In retrospect, I should have foreseen the events that occurred shortly after our arrival in Mike Stamford's well-appointed private office, deductive genius or not. However, since Holmes also failed to predict the events that would so disrupt our lives for the following months, I can be forgiven for failing to do so as well.
We had just settled in to discuss Dr. Hooper's situation, with Holmes waxing near poetic in his praise of the woman's forensic skills (oh, Mary would be thrilled, no doubt about it, having long since believed my friend needed to find the right woman to help settle some of his more, er, exuberant excesses) and assuring Stamford that she posed no threat to the hospital when it happened. A muffled thump and dull roar that my shocked ears quickly translated into the sounds of a distant explosion.
When the shock of the event released me from its grasp, I arose from my seat to find that Holmes had already vacated the room. Stamford and I hurried after him, both instinctively heading for the stairs leading down to the basement level where the morgue and associated laboratory were located.
As we both feared and anticipated, the laboratory where Holmes and I had left Dr. Hooper a scant half-hour earlier was the target of the explosion. I feared we would find the mangled remains of the young woman amongst the debris, and was relieved to find her alive – albeit unconscious – and cradled once again in Holmes' arms as he emerged from the smoking ruin of a room. "She discovered the explosive device and had the good sense to place it into the sink, covering it with water, and was on her way out when it went off," Holmes explained as he gently lowered her to the corridor floor to allow me to examine her.
She was bleeding from numerous cuts but thankfully no debris appeared to have lodged in her flesh, nor did a cursory examination reveal any signs of broken bones or injuries to her spine, although her head injury was worrisome. I was forcefully reminded of a previous explosion, one that had nearly taken my life and that of Holmes, but pushed aside such unpleasant memories, reminding myself that I had a patient to attend to. "It appears when she turned to leave she had the foresight to snatch up a body bag and use it to protect herself. Clever girl," Sherlock murmured, looking down at her with a half-smile on his lips that I would be sure to quiz him over.
Later. "Stamford, we'll need a gurney for Dr. Hooper," I began, but Holmes shook his head.
"No need, I'll carry her," he said, and proceeded to lift her slight form into his arms again. There was no arguing with the stubborn set of his chin or the determined glint in his eyes, so I didn't bother, merely rose to my feet and hurried after him, with Stamford leading the way. He breathlessly informed us that there was no one else on duty at this time, which was a relief as I had not been looking forward to searching the wreckage for others less fortunate than Dr. Hooper.
She regained consciousness as we hurried up the stairs; I heard Holmes murmuring what sounded suspiciously like reassurances to her when I caught up to them. Stamford had opted to remain behind and assist the emergency responders and concerned onlookers who had been disturbed by the blast, directing his staff in their endeavors to confirm that no other persons had been in the basement at the time. Although I had no official connection to St. Bartholomew's, I received no protests when I appropriated an empty operating theater and rather peremptorily demanded the assistance of one of the nurses who had come to see what the commotion was about.
Dr. Hooper, in common with every other physician I have ever treated, insisted that she was fine and needed only to 'clear her head'. She was far more concerned with the state of the pathology lab and the damage that must have been done to the Shropshire Slasher's corpse than to her own injuries. I expected Holmes to join her in mourning the potential loss of evidence in the case, but he surprised me by brushing aside Dr. Hooper's concerns and insisting, in gentle but firm tones far from his usual abrupt manner, that she allow me to attend to her.
In the end she suffered only a few gashes that required stitches, and I did not fail to notice that Holmes held her hand the entire time. He caught me stealing glances at their entwined fingers more than once, and each time merely scowled at me as if daring me to comment. I wisely refrained, at least until Dr. Hooper had been admitted – much against her will, and only after her strenuous protests – to be kept under observation overnight. We bid her farewell as one of the St. Bartholomew's physicians took over her case, commandeering both her injured form and the nurse who had assisted me so ably, but not before I was able to thank the latter and admonish the former to do as her doctor prescribed in order to properly recuperate from her ordeal.
I was astonished to see Holmes drop a quick kiss to her forehead before she was wheeled away on the gurney a young orderly had brought to the operating theater, and cheered at the sight of the pretty blush that spread across her cheeks as she murmured her good-byes. Her expression was wistful as she was removed from our presence, and I hid a smile at the equally wistful expression that crossed Holmes face as she vanished from view.
Before I could comment on his unusual behavior, Holmes sprang to my side, virtually dragging me out of the doors and down the hall to the basement. "Come along, Watson, we must examine the evidence before any more idiots trample through the wreckage."
That was the Holmes and I knew and, occasionally at least, felt a brotherly love for. His eyes were bright and glittering with what I recognized all too well as detectival fever; he would not rest until he discovered the identity of the bomber (or bombers) and brought them to justice. If his actions seemed a bit more enthusiastic than normal, I recognized that he felt a personal connection to this crime…and I suspected that he was particularly motivated by what I perceived as his genuine attachment to Dr. Hooper.
The thought of my friend forming any sort of a romantic attachment other than to the volatile and, sadly for Holmes, deceased Miss Irene Adler, still struck me as decidedly odd, when I had time to consider the idea. Holmes had always scoffed at romance, had done his very best to dissuade me from my own marriage – and yet, in the end, he had forged not merely a truce with my beloved Mary, but a growing friendship as well. Perhaps the loss of Miss Adler and his newfound affection for my wife had opened a crack in that carefully guarded heart of his, so that when he found himself facing a woman who appeared, in her own way, to be as remarkable as either of those two ladies, he was ready to acknowledge his readiness to form a lasting romantic attachment of his own. One not founded on deceit and the thrill of outwitting one another, but rather a love that could ease some of the profound loneliness I had always sensed in my friend.
