20 October, 05:33 GMT
Baker Street, London, United Kingdom
Tuesday began like any other Tuesday for Sherlock. He rose at half-five from a typically restless night of tossing, turning, and light sleep. At a quarter to six he was out the door with both his gym and work bags slung over his shoulder. A six-minute walk later and he was in the locker room of his gym, changing into his swimming trunks, donning his cap, and heading for the pool. By seven he was finished with his laps, showered, dressed, and on his way to the Tube station, via Costa for a coffee. At 7:27 exactly, Sherlock was in his office, checking his email. There was nothing new from John, but it had only been a day since Sherlock had sent his last note. This wasn't unusual; depending on their work schedules, sometimes nearly a week passed before Sherlock heard from John.
He had a Laboratory Methods lecture to preside over at 9:15 followed by his Urban Archaeology seminar that afternoon. After closing his email, Sherlock spent the rest of his morning busy in preparation for each. Both the lab and the seminar passed unremarkably with only the usual undercurrent of personal drama from his students; a few lied about having completed their lab reports, one young woman in his seminar had ended her relationship with her cheating boyfriend the week before, and another student was struggling to tell his parents that he had moved in with his partner.
After tea, Sherlock had a meeting with Mr. Wiggins and the other two students he was advising, followed by a faculty professional development committee meeting. Lestrade caught up with him after the meeting, inviting him to his half unpacked flat for dinner.
"So, how was your day?" asked Lestrade as he poured Sherlock a glass of wine. The merlot had been open for a few days and was beginning to turn. Sherlock wrinkled his nose, but swallowed a mouthful anyway.
"Fine. Dull." Sherlock made a circuit of the lounge, peering into open cardboard boxes that were waiting to be unpacked. He found one that contained a number of books and began to paw through them, half-heartedly glancing at the titles. "I am positive that Dante got it wrong. The seventh circle of hell is actually faculty meetings that devolve into violence after the fourth round of 'but my research budget is bigger than yours, so I deserve the bigger lab.'" The sounds of a fridge opening, clattering pots, and sizzling onions drifted from the kitchen into the lounge.
Lestrade laughed graciously and called out to Sherlock. "There's a lot of posturing, isn't there?" He stuck his head into the room and gestured at Sherlock with a wooden spoon. "But let me tell you, if you think you'll escape it at another university, you're sorely mistaken. It's the same all over." He ducked back into the kitchen.
Sherlock said nothing and choked down another sip of his wine.
"You don't mind risotto, do you?" called Lestrade.
"No, risotto's good." The smell of cooking onions and the crackle of a deglazing pan had awoken a fierce hunger in Sherlock. His caloric consumption all day had subsisted on coffee this morning, tea throughout the day, and a handful of pretzels he nicked from the staff lounge on his way to his afternoon meeting. "Do you cook often?" he asked.
"Every now and then. Probably a couple times a week? Easy stuff though, pasta, chicken, salads."
Sherlock abandoned the boxes of books and made his way into the kitchen. "I hate cooking. I can do it, obviously. Its simple enough. But I never cook for myself."
"That's not what John says," Lestrade remarked, cutting Sherlock a sideways glance and grinning. "I've heard you can barely make tea." Sherlock said nothing, picking at a spot of stuck on something on the worktop he leaned against. "Maybe you should think about some cooking lessons? You could surprise John with a meal when you see him next. That would be pretty romantic."
"I don't need cooking lessons. Anyone can follow a recipe and prepare a decent meal," said Sherlock, ending the conversation as he made a mental note to ask his landlady for a few cooking pointers. Lestrade shrugged and turned back to the sauté pan on the stove, stirring its contents slowly and methodically. Sherlock sipped again from his wine and glanced around the haphazard kitchen.
Everything about the flat screamed fresh divorcee; from the lack of care taken in the packing, to the dearth of personal items or mementos. There were no personal photos, no sentimental knick-knacks, the books were all clearly Lestrade's, and most of the furniture, kitchenware, and appliances were newly purchased.
"Go ahead and ask, if you like," said Lestrade, seemingly reading his mind. Sherlock, without any shame of being caught out, gestured around the flat with his wine glass.
