Killer
The heat of the fire was perceptible long before he even saw what Sherlock had blown up: the storage building adjacent to the eastern side of the power plant. John stopped dead in his tracks, still on the first floor. The whole building in front of him was on fire, the roof long gone with flames leaping into the sky, casting an orange glow over the wasteland and showering the area with sparks and bits of burning wood. A pungent smell hit him, making him hold his breath – whatever Sherlock had used to cause such a conflagration, the result was poisonous: he could smell burning tar, oil and solvent. John shielded his eyes and frantically searched the ground. He detected hectic activity along the eastern wall: blue lights flashing, heavily equipped men running towards the fire – no firefighters, he realized, these men were armed and moving with precision. Special forces, then.
Moran had reached the ground floor, and apparently he had seen them, too. He did not hesitate, though; instead, he changed direction, heading straight for the fire, not caring about the explosions still going on inside the warehouse. John cursed, realizing what the man had in mind: with the burning building shielding him, he intended to get as close to the wall surrounding the area as possible, to jump over it and disappear in the dark. Once beyond the wall, he was virtually unrecognisable anyway, being clad and equipped like any other soldier. John aimed his gun at him, but it was useless at such a distance, and he'd be running the risk of drawing Moran's attention – mind you, the man had a scoped rifle and was cold-blooded enough to turn around and calmly shoot him despite the imminent danger.
He kept the gun trained on Moran, just in case, but there was nothing he could do. "Damn it!" he cursed and watched as Moran slipped away, skilfully avoiding the soldiers approaching the building.
"What the bloody hell is going on here?" he muttered and briefly wondered whether the sniper had actually come for him or for Sherlock – and who the hell was Moran? But then, another thought struck him: what about the second person, hurrying towards the dead man – the one Sherlock had gone after, unarmed?
Sherlock.
He had to get to Sherlock. Jesus Christ, he was facing an enemy unarmed. Turning around, he tucked the gun away and started running – just then, another explosion ripped through the air. John felt the shockwave hit him in the back, sending him to his knees; searing heat followed and he crouched down, covering his head, until the cloud of dust and debris had settled. He heard the resounding thud of heavy objects hitting the ground, as if some giant was throwing around drums and cans. "What the hell–" he got to his feet and rushed to the window, the glass smashed by the force of the explosion, frame hanging askew.
The burning building had been blown apart completely, and John watched in amazement as oil drums rained down all over the area, sending people running for cover.
"Jesus Christ," he muttered. "Sherlock, you sure know how to stage a spectacle."
Every available fire engine in London seemed to be arriving, blue lights flashing and sirens wailing, and dozens of floodlights were being switched on. As the area lit up brigther than the day, John's heart skipped a beat, and he forgot to breathe as fear shot through his body like a current: down there, between the fire engines, was Mary's car.
It was unmistakably hers, with that unique sky blue colour and the dent in the roof from that stay in Dublin when she had parked it by the cemetery wall and kids had jumped onto it. More so, the car had definitely arrived before the fire engines, because they were just towing it out of the way; and he remembered telling her where he was going and Mary saying I'll pick you up later … and suddenly, it struck him that the tall figure hurrying towards the man Sherlock had shot had seemed strangely familiar. Oh my God, John thought, it would be just so like Mary to run to the aid of an injured man, no matter the danger. And Sherlock had gone after her.
John ran.
He was sprinting across the ground floor of the looming plant, jumping fences and leaping across holes until he reached the far side of the building, his eyes frantically searching for a sign from Sherlock or Mary.
He was already dashing out onto the wasteland, when a shot rang out, cracking through the air like a whiplash. It made him stop dead in his tracks. It had come from one floor up, not too far from where he had met Sherlock only minutes ago. How had they got up there? John turned on his heel, racing back into the building and thundering up the metal stairs, following the sounds of a muffled scream and feet kicking the ground.
He burst into a room – and almost fell: most of the floor was missing, and he all but tumbled over the safety barrier, the rickety metal bars only just saving him from a fall to the ground floor, straight into debris and broken timber. It was dark in the room, but not pitch-black, with the floodlights from below creating an eerie gloom. Panting, he regained his balance and turned to the scuffle in front of him. His blood froze; and the he yelled at the top of his voice, "Sherlock! Stop it!"
Until this day, he had always thought his worst nightmare was the one in which Sherlock stepped off the roof of St. Bart's after saying to him You think I'm a machine, see how I break. Now he knew reality was much worse.
Sherlock was killing Mary.
It was too dark to see their faces, just two shapes struggling – but there was no mistaking her voice, desperately gasping for air, and her body jerking wildly. Sherlock had pinned her to the ground, his hands around her throat, choking the life out of her, totally impervious to her dying plea for mercy.
Horrified, John lunged forward; he felt his foot stumble against something – a gun – sending it skittering across the floor. Had Mary taken the dead man's gun? John didn't care. He launched himself against Sherlock. "Sherlock, stop it! She's no enemy! Let go! You're killing her!"