But all that, as I said, would come with time and contemplation. At the moment I knew only that Holmes was determined to find the culprits responsible for this and presumably the previous night's bombings, and merely filed away the remarkable fact that he'd waited until he knew that Dr. Hooper was well and in capable hands before turning his attention to the site of the attack.
I found him clambering over the debris near the far end of the lab, muttering to himself and scowling at the shattered remains of the porcelain sink. "The detonator, Watson, we must find it, it's the key to this whole thing," he announced as I made my gingerly way toward him, mindful of the instability of the still-smoking chamber. Stamford had already spoken with Inspector Lestrade, who had been assigned to investigate the bombing, as well as the firemen who had been dispatched, and Holmes and I were cleared to perform our own investigation now that the room had been declared free of any other victims. Aside, of course, from the unfortunate corpse of the late Shropshire Slasher, which hadn't survived the blast nearly as well as Dr. Hooper. At least the grisly remains had been removed before our return to the scene of the crime.
Lestrade held his men back until Holmes had finished his investigation, a courtesy I do not recall the man extending in the past, but then, it had been many months since I had assisted Holmes on a case and I had no idea of the nature of their relationship at this point in time. After the distasteful matter of the Reichenbach Falls case involving Professor Moriarty, Lestrade had been far more distraught than I would have credited him at Holmes (apparent) death, and I could only conclude that their professional relationship remained cordial in spite of Holmes' overly dramatic return. It certainly hadn't hurt things when Lestrade had been given full credit for the apprehension of Moriarty's right-hand man, the former army colonel Sebastian Moran. That case, in fact, had been shortly after Holmes' return and the last one I has assisted him with.
Lost in my musings, I was taken off-guard when Holmes uttered a triumphant, "Got it!" and held up a few twisted shards of metal. The elusive detonator, I presumed, and had that presumption confirmed seconds later when Holmes began picking his way toward Lestrade, who held out a small canvas sack into which the items in question were carefully deposited. "Give them to Morse, he's your best explosives man," Holmes instructed Lestrade, as if he were the senior inspector and the other man a mere uniformed officer. However, Lestrade merely grimaced at Holmes' high-handed manner, to which he'd long been accustomed, and shouted for the sergeant that had accompanied him.
Holmes turned to me, a grim smile on his face as he clapped his hands together and rubbed them briskly. "Very well, Watson, I believe it's time for us to leave the rest of the evidence-gathering to the good men of New Scotland Yard." He glanced back at Lestrade sharply. "You'll have Morse contact me as soon as he identifies the bomber?"
Lestrade nodded. "Before I even notify my superiors, Holmes, you have my word on it."
"Good. We'll be off then, having a look at the site of yesterday's bombing. I fully expect Morse to confirm that both events were the work of the same person." Without pausing for breath, he turned back to me again. "Shall we check on Dr. Hooper before we leave, Watson? Your Mary will want a full report of her status," he added as I gaped at him.
Then he strode out of the room, once again leaving me to hurry after him, although not until I'd exchanged glances with a very confused looking Inspector Lestrade. "The young lady who was caught in the blast," I hurriedly explained. "Holmes wishes to, er, question her further, I believe." Then I left as well, leaving him shaking his head and muttering to himself, a not unfamiliar reaction to Holmes and his caprices.
Speaking of caprices…I was astounded that Holmes was once again delaying his investigation in favor of checking up on Dr. Hooper's health. Astounded and, I am not ashamed to say, rather pleased to see my friend showing such interest in a young, pretty, intelligent, unattached woman. Who, before this unfortunate incident, had agreed to meet Holmes for dinner. Oh, Mary would be quite cross with me indeed if I neglected to take in this second post-explosion meeting between the two, so I sped up, catching Holmes just as he was in the process of interrogating Dr. Hooper's attending physician.
I quelled a potential quarrel between the two men when the doctor protested that his patient was sleeping and should not be disturbed. Holmes of course disagreed, but I managed to distract him by reminding him that the best thing he could do for Dr. Hooper at this time was to find the man who had attempted to kill her – if, indeed, that had been his goal, and not merely disruption of her working space.
I chose my words deliberately, knowing Holmes would scoff at me for even theorizing that Dr. Hooper had been collateral damage and not the actual target.
As expected, he rounded on me with a familiar glint in his eye, born of both contempt and frustration. "Don't be a fool, Watson," he snapped. "Clearly Dr. Hooper was the target, else the bomb would have been much larger…which," he concluded abruptly, after peering closely at my face, "you already know."
By then Dr. Hooper's physician had slipped away, satisfied that the two of us would not be disturbing his patient after all, a foolish assumption on his part as Holmes immediately turned away from me and entered her room. I followed, quietly remonstrating with him to allow her to sleep, only to discover Holmes had stopped just inside the door.
The low light of the room showed Dr. Hooper's sleeping face, so much younger looking in repose that she appeared nearly a child, especially with the blankets covering her petite form and her hair loose around her face. The expression on Holmes' face as he beheld her, however, was far from paternal. Indeed, I have rarely seen him so implacable, so resolute, as he was in that moment. It was as if he was memorizing her features, storing them in his mind in order to better remember what it was he stood to lose if the bomber was not stopped.
I felt those things, that night, and then felt foolish for thinking such sentimental thoughts about a man who had endeavored throughout his life to divest himself of the softer emotions. I once again thought of The Woman, and how her death had affected him, and hoped that Dr. Hooper's fate would be a kinder one.
"She was the target, Watson," Sherlock said softly. "Not the lab, and not because she is a suffragette. That bombing last night was the smokescreen, meant to make this attack seem part of a larger pattern."
Then he turned and pushed past me, out of her room, and as always, I found myself hurrying after him, both perturbed and oddly comforted by Holmes' statements.
The game, as he would undoubtedly have put it, was on.