"Which came first? The divorce or the job at UCL?"
"Kind of at the same time, actually. I went to Africa and we were meant to take the time apart to revaluate our relationship. When I got back, the offer from the department was waiting for me and she was not." Lestrade shrugged, his stirring hand never ceasing its movement. "It was a long time coming, to be honest. The kids are older now, and it had just become clear over the last year that things were not going to get any better."
Sherlock said nothing, allowing the silence to spin out between them. Lestrade finally laughed awkwardly. "Ah well. I'm living the life of a wrinkly old bachelor in London now. Pass me the pepper, would you? And make yourself useful. Plates are in the cupboard behind you."
Over dinner they talked about not much at all; work, departmental politics and gossip, how Lestrade was finding his new flat and neighbourhood. Eventually their bowls were empty and Lestrade was making tea.
"So are your parents still together then?" asked Lestrade, depositing the tea tray on the table between them.
"In practical terms, yes. They've been married for nearly forty-five years. In emotional terms, their marriage ended in the late eighties."
"Do they still live together?"
"My father is away more than he's at home. He travels for work, and has a mistress here in London that he lives with for a majority of the time," answered Sherlock in a pragmatic tone. "He only returns to the family home in Sussex when my mother has need of him for social events."
Lestrade gaped at him as Sherlock sipped his tea. "According to Molly, my parents' relationship is to blame for what she calls my 'emotional constipation'." Sherlock made air quotes and affected an expression to convey exactly what he thought of that.
"Well," began Lestrade. "Look. Giving relationship advice isn't really my thing. Obviously, I'm in no good place to be throwing stones. Furthermore, we're blokes, and we're British, so this conversation is already making me feel a little uncomfortable." He fiddled with his teacup on the tabletop. "But John seems like a really nice guy, and its obvious that there's something between the two of you. I just hope that neither of you are too afraid to make a go of it. We're all rooting for you—"
Sherlock rolled his eyes. This was decidedly one of the worst conversations of his lifetime. Lestrade sensed his discomfort and chuckled. "All right. I'll drop it." And he did.
Before long, Sherlock was back out on the kerb, breathing a sigh of relief and heading towards his flat. Lestrade was tolerable and tonight was the first time he gave any indication in wanting to meddle in Sherlock's life. Sherlock couldn't allow him to make a habit of it though. He'd have to discourage any further conversations pertaining to his family, romantic, or personal life.
Sherlock arrived back at his flat before Medical Mysteries came on Channel 5. He was just settling in when his mobile rang.
"Holmes."
"Sherlock."
"Lestrade? I just left there. Look, I neither want nor need any more relationship advice from you. In fact, it might be best if we keep our friendship at a more casual level—"
"Sherlock. Listen to me. Something's happened."
"What do you mean? I'm sure a good many things have happened in the twenty-five minutes since I left your flat."
"No. In Rwanda. Something's happened in Kirambo," he finished weakly. Shock left Sherlock unable to think of anything to say. Surely he had heard wrong.
"What are you on about, Lestrade?"
"There was some kind of attack in the village earlier today. I just got a message from one of my connections at the consulate in Kilgali. He wasn't able to give me many details, but a militia group from the DRC came across the border and attacked the village." He didn't wait for Sherlock to ask. "I don't know anything about John or the hospital."
Sherlock's heart was pounding and a jittery burst of adrenaline bubbled up from his gut. "I have to go," he said abruptly.
"Why don't you come over here while we wait for more information. I've got a few calls out—"
"No," Sherlock cut him off without hesitation. "I have to go," and he disconnected the call. Without pause, he rang Mycroft.
"And to what do I owe the pleasure of a call from you this evening, Sherlock?"
"Something's happened in Rwanda. I need to know what's going on."
"In Kigali?" Mycroft's tone was instantly grave.
"Kirambo."
"Let me look into it. I need a couple minutes and I'll ring you back," and Mycroft rang off.
