Chapter Fourteen: Burning in its Greed
Meet me at Arthur's shop. 1:30 PM. After that, I will leave you alone.
Evie stares at the text message. Seeing her grandfather's name seems to upset the balance of strength that she has been upholding; she is trembling and goose bumps have broken out on her arms and the back of her neck. Waves of hot and cold are crashing over her, threatening to drown her with despair. Evie tries to settle herself by thinking about the good things.
Dr. Patel gave her the okay to move around on crutches and yesterday her stitches were removed. She is feeling overwhelmingly sore but she is also beginning to believe she's going to go and meet Wickersham at her grandfather's motorcycle shop. She is thinking that this all has to end sometime. She absentmindedly rubs at her face where the still-healing wounds itch.
Evie pushes herself forward out of the recliner that she has come to like entirely too much in her stay here at Mycroft's house. She sets her phone back on the side table as she carefully balances on the crutches; each time is getting easier and this time she wobbles just a little as she moves down the hallway. At the front door she takes the time to listen for any noises, glad that she managed to get her trainers on, especially over the new, smaller cast. She grabs a denim jacket off of one of the hooks and slides her arms into it, taking it in turn to balance against one crutch at a time.
She opens the door and faces the butter-cream yellow of the afternoon sunshine. The warmth reaches out to gently caress her face, touching every single tender spot that was torn and then sewn together. Sometimes she thinks of herself as a patchwork quilt: so many differing pieces of material—some earned, some purchased, some borrowed and some received as gifts—sewn together in a line down the side of her face. Dr. Patel has assured her that there will only be minimally scaring. She has to remember to ask John about it, she has more faith in his advice about scars and long-lasting pain.
Evie moves down the short walk that winds in geometric precision around the side of the house, the metal crutches thumping against the concrete; the sound changes as she reaches the smooth asphalt: now instead of thump, the crutches make a click against the asphalt. Satisfied that there is no one around paying her any attention, she rapidly types in the security code that opens the garage door. She taps her foot against the ground as she waits for the door to complete its circuit. Once it is open, her eyes gaze hungrily at the pair of stunning motorbikes standing side-by-side, beckoning her to climb aboard. The keys are easily obtained from their place on a hook by the door. Last night, after she had been given the lighter cast and the crutches, she and Mycroft had spent a short time walking around the house. It felt good to exercise and she was fascinated to see that he shares her love for fast machines.
For one instant only, she thinks what a really stupid idea this is.
She briefly reconsiders; there is no other way that she will ever have any peace. She needs to go and see what this bastard wants and then perhaps Mycroft will have a reason to look at her as more than a ward, more than a guest in his home. She will never be able to look into those eyes and want anything less than equal. She takes a deep breath and slides over onto the sapphire blue bike. The hard part now becomes what to do with the crutches. Evie looks at them, calculating the distance between here and the shop and then the distance between the parking lot and the front door at the shop…wait a minute. She can actually pull right up to one of the entrance doors and from there swing off and into the shop. Surely she can manage fifteen steps or so on her own, she thinks. She nods to herself as she covers her head with the helmet hanging off the handlebars. She plants her cast on the pedal so that only the toe of her trainer is touching against the metal. It will have to do. Evie leans down and starts the bike, easily exiting the garage due to the absence of Mycroft's white Jag.
~o~o~o~
Evie's plan seems to be a smashing success. She pulls right up to the side door of the garage and cuts the engine. The motorcycle is an amazing ride; it felt so good to be out on the road again. She lets the little nagging feeling of guilt just hang out in the back of her mind where it can be ignored; it is pretty idiotic for a 33-year-old woman to be stealing vehicles like a teenager…but this will all be over soon and her grandfather always said that the ends justify the means.
She staggers a little upon the dismount, still landing on both feet, if not very gracefully. She steps in close to the brick wall, using it for support as she limps towards the side door. Evie never notices the lack of activity around the shop; nor does she notice the deserted parking lot.
She makes it through the unlocked side door and has to lean up against it for a moment to catch her breath. After a short round of positive self-talk she moves towards the open shop floor with its neat rows of toolboxes all around. The lighter cast is starting to get heavy and Evie is beginning to tire, her adrenaline-fueled race to the shop starting to wind down. She keeps one hand flat against the wall and takes another step, thinking that Mycroft is going to be really angry when he finds out what she's done; there is no doubt in her mind that he will find out. After all the other information he managed to dig up about her. She really needs to have a talk with him about that at some point.
