John hoped Sherlock would be wrong.
He knew that was fairly useless – and he knew that the detective was banking on being right. But he couldn't bring himself to want Sherlock's deductions to work out, not this time. It was too grim.
Twenty-seven people were dead.
No, thirty, he corrected himself, watching the dark city slide by them outside the cab's windows. Benjamin Laurence, Arthur Kenton, and Kelsi Murray brought the count up to thirty. That they knew of.
He glanced at Sherlock who was looking impassively out his own window. Anyone else would have seen precisely what the consulting detective wanted them to see: a calm, unconcerned man, vaguely bored, waiting for the cab to drop them off. He'd given the cabbie their destination in a casual tone of voice. Nothing in the set of his muscles or the way he spoke indicated any kind of tension, but John knew him better than that. He could see it in the spark of those pale grey eyes, the almost imperceptible tightening of his mouth. No one else would have spotted it, except perhaps Mycroft. But John spent a lot of time looking at Sherlock's mouth – not to mention doing other things to it – and he hated seeing it even slightly tense.
Sherlock's gaze didn't so much as flicker but John knew he was being observed even more than he was observing. Whatever Sherlock was seeing, though, he kept it to himself. With a tired sigh, John turned his head to look back out his window.
Anthea had called them fifteen minutes ago, confirming Sherlock's suspicion. The last number dialled out from William McKinney's phone was not in his list of contacts and came up as a prepaid mobile. She'd given Sherlock the number to ascertain that it was neither of the numbers which had been used to contact him. John wasn't surprised – this man wasn't about to let himself be found so easily.
It made him feel sick. He'd seen people in Afghanistan used as human shields or forced into being suicide bombers or gunned down simply because they were in the way. There were times when the war felt distant and other times when it felt like it was right here, all around him, being re-enacted with a different cast. The idea that someone would set himself up in a bombing to deflect suspicion was terrifying but all too believable to John.
The cab dropped them off at the main entrance to Princess Grace and Sherlock dispensed with the fact that it was well past visiting hours by simply ignoring the staff and acting as if he had every right to be there. McKinney had been transferred to the same ward as Mycroft and John suddenly realized what that meant. He wondered how long Sherlock had been thinking about it. But Mycroft was under guard, he reminded himself.
Of course, he'd been in the middle of a public place when someone had tried to blow him up.
Sherlock stood in stony silence while the guards scrutinized their identification. They'd been through this several times with Mycroft already – sometimes with the same guards. John appreciated that they were doing their job, but it was difficult to confuse a pale, dark-haired, six-foot-two man with anyone else. They were checked for weapons after their IDs had been inspected and then admitted to the room. The guards thankfully didn't seem to care that it was already nearly eleven at night and McKinney was sleeping.
John watched Sherlock carefully, wondering what he'd do. He was half afraid the detective would startle the older man awake – if he was really the one behind this, John had no pity for him, but what if it were a coincidence and he'd just happened to be talking to someone he knew who owned a prepaid mobile? It wasn't like their killer had a monopoly on those. Maybe he did have a mistress and he'd bought her one so no one could track her down.
Plus, despite it all, he had just been injured in a bomb blast. The doctor in John didn't want to subject McKinney to any more shock.
Sherlock stood near the foot of the bed and John stayed a few steps back. In the semi-darkness of the private hospital room, the detective's pale eyes were gleaming. His expression was unreadable in the dim lighting but John could see how rigidly he was holding himself, how his muscles were all defined by sharp angles and stark lines. The shadows blurred his features, making him look younger than he normally did.
John had seen that kind of look and stance before, too many times. He drew a breath to warn Sherlock to stay calm, but the detective spoke before he could.
"Mister McKinney."
Sherlock's voice was deceptively soft but John heard the core of steel underneath it. He held up a hand, shooting Sherlock a warning look, but the detective ignored him.
"Mister McKinney," Sherlock repeated.
McKinney stirred, blinking himself awake. He turned his head slightly, squinting in the low light, trying to focus on Sherlock's shadowed figure at the end of his bed.
"Mister Holmes?" he asked groggily. John was suddenly struck by how badly they could be wrong about this and took a step toward the gurney.
"Who is he, Mister McKinney?"
McKinney blinked again, looking genuinely puzzled.
"Sherlock–" John started but Sherlock didn't acknowledge him, keeping his gaze on the injured man. McKinney shifted on his bed, using his right arm to push himself up somewhat.
"Who is whom?" he asked.
"The man you hired to kill Kelsi Murray, Laurence, and Kenton. The man you hired to try and kill my brother, Mister McKinney. Who is he?"
McKinney stared at him.
"I don't know," he said, casting a quick, confused glance at John. "Mister Holmes, I'm not involved in this."
Sherlock took a step toward the head of the bed, his tall frame looming in the darkness. John kept a sharp eye on him.