It was the longest twelve minutes of Sherlock's life. He paced his flat, going from lounge, to kitchen, the office, and ending in his bedroom. Standing in the middle of his bedroom he felt lost and unsure. John might be in danger. He might be…dead. Suddenly all of the things that Sherlock should have done before he left Rwanda, all of the things that he should have said, echoed in his brain. He sat down heavily on his bed and covered his mouth with shaking hands. Half a minute passed and Sherlock felt he would go out of his mind with inactivity. He stood, strode to his closet, and pulled down his suitcase from where he had stowed it two months prior. He had begun tossing a hodgepodge of clothes into the open case—pants, socks, random shirts, far too many pairs of trousers—when there was a cursory rap at the front door before he heard it open.
"Sherlock?" It was Mycroft. It must be bad if he came over in person. And in record time too—his flat in Knightsbridge was a seventeen-minute drive on a good day. Sherlock slammed his dresser drawer shut just as Mycroft appeared in his bedroom doorway. "Sherlock."
"Can you get me a flight to Kigali? As soon as possible, of course. It would be best if I could get directly to Cyangugu, but I can arrange something once I arrive if you can only get me as far as Kigali." Sherlock darted into the loo to grab a few things off of the sink. "Do you have some kind of dossier made up?" He brushed past Mycroft still standing in the doorway. His passport was somewhere in the lounge, maybe under those papers he had tossed on the desk earlier? Sherlock rooted around the desk, tossing books, journals, and papers hither and yon. "No reports? Files?" he queried, without even glancing back at Mycroft. "I guess you can ride with me to the airport and tell me what you've found out on the way. Is your car still here? Or should I call for—"
"Sherlock. Be still." Mycroft brought him to a halt with a firm hand on his shoulder. Sherlock tried to throw him off, but his brother's hand tightened his grip, forcing him to cease the pillaging of his desk and straighten up. The pause in his frenetic motions however, did not mean an end to his swirling thoughts.
"We don't have time to waste, Mycroft," Sherlock struggled in his brother's firm grasp.
"Sherlock, brother, be still for just a moment and I will tell you what about I know about Dr Watson."
Under different circumstances Sherlock might have been dismayed that Mycroft had so easily pinpointed the target of his fear. That Sherlock had been so utterly transparent might have been frustrating and disconcerting, but in this moment, he couldn't bring himself to care. Instead, he allowed Mycroft to lead him to the kitchen table and push him gently into one of the chairs.
"Now then," began Mycroft. He flitted around the kitchen, pulling down mugs, filling the kettle, depositing the sugar and milk onto the tea tray. "The attack in Kirambo came without warning. Our intelligence in that area is light, given the remoteness of the location. We believe the Union des Forces Dėmocratiques pour la Liberation du Congo are responsible, but I have not been able to confirm that."
"John said they had left the area," interrupted Sherlock. "They had never even crossed over the border into Rwanda."
"They had appeared to retreat, that is correct. Our interests in that area of the country, I regret to say, are minimal, and therefore not as much attention is devoted to that region as is perhaps advisable. The UFDLC has not released a statement affirming as such, but their recent actions point to a desire to continue the work begun by their Hutu predecessors."
"This is related to a twenty year old genocide?"
"It appears so. Following the defeat of the Hutu majority government in Kigali in July 1994 by the Rwandan Patriotic Front, many of the remaining Hutu aggressors fled to the Democratic Republic of the Congo, or as it was called then, Zaire. They set up refugee camps, regrouped, and planned to finish the work they had begun. Fortunately, between disease and squalid conditions in the camps, as well as incursions by the new Rwandan government against the remaining Hutu militant groups in the camps, much of the whispers of continued genocide were quashed."
Mycroft paused in his political history lesson to rise from the table and make two cups of tea. Sherlock sat silently, his elbows braced on his knees and his hands clutched his head. This was insensate, them sitting here, calmly (at least on the part of Mycroft) discussing central African politics, when John's fate was unknown. Finally, Mycroft returned to the table, tea tray in hand, and resumed his seat.
