Chapter 9: Diversions

Stepping out of the cab after another silent ride, Sherlock and John found themselves amid a sea of rubble and broken glass where the North building had once been; the aftermath of a chaotic explosion. The wreckage filled the street corner and the middle of the Business Square, forming a formidable mountain at the feet of the three remaining buildings. Two cranes from a nearby construction site had been moved to help clear the area, slowly pulling out large chunks of concrete and steel bars, but it was obvious that very little had been done. Corporate insurance agents were hanging around the area like vultures, trying to discern the damages and any missing valuables. The police men who weren't patrolling the street helped the bomb squad and paramedics climbing up and down the pile, digging through scraps for any salvageable items. What they were finding were more bodies, either crushed to death or asphyxiated under the rubble.

Sherlock strode ahead, crossing the street and quickly ducking under bright yellow police tape into the demolition site, leaving John to take in the scene. All that damage…Sherlock could very easily have been one of those bodies. He wasn't sure how Mycroft had been able to locate him so quickly, but it was a miracle. Still, that head injury worried him; even though Sherlock had been acting more normal since he had snapped out of that trance in the living room, it was only because of the excitement of a case. What would happen when he lost that? Left to his own devices, anything could happen. But John shook that off; this case had Sherlock acting more like himself, and the only option was to wait and see how things played out.

"Sherlock!" Lestrade called out, waving towards the lean figure from the middle of the wreckage pile. As Sherlock carefully stepped his way across the square, he found himself observing the detective inspector to get a sense of the progress in the investigation. The man's skin was already darkening along the lines of his t-shirt after three days under the sun, shades of sweat pooling under the detective badge he wore around his neck. Running a hand loosely through his hair, Lestrade sighed and settled into a fatigued grimace; the case was not going well then. Obviously, Sherlock's input was needed. Just before he reached Lestrade, though, something caught the corner of his eye; a blur of olive green.

"What are you doing?" Sherlock muttered under his breath, eyeing her coldly.

"Just here in case you forget anything," Alice smiled coyly, knowing her very presence annoyed him.

"I won't."

"Are you sure about that?"

"Is there not a way to shut you off?" Sherlock snapped at her, halting with irritation.

"Sherlock?" Lestrade glanced at him curiously; it seemed like Sherlock was talking to somebody, but there was nobody around relatively interesting enough for him to be conversing with. Maybe he was talking to himself? Before John, Sherlock most definitely talked to himself about the details of crime scenes and investigations. Still, there was something "off." Then again, when was there not something "off" about the fellow?

"You alright? You seem a little, erm, tense."

"I'm fine," he growled, watching as Alice coolly walked around the two and stopped behind Lestrade. Setting her dark eyes on him, she placed a finger over her lips, promising her silence; not that anybody else could hear her. This was going to be an aggravating experience, having to deal with Claireborne without anybody else being able to see her. And unlike his other distractions and mental quirks, he couldn't shut this one off.

"So, what's all this about?" John asked as he came up behind Sherlock with a huff, stepping over to the side so he could face the other two equally.

"You tell me," Lestrade replied, giving John a tired look.

John shook his head, unsure of how to answer. "I don't know; Sherlock said the bomb was a—"

"What evidence have you already gathered?" Sherlock interrupted, impatient to begin.

"Nothing since I saw you earlier today," Lestrade sighed, kicking at concrete chunk at his feet. "We're still pulling out bodies; Bomb Squad still has no idea what caused this. Any evidence left will be buried under all this, but I have no idea when we'll reach it. I was kind of hoping you remembered something."

"Oh, I have," Sherlock smirked, his eyes suddenly bright. The excitement returned, and John found his heart lifting slightly; this was the real Sherlock, the man who would give up anything for a case. Maybe Sherlock really was perfectly fine.

"Great," Lestrade gestured with a reluctant agreement; at this point, he was desperate. "Let's hear it."