"You were on the phone right before the blast," Sherlock said in a low voice that was almost a murmur.
McKinney looked puzzled.
"I don't remember–"
"Yes you do, of course you do. Standing conveniently next to the doors, on the phone. Where Mycroft would see you and be able to warn you. Where you'd be able to run."
"Young man–"
"Speaking to someone with a prepaid mobile. Admittedly a different number than the two he's used to contact me so far." Sherlock took another step forward and John felt his muscles tensing in response, an instinctive reaction preparing him to intervene.
"I wondered why that didn't fit the pattern. Oh, I thought Mycroft may be behind all of this, because it wouldn't be beyond him, but not after the explosion. My brother values his comfort, you see. He would find a way to deflect suspicion that didn't leave him injured and confined to the hospital. But you… You're not my brother."
His voice remained quiet, almost soft, and John had the distinct sense it was the calm before the storm.
"Sherlock," he hissed softly.
"Who is he?" Sherlock repeated.
"I don't know," McKinney managed, his voice hoarse with fatigue and confusion. "I wasn't–"
"He killed Kelsi Murray, Laurence, and Kenton up close, quickly, without witnesses. Neat jobs – aside from all the blood, yes – but not this. He had all of you in the same place. He could have taken you all out at once, but he waited. Waited for the others to leave, waited until I'd figured it out. Then he tried to kill my brother. He murdered twenty-seven people in an attempt to kill Mycroft. A bullet would have been far more reliable, Mister McKinney. But this made you look like an intended target."
He paused, leaning down slightly.
"Who. Is. He."
"I don't know!" McKinney hissed.
Moving too quickly for John to react, Sherlock reached out with both hands, pressing his left palm firmly over McKinney's mouth and splaying his right hand against the man's ribs, pushing down hard. McKinney's sudden cry was muffled by Sherlock's hand.
"Jesus Christ, Sherlock!" John protested, stepping toward the bed fast, wrapping his hands around the detective's wrists. Sherlock's eyes snapped up to him and there was so much rage in them that John let go without thinking, taking half a step back. Sherlock's lips twitched, fighting down a snarl. The doctor stood immobile for a moment, too shocked to react. He'd never seen that much anger in Sherlock's expression before.
"Tell me," Sherlock hissed, leaning down so he was almost nose-to-nose with McKinney. The other man grunted, shaking his head desperately. "Tell me!"
McKinney managed something muffled and Sherlock pressed down harder. John winced at the whimper and stepped forward again, grabbing Sherlock's wrists with no intentions of releasing him this time. But Sherlock tensed his body, bearing his weight down onto his palms, making it impossible for John to get good leverage.
"Sherlock, stop!" John snapped.
"Who is he, Mister McKinney? I can press so much harder."
McKinney shook his head again but there was a different tone to it this time, a flash of acknowledgement in his eyes.
"If you call for the guards, I'll make sure your ribs are broken again," the detective threatened. McKinney nodded, breathing hard. Sherlock eased his left hand away but pushed down hard with his right. John wrapped his fingers around Sherlock's right hand and managed to pry it loose.
"I don't know his name," McKinney gasped. At this, Sherlock straightened slightly and dropped his left hand to take the place of his right, but John had already relaxed his grip when he heard the admission. McKinney hissed again, trying to arch away. "I don't, I don't! I've never met him – only spoken to him on the phone or via email."
"What do you know about him? Where is he?"
"Don't know," McKinney gasped. "There was as little contact as possible – gnh! I'm telling you the truth! I gave him the orders, he carried them out!"
"We need to find him!" Sherlock snapped.
"You can't," McKinney groaned. "You can't."
Sherlock pressed harder and John cursed. This was getting to be too much like torture – he knew the police occasionally used limited force and physical discomfort but this was excessive.
"Let him go!" he ordered, sharpening his voice to his best captain's tone and Sherlock's eyes flickered up for a moment. He eased on his grip but didn't remove his hand.
"All the way," John growled in a tone of voice he scarcely recognized as his own.
Sherlock shot him a dark look but pulled his hand away. McKinney gasped again, breathing hard, a dark smile ghosting over his lips.
"You can't find him," McKinney repeated. "Not unless he wants you to. Everything was done at a distance. Safer that way."
"Safer," Sherlock echoed, his voice hollow. He leaned over again. "Why?" he hissed.
"This country, Mister Holmes," McKinney replied and John felt cold at how reasonable his voice sounded below the pain. "Your brother would understand."
John redoubled his grip on Sherlock's hands the instant before they twitched and managed to hold his husband back.
"You said that disagreement is the foundation of democracy," Sherlock replied in a dangerous voice.
"Yes," McKinney replied, managing a nod. "And occasionally, democracy is the wrong sort of government. Occasionally, things simply need to work."