"There have been a number of conflicts between the Congolese and Rwandan governments in the subsequent years. The First Congo War involved rebel groups propped up by the Rwandan government seeking to oust the Congolese dictator Mobutu, who fled into exile in '97. Since then, Rwanda has fallen out with the DRC government, and while relations remain mostly stable between the neighbouring countries, there is no love lost. Occasionally, militant groups out of the DRC have attacked across the border, in the name of their former Hutu leaders, the interference of the Rwandan government on their affairs, or—"
"Will you get to the bloody point already, Mycroft!" Sherlock shouted, springing to his feet and jostling the table, causing his still full teacup to slosh into the saucer. "I don't care about this, any of it. I don't care about a decades old conflict, or your failure to keep tabs on a region of the world that has some of the highest numbers of British aid workers stationed there." Sherlock began to pace the room, making tight turns by the quietly humming refrigerator and then again by the doorway into the lounge. Mycroft watched him with narrowed eyes.
"The only words I am interested in hearing out of your overlarge mouth is whether or not John is dead or alive, and if, by some miracle of god, it is the latter, then what you are doing to bring him home."
Silence filled the kitchen following Sherlock's shouted words. Mycroft continued to regard him with a look of incredulity tinged with alarm. Finally, finally, he spoke.
"Let us ignore for the moment, brother, the fact that you just invoked the omnipotence of a god that I have heard you, on several occasions, denounce with Dawkins-esque vehemence. Let us also set aside your attack of my office and our alleged inability to protect citizens of the crown." Mycroft stood, drawing himself to his full height and straightening his waistcoat.
"My office is, at this very moment, attempting to ascertain Dr Watson's current status. I had to scramble a team of SAS forces out of an ongoing and very delicate situation Libya to get me information and begin an evacuation."
"So you don't know anything then," Sherlock sneered. "You don't know the motive or the individuals behind the attack. You don't know if British citizens were targeted or simply caught in the crossfire. You don't know the status of said British citizens or the other WHO staff at the hospital." Oh of all the times to catch Mycroft in the dark about something. Normally he would have loved to hear Mycroft admit that his reach wasn't quiet as far as he would have people believe, but in this instance, Sherlock couldn't muster up the energy to gloat.
Mycroft caught up his coat from where it was draped over a chair in the lounge. "Get your things," he said, gesturing towards Sherlock's bedroom. "We'll wait for information back at my flat and then formulate a plan." With two long fingers, Mycroft plucked the illusive passport from the mess on Sherlock's desk and tossed it to him. "I can see that leaving you to sit here idle is inadvisable. I fail to understand what you think you can do that the SAS would be incapable of handling," he said as he pulled on his coat. "But, if I've learned anything from being your brother these past decades, it is that keeping you from something you love is a losing battle." Mycroft pulled open the front door. "I'll meet you down in the car. Don't dawdle."
It had been two hours since they had arrived at Mycroft's insufferably posh flat. In that time, Sherlock had insulted, whined, and threatened Mycroft to the point that Mycroft had handed him a half-empty packet of cigarettes and pointed him to the back garden, warning him not to get any ash or flick cigarette butts in his new koi pond.
"Miyoshi will have your head," he had warned.
Alone in the walled garden, Sherlock might have smoked them all, lighting one from the dwindling end of another. But as it was, he hadn't smoked in six months, and after just two, his head was buzzing and his stomach threatening to expel half-digested risotto into Miyoshi's pond. So instead, he held an unlit cigarette under his nose and inhaled the scent of the rolling papers and tobacco, before expelling a breath into the cooling night air. He lay back on a cushioned chaise, staring up at the few stars he could see through London's light pollution. It was nearing two in the morning, and Sherlock watched as the moon sank behind the trees in Hyde Park.
In the hours since entering Mycroft's office, Sherlock's mind had quieted a bit. Panicking over John's welfare was accomplishing nothing except giving Mycroft a bigger glimpse into Sherlock's heart, something that under normal circumstances would have been terrifying. Furthermore, Mycroft was right. There was nothing that Sherlock could do, and attempting to craft a plan of salvation from the extremely limited information they had would be futile.
So instead, during these waiting hours, Sherlock examined his heart. Since learning of the attack and being faced with the possibility of John's death, Sherlock had been frantic. His nerves were electrified and he couldn't settle. He felt as though he had drunk a gallon of coffee or smoked another eight cigarettes. He was experiencing the very strange sensation of feeling as though his very flesh might be torn apart by the strength of his emotions. Pacing, smoking, shouting at Mycroft—none of these seemed to calm him and he thought he very well may die from the anxiety he was experiencing.
