Warnings this chapter: whumpage.
CHAPTER 7
SCHADENFREUDE
Lestrade bristled when Mycroft "suggested" that they meet at his office, but relented immediately when he thought about John. After all, Mycroft did have access to certain information that the mere NSY did not. And there was that little crisis in Dubai that was keeping Mycroft close to his desk.
Sherlock, beyond agitated, paced the room like a caged tiger. He was somewhat mollified that Lestrade had encouraging information from the evidence collected at the gymnasium.
"We recovered dozens of prints from that sodding chair, but—here's the good news—one matched the partial from the tie wrap. Lowlife minor criminal, name of Phil Egerton. No Afghan ties, but he matches the physical description of the bloke with Loman in the taxi. And…the prints on medical pen thing matched Loman."
"All three incidents are linked, brother. Since you have no ties to Loman or Afghanistan, you were apparently targeted only to get to John."
The softest of sighs escaped from Sherlock, while Lestrade nodded soberly.
"So, we are left with confirmation that Loman is back in country. Illegally, I might add. Loman has a valid passport—he is, after all, a British national—but there is no record of his re-entry under his own name. He didn't dare. He would have been arrested at the airport since there are still charges pending."
"Could have had help," Lestrade offered. "If he got out of prison twelve years early, he couldn't have done it alone. I'm guessing he had a network of connections, yeah? Maybe even someone at the Border Agency."
Mycroft spoke into his intercom.
"Anthea—"
"Yes, sir," she answered immediately.
"Find out who cleared one Dr. Alec Loman through customs—it may not have been under that name, but we have his photo and prints–and have that person picked up for questioning."
He clicked off.
"Well, that's something, at least?" Lestrade looked to Sherlock hopefully, but he remained silent. He and Mycroft exchanged glances.
"Sherlock," Mycroft said sternly, penetrating his armour.
"Yes, yes, listening. Decent information, but utterly useless if we do not know his whereabouts."
He grew thoughtful for a moment, then turned on his heels and quickly made for the door.
"Oi, where are you going?"
"Where you can't."
oOo
"Trevor was easier to get to than you," Loman drawled. "I followed her, and once I saw that she went to an acupuncturist, well… all I needed to do was get to her diary to see when her next appointment was. That's one of the things I keep Egerton around for. He's ace at housebreaking. And then I made up some cock-and-bull story, 'a fire at the clinic, so sorry, Mrs Trevor but Dr Shapiro asked if you would like me to make a house call on her behalf' and she's thrilled about the good customer service."
"The bitch recognized me right away, but luckily—well, it wasn't luck at all, it was part of the plan—I had a syringe. One needle mark lost among the acupuncture marks. It was so easy to make it look like a natural death. No ligature marks, no gag. Ever use Thiopental, Watson?"
John's face betrayed nothing of the truth he knew.
"You, on the other hand… You had quite the reputation as a marksman in the Army, yet you weren't armed."
"I don't carry a gun around like an extra dick."
"Perhaps you should. The streets aren't safe."
John had a sudden realization. "Sherlock. The gymnasium."
"Of course Sherlock, too. Took you long enough to work it out. Your brain has been muddled by the pain."
John found himself chuckling grimly.
"Something funny?"
"Sherlock was wrong. He was a lure."
"Well, of course he was. Until someone interfered. No matter. Only delayed me by a day. I couldn't care less if anyone thinks your death is murder. After all, you work in a dangerous profession with a lot of enemies."
He walked across the room and brought the rolling cart with him.
"Those earlier needles were just a distraction, Watson," Loman said. "Here's where it starts to get interesting. Have you ever treated a patient with trigeminal neuralgia?"
I am so fucked, John thought, trying not to imagine the next round of pain, which was, frankly, unimaginable.
Loman must have seen the fear flash across John's face because nodded with satisfaction.
"You should listen to this, Phil. You might learn something…
Phil hovered closer like an over-eager student.
"Experts call it the most excruciating pain there is. Patients agree. I had such a patient once. The gentlest breeze across his cheek could trigger the most exquisite pain. He begged for death rather than face another episode. I wonder if John Watson will be any different."
"Jesus, you are one sick bastard."
"I may be, but I'm rich and free. And you're not."
Loman gave a jerk of his head to his right, and Egerton came forward.
John felt a smug satisfaction at the sight of the bandage on his arm. He cursed the man six ways from Sunday and fervently hoped that he got a massively resistant infection from the bite. If he got of out this—when he got out of this, he corrected himself—the stray thought occurred that he would have to be tested for AIDS and hepatitis, and…
His thoughts were interrupted when Loman growled, "Hold him! And for Christ's sake, do it right this time."
Those two enormous hands were on him again, holding his head and jaw rock steady. John's head wouldn't budge; he was immobilized.