Sherlock straightened abruptly, startling John. Without a word, he spun and stalked from the room. John hurried to keep up, feeling stunned and numb. Mycroft had made the same argument to him years ago. He'd vaguely assumed that that Mycroft wasn't alone, that there were other people in the government with the same sort of power and ideas. For some reason, he'd always felt like he would never encounter them, that maybe knowing Mycroft would keep them at bay. He should have suspected the opposite – that knowing Mycroft made it more likely that he would meet them.
"Arrest him," Sherlock said, pointing back toward the room. The two military police officers turned to look at John, who was standing in the doorway.
"Not me!" John snapped.
"William McKinney," Sherlock clarified, his voice like ice. He paused, then suddenly gave them one his bright, cold smiles that sent a shudder down John's spine. "You've been guarding the man behind all of this for a week."
"Sir?" one of the officers said.
"Thirty people have died because of him," Sherlock said flatly. "I appreciate that he may not fall under your jurisdiction, in which case I suggest you call the Met and have them arrest him. It may be in your best interest to at least handcuff him to the bed, for appearances' sake."
"He just confessed," John said, not adding that he'd done so under duress. It wouldn't matter – confessing to Sherlock wasn't a legal admission anyway. He'd have to talk to the police, but John was certain that he would. There was no getting away from it anymore.
Although once Mycroft found out, McKinney would probably just quietly disappear.
He shuddered again, unable to stop himself.
The Redcaps stepped into the room, closing the door firmly behind them, leaving John and Sherlock alone in the corridor. John was suddenly grateful that Mycroft was in another section of this ward, his room not visible from where they were. There was a nurse at the nurses' station just down the hall – John could just make her out sitting behind the high counter, but she wasn't paying them any attention.
"We need to tell Mycroft," John managed. He inhaled slowly, counted to ten, then exhaled.
"Yes," Sherlock replied in a clipped voice. John ran his hands into his hair, trying to displace the tension and the adrenaline. Sherlock stepped away and John felt suddenly drained.
"Sherlock–" he said and his husband stopped and turned back, his expression unreadable, his eyes bright. John cast around for something to say, realising suddenly that he didn't know what to do. "Maybe we should leave it until tomorrow?"
Sherlock stared at him.
"We've just apprehended the man who intended to have Mycroft killed and you want to leave it until morning? Do you think he would appreciate that?"
John shook his head.
"No," he admitted. "No, I can't imagine he would. But– that–" he gestured uselessly back to McKinney's room.
That had been Sherlock working.
"John, if you're tired, you can go home and sleep," Sherlock said and there was a hint of something in there – warmth. Concern. It was familiar and unexpected and sent a jolt through John. He managed to shake his head.
"No, I–" don't want to leave you. "I should go with you."
"Very well, then come on."
John stepped forward and joined his husband who turned to fall into step with him again, then paused, frowning. He fished his phone out of his jacket pocket and John froze with a sinking feeling in his stomach.
Moving carefully, as if the text might vanish otherwise, Sherlock opened the message. He read it then extended his phone to John, who peered at the tiny screen.
So sorry for the delay, family holidays, you know how it is.
John stared.
"Oh," Sherlock said suddenly and John looked up to see the blank expression of realisation on the detective's face a moment before it flashed through a mixture of anger and admiration. "Oh, stupid, stupid. Obvious. McKinney told us."
"Told us what?" John demanded.
"He gave the orders, our killer carried them out! Of course, of course! It was him. All of this, the past ten years, it's been him!"
"What do you mean?" John pressed.
"Anderson told us in April! The nursery rhymes and fairy tales, John!"
"What?" John asked, aghast. "You think she had something to do with this? Sherlock, she spent a decade of her life trying to track this man down!"
"I know, I know!" Sherlock hissed. "She's not involved in this! But she told us in the hotel that she recognized the Crooked Man rhyme because she had children and the stories had stayed with her!"
John nodded.
"Yes, so?"
"Family holidays, John. Family holidays. A entire set of clues built around children's stories. John, think! William and Mary McKinney – how many children do they have? Think about their files!"
John frowned then felt the muscles in his face relax with shock.
"None," he said flatly.
Sherlock nodded once, holding up the phone almost like a talisman.
"Family holidays! He does have children. I was wrong– we were all wrong. We thought if we found the man behind him, we'd have all the information we need, all the details. But McKinney hired him, John! Gave him the orders. He told our killer what to do but not how to do it, nor how to communicate with us! And why not? Another step removed. Safer," he spat, glaring at his phone.
"So that means–" John started, then cut himself off, shaking his head.
"Yes," Sherlock agreed. "We have the man behind this, but he won't know who's next or when or how. We don't have the means of catching the killer. We don't have the pieces to his puzzles. He's still out there, John, and we have no way of finding out who he is."