These feelings were so violent, so strong; certainly stronger than anything he had ever felt before. There was no comparison between the vehemence of these feelings and those of solving a particularly interesting case, or brushing back that last layer of dirt and uncovering a perfectly intact skull on a dig. Was this a true indicator of his feelings for John? Faced with the thought of a world without the man and Sherlock felt as though he would never been sane again.
Sherlock was struggling to think beyond the next minute. Despite the fact that he was so Type A he couldn't live minute to minute, he could not bring himself to think ahead to what he might do tomorrow. What if John was dead? What if he was alive and was hiding in a storage closet somewhere in hospital? What if he had been taken by the rebel group and was being held hostage in some mountain rebel camp? Sherlock couldn't even begin to think of what he might do in any of these circumstances. And if he saw John again, if John was rescued and they were reunited, how did all of this change their reunion? Their future together?
"Sherlock," Mycroft startled him out his overwrought musings and Sherlock looked over to see him silhouetted in the doorframe that lead into the house. "Come inside. We should have news any moment."
Mycroft, his ever-present assistant, and three other individuals were seated around Mycroft's teak dining table. To one end of the large table sat a triangular conference phone, Mycroft and his compatriots gathered around it. One woman was leaning over a map of central Africa, pointing out possible retreat routes. Sherlock paced around the perimeter of the dining room, the fingers of his right hand drumming on his chin in anxiety, while he continued to clutch the unlit cigarette in his right.
"This is charlie-echo-5-1-3, head of operation alpha-whiskey-hotel-oscar signaling in from Kibogora Hospital," a voice crackled out of the speakerphone. Sherlock immediately ceased his pacing and turned towards Mycroft across the table. He gripped the ornately carved rail and spindles of the chair in front of him.
"This is Greywolf, come in, charlie-echo," Sherlock's mind surfaced enough from its miasma of anxiety and fear to snort aloud at Mycroft's code name. Mycroft shot him a reproving glare. Since childhood, he had always been obsessed with wolves, bemoaning the fact that there had not been any wild wolves in Great Britain since the time of Henry VII.
"This is not a coded mission," continued Mycroft, speaking to the disembodied voice. "All parties present on my end have the appropriate security clearance. You may speak freely."
"As you say, sir," replied charlie-echo. "So our chopper just dropped us a few kilometres from the front entrance of hospital. Infrared indicates that those left in the building alive are in a weakened state." Sherlock's knuckles turned bone white as gripped the back of the chair.
"Proceed with caution, lieutenant. We're looking for hospital staff working with the World Health Organization, particularly one Dr John Watson, a British citizen and former Captain in the RAMC."
"Physical description?" charlie-echo asked. Everyone at the table but Mycroft turned to look at Sherlock.
"Sandy blonde—" began Sherlock
"35 years of age. Height is 168 centimetres, weight: 66 kilos," Mycroft was reading from an open file folder laying on the tabletop. Sherlock could see an official photograph peeking out from under a stack of papers. He ached with anxiety and longing. "Dark blonde hair, blue eyes." Mycroft's eyes flicked up and caught Sherlock's gaze. He lifted a querying brow and Sherlock nodded tightly.
"Heard, sir. We'll let you know what we find."
"Actually, lieutenant," broke in the woman with the map. "Stay on radio and report as you search. We're also looking for any evidence indicative of the rebels, or where they might have gone."
"Heard," repeated charlie-echo. He was silent for nearly a minute, but rustling and brushing noises could be heard through the speaker. Then, quiet breathing. "We are approaching a door around the back of hospital," charlie-echo whispered. More rustling noises and then a solid thud. "Okay, we're inside. Still not seeing much on the infrared. I suspect the rebels are gone."
"That confirms the intelligence we have gathered," answered one of the other men at the table. "Satellite photos show them crossing the boarder near Kagano, making their way up the coast, via a few villages and Kibogora, then continuing north before crossing back over Lake Kivu from a village west of Kayove."
Sherlock let the details flow over him. He would worry about who was behind the attack if it turned out they still had John. In the meantime, he held his breath until he grew dizzy, blowing it out slowly and feeling slightly more in control of himself.
