Lestrade poked his head back into the room, eyes watering from the now festering smell. "Well?"
Sherlock was still pacing madly, mind going so fast it was long past forming coherent, logical phrases. He barely noticed
But…how…could be that they…but…needed to know…John…left…two in the morning…five…choice…have to…motion sensors? Maybe…
Oh.
His head snapped up. "Did you just call for a bomb squad?"
"Yes, like you asked."
"Right, call them back, tell them not to come. False alarm."
"What-really?"
"No," he spat, "It's still a bomb, it could go off any second, get back in here and do what I tell you."
Resigned, the Inspector inched inside. Finally. He was stubborn, yes, but he got there eventually. He waited until he was done with the phone call before snatching the phone out of his unsuspecting hands.
"What are you doing?" asked Lestrade incredulously.
"Making a phone call."
"I can see that…"
Now if only he would shut up for five seconds.
"John, where are you?"
His voice sounded as though he had been put in a jar and shaken vigorously. "We-we're going at twenty-miles-over-the-speed-limit. We-should-be there in-five minutes."
"Okay. Listen to me."
There was a squeal of tires on the other end and someone inhaled sharply.
"No-no-left! Left!"
"John?"
"Yes, yeah, I'm listening…we almost hit a fence…just keep talking."
"The flat is being watched. That's the only possible way they could have known you left. Not all of it, just the door, otherwise we'd be dead already because they would see me having this conversation. If you come back now they might decide to kill us all. I'm not sure why they're waiting."
"So you need me to turn around?"
"Yes."
There was a long silence. "But…what about-"
"If I die there's nothing you can do about it, but it doesn't make sense that you have to, too. Think about it. There are people who need you-Sarah, Harry-you can't. Tell the driver to turn the car around."
"That'll be fun," he muttered. "Okay. Fine."
He hung up, tossed Lestrade the phone. "Call for a bomb squad, tell them to dress in business casual, carry any equipment they need in briefcases, and come in taxis, then call Mycroft and tell him we need to cut power to the flat for about three minutes when they get here."
"What about evacuating the area?"
"Can't risk it, we don't know what else they're watching. Besides, you'd have to leave the flat."
"How do you know they can't hear us?"
"We'd be dead already."
The DI nodded uneasily and made the calls.
"Why are they doing this, Sherlock?"
He thought about it for a few precious milliseconds before giving him the short answer. "Crime is common, logic is rare."
An even shorter answer, he gave to himself: he had no idea.
After an excruciatingly slow seven minutes, everything was in place. The bomb squad was waiting outside. Lestrade was on the phone with Mycroft's secretary. The bodyguards were pacing the flat as if nothing was wrong. They had pulled the blinds on all the windows.
"All right…" said Sherlock quietly, "…now."
The flat went pitch-dark. Sherlock fumbled for the torch he had placed on the side of the bed earlier. He grabbed the hand instead, accidentally, causing his stomach to drop to somewhere around his knees. Ridiculous. It was a dead body, he'd touched plenty of those.
He found the torch and switched it on, illuminating the room in an eerie white glow. The bomb squad pounded up the stairs.
"All right, gentlemen-" one of them cleared her throat pointedly-"and ladies, I can give you about three minutes. See what you can do."