Sorry, guys; this one's a bit sub-par. A lot sub-par. Sorry.
I stumbled up the stairs. Somehow, the power had gone out. There were tense, murmured voices coming from upstairs. I fumbled around for the doorknob.
It was five thirty two exactly. Surely he had figured something out…
If he hadn't, I would never be able to forgive myself if I didn't try to help.
"Stop," came a voice from inside.
What the hell?
That wasn't Sherlock.
I had gotten such little sleep in the past few days that I only realized what he had said after I had hung up. It didn't make much sense at the time. All I knew was that he was in trouble. I instructed the driver to turn around and head to Baker Street. Quickly, please, there was no time to lose.
That was probably a mistake; the speedometer didn't dip below sixty the whole way there.
So now I was trying to get into my flat and there was someone on the other side of the door and it was most certainly not Sherlock. My hand went immediately for my mobile, but the voice spoke again.
"State your name and purpose."
That didn't sound like something a criminal would say.
"Er…John Watson. I live here?"
There were some rustling noises from inside. "John H. Watson?"
"Yes."
"M.D.?"
"Are there any other John Watsons that live here I'm unaware of?"
"It's him!" called the voice, presumably not at me.
My mobile, which I was about to call 9-9-9 on, rang. It was Sherlock. I frowned, then picked up.
"John. Step away from the door."
I did it without even thinking. "Okay. I did. Why? What's going on? Why is there someone in our flat?"
There was a short silence.
"Your flat," I corrected.
Another, long silence.
Okay, that was mean. Sorry. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that.
And for some reason I couldn't open my mouth and tell him.
"Yes. There is a bomb upstairs. You shouldn't have come. And now that I've told you that…"
"I'm not going to leave."
He sighed audibly. "Thirty more seconds."
"Okay."
"Stay on the line."
"Okay."
It was a horribly slow half a minute. Possibly one of the slowest half minutes of my life. Until, of course, the lights came back on.
I leaned against the door, noticing with surprise how fast my heart was beating. I hadn't even noticed.
"Can I come in now?"
"Yeah."
He hung up.
I pushed open the door to find four people inside; a short, stocky gentleman with clipped brown hair, two identical, enormous blond men with identical, permanent scowls, and a small, ethereal little woman with a briefcase. She was at once the least and most intimidating of all of them. I think it was her eyes. There's a word for them: glasz. A strange, glassy combination of blue, green and gray that would be attractive if they weren't slightly scary as well. They were all in formal business wear, which is what tipped me off.
"Do you all work for Mycroft Holmes?"
They nodded wordlessly.
Sherlock bounded down the stairs, followed closely by Lestrade and…more people.
This was getting to be a little much. I leave the guy alone for three hours…
"What were all of you doing in my bedroom?"
Sherlock waved a hand dismissively. "Someone get him up to speed."
Lestrade filled me in on what had happened while I was gone, which helped to explain the disgusting smell wafting in from upstairs. The incognito bomb squad was ushered back out.
"Mycroft outdid himself," said Sherlock. "He turned out the power to all of NW2, which explains why they didn't blow it up immediately. And now we know where they are."
"Small comfort," pointed out Lestrade. "How did they know where you were in the first place?"
Sherlock whirled around. "Who did you tell?"
Lestrade put up his hands in a gesture of surrender. "No one, I swear."
He strode forward, eyes narrowed in disbelief. "Yeah, right. Who did you tell?"
"Just…just Donovan and Anderson…no, I trust them! They wouldn't-Sherlock!"
He rolled his eyes. "You told Anderson?"
"Yeah. He couldn't have let anything slip, though, not to anyone inside the force. He's on temporary leave."
"Really?" I asked. "Why?"
"Something about-his mother is ill, I don't know, I didn't ask!"
"Wait," I said. Something was becoming all too clear to me. "Wait. Anderson's mother died two years ago."
"No," said Lestrade, sounding devastated. "He-that can't be right. That isn't possible."
"I'm sorry," I said quietly.
"We need to talk," he muttered angrily, striding out of the room.
We followed.