"Sir—" charlie-echo's voice sounded tight, but that was its only betray of emotion. "Requesting a wet team be sent to Kibogora hospital. It appears they locked or barricaded all points of egress and executed all of the patients." Sherlock heard charlie-echo sending the rest of his team out to search for survivors.
"Any sign of the WHO or other hospital staff?" asked Mycroft, his eyes once again flicking up to Sherlock. He couldn't recall ever seeing such a look of sympathy on Mycroft. It was subtle, but it was there.
"We've encountered a few individuals in lab coats, but so far they all appear to be Rwandan," charlie-echo paused. "I've got a live one!" he called out to someone on his end. "A civilian—a patient," this was directed to Mycroft it seemed.
"Do what you can for any survivors you find," barked Mycroft. He looked to his assistant who was talking quietly on her mobile in the corner of the room. She nodded. "There's a team on their way from Kigali and another from Nairobi. You'll have support in an hour. Keep looking for Dr Watson and the rest of the WHO team."
"All right," said charlie-echo. There was a rustling noise and an exhale that sounded like he was standing. The sound of broken glass crunching underfoot crackled out of the speaker. "I'm out in the reception area…coming around to the check in desk…okay." A heavy exhale. "Hey Sully, give me a hand over here!" charlie-echo shouted away from his mic. "I've got four possible WHO staff…all…deceased." There were a few grunts from charlie-echo, possibly as he crawled around checking for pulses.
"Can you i.d. them?" asked Sherlock, before he could stop himself. Johnjohnjohnjohnjohn.
"Yeah. Late forties, male, Middle Eastern, possibly Iranian. Caucasian female, dark hair, mid-to late thirties. Caucasian male, early forties, dark hair, glasses. Another Caucasian female, blonde hair, probably mid thirties. The last one has a name badge on, says 'Taylor'."
"Oh, Adelaide," breathed Sherlock. He hadn't known her well, but he knew that she and John were close. John had mentioned in one of his last emails that she would be heading back to Melbourne in just a couple of weeks.
"Call the director of the Central African Office at the World Health Organization," Mycroft turned to his assistant. "Let him know I'll be in touch with him shortly. If he sends over files of everyone currently stationed at Kibogora, I'll have our men i.d. the bodies on site." She nodded and left the room, already speaking into her phone.
"My men have found a few more possible WHO personnel," said charlie-echo. "But no one matching your description of Dr Watson." Sherlock breathed, oxygen rushing into his lungs so quickly he felt a flash of dizziness.
"How many survivors?" asked Mycroft.
"Looks like nearly ten."
"And deceased?"
"I'd say close to ninety. Maybe more," intoned charlie-echo.
"Shit," muttered someone seated at the dining table.
"As I said, it appears they came in with little warning, barred the exits, and executed everyone, or nearly everyone.
"What about the staff quarters?" Sherlock said to himself.
"Sherlock?" Mycroft looked up.
"Have they searched the rest of the compound? The staff quarters?" Sherlock spoke half to Mycroft, half to charlie-echo.
"I dispatched two of my men when we arrived. They just radioed to say those buildings are clear."
"If they took Dr Watson, its likely they took others as well," said the woman gesturing to the map. "They could be anywhere by now."
"Are we saying this is a hostage situation?" asked one of the others.
"Without knowing who was taken, we can't assume that with any certainty."
"What about the possibility that they escaped? We need to start combing the mountains looking for them."
"Wait, why is this on us to stage a rescue mission? One British doctor doesn't mean that we're on the hook for this."
"Enough," Mycroft barked out, bringing silence to the group. "I told the WHO that we would take the lead on this. No one here wants to wait for the UN to decide that they're going to mobilize a few security forces. We'd be waiting weeks for that." Everyone seated at the table exchanged a look.
"Lieutenant," said Mycroft to the speakerphone. "Your support from Kigali is ten minutes out. When they arrive, take a team into the village and find out what you can. We need to know whether the missing hospital staff fled or were taken by the rebels. There are medics coming who will stabilize and arrange transport for the survivors."
"Heard. I'll contact you again when we've reached the village," charlie-echo signed off and there was silence in the room once more.