Loman approached, needle in hand. Using his left hand to palpate the area around the ink mark, his right hand pushed the needle into John's trigeminal nerve.
John gasped with the suddenness of a pain so horrific that it felt like being electrocuted. John screamed, pain whiting out his vision, overwhelming all other senses until nothing existed but the tortuous stimulation of a single nerve. He continued screaming, not even hearing himself, while his mind screamed out a desperate plea…
"Sherlock!"
oOo
Sherlock walked into the shadows of the Underground station. Two teenagers beckoned him closer, out of site of the CCTV cameras. The boy, barely 17, stood protectively next to the slightly younger girl. Their too-light jackets couldn't hide their chill.
Sherlock handed Paul several £50 notes. The teens' eyes widen.
"Mr Holmes, we couldn't," Linda said.
"This is more than—"
Sherlock held his hand out to halt their protests. "This is the most important information you will ever—." His voice caught.
The two teens hid their surprise at the unheard of show of emotion.
Sherlock cleared this throat. He spoke with intensity but without a shred of emotion. "I'm looking for a disgraced doctor named Loman. Recently back in the country. I need his alias, a street name, anything. He's working without a license, probably dealing with highly disreputable people who have the means to pay him, and pay him quite well."
Paul looked nervous. Linda looked terrified.
"Come on. You hear things. How would someone find a doctor who didn't ask questions, who was working illegally? Who would someone go to if they were shot and didn't want the police involved? If they broke an arm during a robbery and didn't want to go to A&E?"
"Mr Holmes, could be dangerous, givin' up a name like that. If the word got out—."
"You know me better than that."
The boy looked resolute as he handed the money back to Sherlock.
Sherlock ignored it. Fear had them immobilized. He had to hook them on an even stronger emotional level. Guilt.
"Who took care of you when you broke your hand, Paul? Linda, when you had pneumonia?
"Go on, you know! Dr Watson, your mate. We all like Dr Watson," Linda said.
"Yes, and Loman has taken him."
The teens were silent but outraged.
"Loman has already killed two people. And Dr Watson will be next. He may not have much time."
The young man squared his shoulder, and looked Sherlock steadily in the eye. "His street name's The Fixer."
"He has a small surgery, works out of an old abandoned building some big company owned," Linda added helpfully.
"The name of the company? Either of you! The name? Think!"
"I dunno!" the lad stuttered, a look of anxiety overtaking his face. "I don't remember."
"I've 'eard it on the news before," Linda said.
"Would you know it if you heard it?"
Linda nodded. "Think so."
"Was it BurtonHall?"
oOo
Mycroft and his younger brother strode quickly into the lobby of New Scotland Yard and toward the security screening area. Sherlock emptied his pockets and was gestured to come through the metal detector.
He froze.
"You don't!" Mycroft whispered.
"I do," was the quiet aside.
Through the mystery of the brothers' mental shorthand, Mycroft immediately grasped the situation. He accidentally bumped into Sherlock, covertly moving his hand under Sherlock's jacket and palming the Browning, putting it into his own suit pocket.
"One moment," Sherlock said to the officer. "A few things left in the pockets."
Mycroft stepped ahead and went through the detector, setting off every alarm known to Christendom. No fewer than five guns were trained on them.
Sherlock and Mycroft held their hands out wide.
"Oh, I do apologize. That would be mine," Mycroft said, oh so casually. "I.D. top left pocket."
He touched his lapel with two fingers.
"Don't move. I'll get it, sir," the police officer said.
Mycroft tilted his head in that way he had of stopping people dead in their tracks.
"I don't think so," he said, his voice icy with authority: no one touched Mycroft Holmes. He slowly moved his fingers to his pocket, took out his identification, and held it out for all to see.
It raised several eyebrows, but not as many as when Mycroft carefully removed the Browning from his pants pocket, its trigger guard held securely between his forefinger and thumb.
"So sorry, sir."
"Apologies, Mr Holmes."
"We didn't realize, sir."
Sherlock somehow kept his face neutral as they were escorted around the security lines and into the corridor, apologies trailing behind them.
"What were you thinking?" Mycroft demanded when they reached the lift.
"I was thinking that my partner was kidnapped and that I should consider protecting myself!"
"Protect yourself or arm yourself with intent?"
Sherlock didn't reply.
oOo
"Well, this is a bit off pistel, eh?" Lestrade said.
Mycroft watched the information download on his computer. "The gall of using one of BurtonHall's own buildings."
"Clever," Sherlock nodded.
Lestrade read from another screen. "It's been on the market for over two years. Horrid part of town, not surprised. But, look here, tipped their hand—the place is using a lot of electricity and water for an empty building."
"Easy enough to tap into the electrical lines, open the main water line."
"And BurtonHall is so massive one hand doesn't know what the other is doing. It could take them months to realize someone's squatting," Mycroft said.