Sherlock seemed completely oblivious to John's assault. It was as if he was acting on instinct, impervious to anything interfering with his intention, and his intention was to kill his opponent.
John bellowed, "Sherlock! She's my wife! You're killing her!"
It had no effect. John desperately clawed at Sherlock, shaking and even punching him, trying to break the murderous grip – to no avail. Finally, he jumped back, yanked out the gun and pressed its muzzle against Sherlock's temple. He made sure the click, indicating the weapon was ready to fire, was audible.
"Let go. Now." John's voice was perfectly calm and his hands did not shake at all.
Whether it was the determination in John's voice or the cold metal against his skin, Sherlock froze, the hands falling away from his victim. Mary gasped with a gut-wrenching sound.
"Get away from her," John ordered, and Sherlock rose with a fluent movement, instantly retreating several steps. "God, Mary!" John tucked the gun away and threw himself down next to her. He ran his hands over her body, feeling for a sign of life – and thank God, she was stirring, coughing violently and gasping for air. He helped her sit up.
"Mary, can you hear me? It's all right now, I'm here, just breathe." He felt her hands reach out, searching his face. "It's all right, you're safe, you're doing fine," he soothed, supporting her head. She whimpered and burrowed into him, still gasping for air and desperately holding on to him. "It's okay," he muttered, holding her close and rubbing her back. "It's okay now."
She couldn't speak, he realized, but her breathing was becoming less frantic and her mad pulse was slowing down. He quickly palpitated her neck, but there were no obvious injuries. "Come on, come here," he murmured, hugging her gently. "We'll get out of here in a moment," he promised. "There's an ambulance out there, and we'll take you to hospital, okay?" She was wheezing, but whimpering a response that sounded very much like protest.
"You have to get checked out, Mary," he explained calmly in his doctor's voice, "even if you're okay now, because your throat might swell and make it difficult for you to breathe later. We don't want that to happen, do we?" He didn't tell her about burst blood vessels, possible damage to her larynx or fractures of the hyoid or other bones in her neck.
She nodded, but tugged at his jacket unhappily. "Right," John muttered, "let's go."
Only now did he remember Sherlock. Cursing silently, John turned around, his arms protectively wrapped around Mary. Sherlock was standing stock still, a few steps away, nothing more than a black outline against the lights from below. Something was wrong with him; John sensed it, but could not figure out what it was. His body seemed to be taut as a bowstring, his fingers splayed as if frozen in mid-movement. John bit his lips, unsure how to react – he was overwhelmed by emotions himself, and he did not know what to make of Sherlock's violent attack on Mary. Even if he had mistaken her for an enemy, why had he not reacted to John's frantic attempts to stop him?
John's sense of priority won: right now, he needed to get Mary to the hospital and himself and Sherlock out of the danger zone. God alone knew whether Moran was still around, giving it a second try.
"Sherlock," he said, trying to sound as calm as possible. "We need to get out of here. Lend me a hand, will you?"
There was no reaction whatsoever.
"Look, we will talk about what happened later, and you sure as hell have a lot of explaining to do. But right now the only thing that matters is that we need to reach Mycroft's men. And just for the record: I'm glad you're alive."
As if on cue, he heard the shouting and trampling of soldiers drawing nearer. Strangely, this seemed to snap Sherlock out of his frozen state: startled, he moved backwards, perilously close to where the floor was missing. "Sherlock!" John rose to his feet, reaching for his friend – but suddenly, the room seemed to be struck by lightning.
A flash of light erupted, and everything went white, sending searing pain through his eyes, followed by a blast so loud it threatened to burst his ear drums. John threw himself protectively over Mary, reeling from disorientation and shock.
Stun grenade, his mind supplied, still working despite the sensory overload; he remained motionless, knowing that he wouldn't be able to hear or see for several seconds.
As soon as his senses began to return, he struggled to get to his feet, swaying dangerously, still dazed and off balance thanks to the grenade. He cursed loudly, but could barely hear himself, his voice drowned out by a shrill ringing in his head.
"You idiots!" he bellowed. "We're the good guys!" He added a few choice curses for good measure, than scrambled back to Mary. The soldiers had also thrown a flare, and the white magnesium light was illuminating her terrified face with shocking clarity. Yet, she seemed less stunned than he was, frantically pointing to where the floor was missing, desperate to tell him something; and then he understood. Sherlock was gone.
John whirled around, taking in the chasm, the shattered railing and the grenade – it must have all but hit Sherlock, throwing him off balance immediately. "Oh God, no," John breathed, rushing towards where the floor opened into a gaping hole; he fell to his knees, staring down.
Floodlights illuminated a heap of rubble with broken pieces of timber and metal sticking out; and sprawled on top of it, head lolling and face covered in blood, was Sherlock.