None of it matters because suddenly she is on the floor. She hits the concrete on her knees. She does not scream out when suddenly Charles Wickersham is standing over her with a heavy silver wrench that he apparently just used to trip her. There is dried blood on his hands and he is panting like an animal. His short brown hair is sticking up all over the top of his head. She tries to push herself away from him and he raises the wrench, making as if to bash her bad leg and she freezes like a rabbit with a bobcat bearing down on it. Like the rabbit she has absolutely nowhere to go. In slow motion, she sees him go through with the motion, the head of the wrench catching her in the thigh. It hurts bad enough to make her see stars but she knows nothing is broken. She grunts with the pain but does not cry out. She will not give him that satisfaction.
He remains silent as he throws the wrench to the floor where it spins until it runs out of energy. By that time, Charles has Evie's arms pulled behind her back and he is half-pulling, half-carrying her across the shop. She struggles against his hold but the slap across the back of the head she receives makes her stop. Some of the just-barely healed nerves on her face spring return back to life with heat. She finally hangs her head, her hair hanging falling down to hide the tears rolling silently down her face.
~o~o~o~
Mycroft arrives home at exactly two o'clock. He was instantly on alert when he pulled into his open garage. Though he will never admit it to anyone, he was nervous when he pushed open the unlocked front door. He began to panic when he could not find Evie, thinking that some of his own enemies kidnapped her. He is now positively livid. He snatches her phone off of the side table and flips through the text messages, reads the one from Wickersham at the same time he is firing off a text to his brother from his own mobile. He is practically flying through the house, tossing his suit aside and grabbing a pair of jeans, a black turtleneck, boots and a handgun from his bedroom. He leaves the house at a run, pausing only to grab a heavy black leather jacket from the hook behind the door.
At the garage he is torn between taking the car or the other motorbike. Considering that speed is his only option at this point, he mounts the machine, feeling the weight of the gun against his back where he shoved it into the waistband of his jeans; a little trick he learned a long time ago. He shrugs into the heavy padded jacket, deftly zipping it. His dark blue eyes are fierce with intent. Mycroft kicks the bike to life and follows Evie, slowly building walls in his mind so that he can deal with one problem at a time.
~o~o~o~
"John! John!" Sherlock rushes through the front door of the penthouse brandishing his phone like a sword. The door slams behind him with a crash that reverberates through the whole place. He is out on the balcony, again trying to update the blog. Phoenix is helping out by lying across the keyboard on his laptop. John is half tempted to take a picture of the cat and post it along with an excuse as to why he hasn't updated it. Sherlock has just returned from being out doing whatever the heck he does that involves wandering the city. In all these years, John has never quite figured it out, though he believes it is how Sherlock keeps his mental map of all of the streets and alleys of London fresh in his mind.
John looks over his glasses at his tall, gorgeous lover who is now taking up the entire doorway between the sitting room and balcony. Sherlock's expression is both stormy and deeply interested.
"A case?" John asks over the rim of his lenses.
For a second, their eyes lock and in that tiny droplet of time John knows there's more. He is up and moving before the words even roll off of Sherlock's tongue.
"Evie received another text message from Wickersham. We have to get to the shop. Mycroft says to get your gun."
~o~o~o~
"You stupid, foolish cunt!" Wickersham shouts as he slaps Evie's face again. She has just managed to launch a kick directly into his face when he knelt to secure her bindings to whatever it is she is lying on. He tears her mind from unconsciousness, surely a result of however he managed to make her nose bleed; she has no memory of it at this point. He sits back on his knees, both hands over his face. He pulls them back to see that there is no blood and a loud burst of maniacal laughter streams from his throat. Evie tries to pull her arms away from the duct tape that is holding her down and finds it to be quite effective.
Evie takes in a deep breath, trying to think of a way out of this mess. No one has any idea where she is; Mycroft thinks she is at his house, soaking up luxuries and convalescing. Her tears are falling heavier now, though she is still not making a sound.