"I'll ready a team," Lestrade said.
"You can't. You only have hearsay and 'possibilities'. You don't have Reasonable Suspicion."
"Neither do you."
"True, but I don't need it."
"Sherlock—"
"He'll kill John if you go in there in force."
If he isn't dead already, Sherlock thought, then disregarded it. It is imperative to think of this as a rescue mission, not a recovery mission, Sherlock reminded himself, desperately but ineffectively trying to use pure reason.
Lestrade started to object, but Sherlock cut him off.
"It will take your people 70 seconds to gain entry. Mycroft's people, 30. It will take Loman 10 seconds to kill John."
No immediate counter-arguments were raised.
"Going out to think," he said, clicking his final 'k' in a habit Mycroft found particularly vexing. "Give me an hour, and we'll meet back here. Have a plan ready, or I will go in alone."
Lestrade nodded.
An hour later, Sherlock hadn't returned.
Mycroft and Lestrade knew precisely what he'd done.
oOo
John's mind was drifting. That was a good thing. He could separate himself from the pain, dissociate, locking the pain into a corner of his brain where it couldn't hurt him. He'd done it before in Afghanistan when the pain in his shoulder wreaked havoc with his body and mind. He had to concentrate on not concentrating to make it happen.
He allowed himself to drift. He steadied his breathing as if preparing himself for sleep. He could feel his mind slip into the comfort of alpha waves, and waited. It didn't take long. Memories and images bubbled to the surface.
Breathlessly laughing in the hallway. God, it was the first time he'd laughed since his return to London. Then running, actually running for the first time since the desert, following this manic, wild child with the brilliant brain that he'd just met. Sherlock was a madman, and infuriating, and exhilarating, and unequivocally unique. John was awed by his genius, upset by his rudeness, shocked by his insensitivity, and touched by his well-hidden vulnerability. No one could make him roll his eyes in frustration or make him laugh as much as this man named Sherlock Holmes who had somehow transformed him and brought him back to life.
He'd thought at first that there was so much in Sherlock's brain that it left no room in his heart. Yet he'd seen the man soften—no, that wasn't quite the word. The idea of a softer Sherlock was ludicrous, an oxymoron. Sherlock's heart, whether by choice or in reaction to calls of Freak and other mistreatment, had become encased in permafrost. But somehow their partnership, their friendship, had caused the permafrost to thaw just enough to crack open Sherlock's heart, to allow part of himself out and welcome John in…
And in doing so, holding up a mirror to John, each changing the other's reflection.
He knew that despite the insanity of their lives, he would follow this idiot, this amazing Sherlock Holmes, to the ends of the earth. And that he would spend the rest of his life being amazed.
Pain broke through, rousing him again. God, he wanted to sleep. He was beyond thirsty, the sweat and shaking draining precious hydration from his body. Loman frowned as he saw a shiver shake John's frame. He felt John's face; it was cold and diaphoretic. He flashed his pen light in each eye. Pupils were dilated, obscuring most of the blue iris.
"Are you getting shocky, Watson?"
"Sod off." John's voice was raspy and weak.
"Phil, the real science here is pushing the human body just to the edge, then pulling back. Did you know that pain alone can cause shock? It's complicated, but as you can see from the Captain's state, he's losing fluids, causing a reduction in volume…well, no need to go into all of that. Enough pain can render a person unconscious, and if unconscious they can't feel anything, and where's the fun in that? Watson has just about reached that point, so it's time to ease up, let his body rest for a while before continuing… Besides, I'm starving."
Loman crossed the room and brought back an I.V. pole and the cart.
"Phil, quiz time."
"What?"
"If you're going to help me with my endeavours, you're going to have to remember the basics. Treatment for shock?"
"Uh…What's that phrase? Something about temperature. Oh, right…'Preserve body temperature'."
"Excellent. Blanket?"
Phil brought over one of the blankets from the litter. Loman took it and draped it over John's legs, then began prepping John's arm.
"Why the hell are you giving him a blanket?" Egerton said.
Loman just smiled.
"Watson, how about a little NS for incipient shock?"
He hung the bag of normal saline on the pole.
"Of course, labels can sometimes be switched. You can never be too sure what's dripping into your arm, can you? Medical mistakes happen all the time." He tsked. "So if there's a little iatrogenic damage done here…well, sue me."
John knew Loman was messing with his head, but he was lightheaded and shaking and he couldn't think of a retort, but he couldn't help tensing as Loman slid the large 18 gauge needle into his arm. John was fighting just to stay conscious. He barely heard the conversation that followed.
Phil was confused. "What the hell are you doing, Alec?" he asked, as Loman started the drip. "Are you trying to help him?"
"Hell, no. I'm trying to prolong this as long as possible."
oOo