluttered momentarily like a falling leaf, then disappeared in a barrage of smoke. The world slowed down, dragging Time with it. It was like Mary shooting him in the chest all over again. Sirens erupted in his mind and his mind, it got to work.

"You're underneath the treasury building," said Anderson's voice in his head. "An ideal target for a terrorist."

"So it's a coincidence," Sherlock concluded. "Moriarty doesn't know we're here. This just happened to be the next location on his list."

"The bomb is several rooms away. If it wasn't a coincidence you'd already be dead. He would've put that bomb in a better location."

"We're in a bunker," Sherlock told him. "Churchill's wartime bunker. How many bombs were dropped on it during the War? It survived that. It will survive this."

"No," said Anderson. "Those bombs landed on it from above. This one is inside the building. It's blasting right through the wall behind Donovan." Anderson was right. Sherlock watched as, in slow motion, the individual bricks behind Sally started to pelt towards her like bullets. She disappeared in smoke. In Sherlock's peripheral vision, the fog engulfed Molly and Lestrade, too.

"You have half a second," said Anderson's voice in Sherlock's head. "What are you going to do? What do you need to do first?"

"I… I…" Sherlock took a deep breath. "Avoid the debris." He saw the table in front of him, felt the chair under him, remembered Mycroft's umbrella beside him. "Get shelter. Protection."

"And then what?"

"Get the others. John, Mycroft, the ones within arm's reach. Shelter them, too."

"Good. And?"

Sherlock's focus was threatened by the miniscule brick dust and sparks starting to hit his pupils. "Get out before the building collapses. I smell fire – the building is on fire."

"There isn't time to help the others. You'll expose yourself," Anderson reminded him. "You're a block from Downing Street. Police cars, ambulances, fire trucks will be here in eight minutes. If you live that long they'll catch you, arrest you. If you're going to survive you need to leave the others behind, get to Lestrade's car and drive away."

"No." Flames began to lick at Sherlock's nose. "That's the wrong thing to do."

"The wrong thing to do is to let Moriarty get away with murdering your friends. You won't be able to avenge them if you're in a prison cell."

"I'll duck," Sherlock said, "and I'll escape this tomb but I won't abandon my friends. I won't run away."

Anderson's voice drifted further away. "Whatever you're going to do, you better do it fast. Your coat's on fire, Sherlock. You're on fire."

Sherlock's mind whiplashed to the present. He moved faster than he ever imagined he was capable of. He flipped the table up and used it as a shield to block the incoming brick bullets. Simultaneously he grabbed Mycroft and John by their shirt collars. He pushed them down while scooping his brother's umbrella up with his foot. As the other two fell forward, Sherlock stayed on his feet long enough to unsheathe the umbrella and hold it above them all, protecting their heads from the dust raining down from the ceiling. The bricks hit the table like an avalanche and propelled it forward. Sherlock, Mycroft and John, their limbs tangled and their own screams deafening each other, were pushed against the far wall. Sparks landed in their hair. The floor buckled, spit knife-like shards of stone up at them. As if they had one mind and one body between them, the three braced their shoes against the table and kicked it away.

"Get Lestrade!" Sherlock shouted at John. "Donovan!" he said to Mycroft. Sherlock pushed them towards their charges while he crawled over to his left.

"Molly!" Sherlock shouted. Black smoke strangled him and he coughed. "Molly – Molly!" A pink and white hand came into view. Sherlock grabbed it, found a pulse in the wrist, and yanked it out from under a chair. With Molly gathered in his arms Sherlock stumbled towards the exit. The fire lit his way – fire pouring from above. John suddenly appeared beside him with his hands under Lestrade's armpits. Mycroft had the Detective Inspector's feet and Sherlock knew, then, that Donovan was irretrievable. He led the way through a shrinking, stinking, burning hall of debris. He ordered his legs to keep moving, heard John and Mycroft's footsteps behind him.

Suddenly the smoke all but replaced the oxygen in his lungs.

Sherlock crumpled to his knees.

To Be Continued