"Oh, Evie, why did you say "no" to me that night?" Charles leans down and looks into her face, his tongue carefully tracing across the top her cheek. She has no presence of mind to even spit in his face, because as soon as she opened her mouth to do so, she could smell the disconcerting mix of smoke and motor oil. He pushes in closer, staring into her eyes as if searching for something. How can someone so young have eyes that are such dark pools of nothingness?
"I've been trying to get the great detective's attention for several months now and here you go and just waltz right into the Holmes' boys lives! Three cheers for me!" His voice is scratchy, raw with excitement. Wickersham moves away from her, clapping his hands three times in succession; each clap sounds like a gunshot in the silent room. She loses sight of him for a few moments but she can hear a faintly terrifying splashing sound and smell the petrol as he pours it on the floor. Oh god.
"Two birds, one stone." He says, not taking his attention off of his pouring. He is holding one of the large red plastic containers and is walking around splashing it all over. He finishes one line and pulls a gold lighter out of his pocket. Evie recognizes it as her grandfather's.
"No!" She shouts, finally breaking her vow of silence. Charles laughs.
"Oh, girlie, you recognize this, do you? The only thing Arthur had that was worth anything. If that damned Tommy hadn't taken over the shop when he did, it would be pushin' up daisies, same as dear old granddad." Charles smirks, his mouth a hard and cruel line against his flushed skin. He holds the lighter up and flicks it, a silent mockery of the Olympic torch-bearer. She cries out again as he bends down and lights one of the lines of petrol.
Evie closes her eyes at the whooshing sound of the petrol being claimed by flames. When she opens them again, she can see how the flames dance and sway though they are not close enough to her to feel the heat. Wickersham laughs hysterically as he jumps up and down, clapping his hands that are red and chapped from handling such corrosive materials.
Charles looks down at his hands and follows Evie's line of sight. "Oh girlie, it is not going to matter here shortly. You and me, we are going to be together forever." His voice drops on the last word and he narrows his eyes. Evie can do absolutely nothing as he lights the second line. Another angry, growling sound and the flames are closer.
"You and me, Evie. You and me." Charles actually dances around in some strange little two-step, sliding the soles of his work boots against the floor. What Evie cannot see is that he is actually spreading the fuel between the lines as he is moving closer to her.
"This is it for me, sadly. I've done something even that little Irish fruit could never do! I have made my masterpiece; I struck the amazing Sherlock Holmes down by bringing his home down around his ears!"
What? Evie wonders if she's heard right. She shakes her head in an attempt to clear her thoughts. "You killed Sherlock Holmes?"
Wickersham steps away from the flames that he is now studying as if they were a lover, turning his empty gaze onto her face. "Yes I did. I've been studying him and Moriarty since I was fourteen; I know all about their face-off on the roof of that hospital. The way the brilliant criminal made a plan so clever that Sherlock was never going to get out of it…BUT THEN HE DID!" Charles roars and throws the plastic container in the direction of the flames. They lick at it tentatively, hungry living things seeming to decide they like it; there is a loud boom when the container gives up to the searing heat.
Evie is well and truly frightened now.
~o~o~o~
Mycroft is first on the scene. He can see the flickering flames through the windows of the shop. He cuts the engine to the motorcycle at the end of the parking lot so as not to draw any attention to himself. Wickersham is in there. Mycroft moves slowly towards the front door of the shop; he pulls on the door and finds it unlocked. Before stepping over the threshold, he sends a text message to Sherlock letting him know which side of the building he is checking out first.
The front door leads to a small, neat lobby with a counter that runs alongside one wall. Posters of cars and motorcycles line the wall above a short row of chairs. There is a small water cooler in the corner and a tiny television on a stand. This room is empty. He steps behind the counter, noting the stacks of invoices and other paraphernalia needed to run a business like this daily. Satisfied that there is nothing amiss here, he then goes into the short hallway where the restrooms and the manager's office are located. He cannot see anything behind the opaque glass of the office and so he draws the gun from his jeans and holds it out in front of himself while he opens the door.
The door swings inward and then stops abruptly. Mycroft freezes as he scans everything at eye level and above. There is no sound, only the hum of the computer on the desk. Finally, he sees what is blocking the door when he steps through it and looks down at the floor. It is a body, burnt almost beyond recognition of being human. His blood begins to boil.