Sherlock glanced once at Alice; she was calmly observant, her pale face watching him with intrigue as he began. "To start, why is there not more damage?"

"What?" John asked incredulously, his brows furrowing tightly. "Of all the things, that's your major concern?"

"With the size of the North building, the weakest point on the structure would be the lower third levels; destroying the structures there would create the most destruction through the domino effect: North collapses on East, East collapses on South, South collapses on West. But that's not the case."

"I'd say a pretty good amount of damage was done," Lestrade countered, but Sherlock ignored him.

"There were two bombs."

There was a pause as John and Lestrade took in what he said. The suggestion was beyond their scopes in the moment, just too horrific to believe. Their faces fell immediately as they tried to grasp the gravity of what had just been suggested. As he watched the changing expressions on their faces, Sherlock felt the desire to roll his eyes at their reactions, but Alice glanced at him with a cool disposition, warning him to control his impulse.

"Jesus," Lestrade muttered under his breath.

"The explosion occurred in two parts," Sherlock continued, "the lower and the upper region of the building. The first bomb was detonated in the lobby area, closest to the general public and the greatest impact to bystanders. That's why most of your witnesses only remember the initial blast; simple-minded people so traumatized by the shock that they numbed out any other stimulation. How can people be so ignorant of their surroundings? They simply need observe, but—"

"Sherlock," John scolded, warning him he was heading towards a rant.

"The bomb in the lobby went off first. But damaging the lower structures leaves the building too vulnerable; it could tilt in any direction, hitting the ground as a horizontal block. The second explosion was meant to control the wreckage; it was from higher above, more along the middle of the building. From that point, the structure would collapse vertically, compounding itself rather than affecting any of the surround buildings for maximum damage. In fact, there is hardly any damage on the East or the West building; impossible for an amateur bomb. This was absolutely brilliant," Sherlock gasped. "Don't you see it?"

Alice smirked from behind John and Lestrade's puzzled expressions. "See what?" John asked in a questionable tone.

"The explosion was a diversion."

Lestrade's jaw dropped, his hollow eyes widening as he took in the implications of the word. "You're telling me that a fifty story building was bombed, killing at least eighty people, to serve as a bloody diversion?"

"You have got to be joking," John murmured, looking around the demolished square one more time.

"No," he said bluntly. "The bomb in the lobby went off to get people out of the Business Square as soon as possible; the bomb on the middle floor went off to ensure the surrounding buildings were left unharmed. It doesn't matter what's in this rubble; what they wanted was in one of these buildings. The focus of your investigation is entirely in the wrong place."

"Where should it be then?"

"The East, West, and South Buildings. Have the corporations take account of their Intel; one of them will be missing something."

"And what would that be?"

There was a pause as John and Lestrade waited for Sherlock's revelations.

"No idea," he frowned slightly as Alice shrugged. It certainly wasn't something either of them could deduce by simply standing there. Obviously whatever it was would be highly-sensitized information with financial or political implications, but that was something he could leave to Lestrade and his detectives; he was more interested in details other than missing paperwork. With that, he turned to make his way down the pile.

"Have Bomb Squad send samples to the lab; I'll analyze them myself, as those imbeciles have proven themselves to be useless before."

"That's it?" Lestrade called after him, somewhat dazed by the daunting task that had suddenly put on his top priority. "That's all you remember?"

"That's more than enough for you to work with," Sherlock replied with a dismissive wave, leaving John and Lestrade up on the mountain of rubble with a mild feeling of discontent. After everything they had heard about the bomb's purpose, they had expected more from the brilliant detective; then again, Sherlock loved to keep them in the dark.

"He's serious" Lestrade groaned in frustration, kicking up more concrete. "That's all he's going to tell me; I hate it when he does that. Why does he always do that? I mean really, that can't be all he knows."

"It's probably not, but it's better than nothing," John said coolly, the worried expression in his eyes reminding Lestrade about the condition Sherlock was in only a few hours ago: the Sherlock with the blank eyes. Suddenly, the detective inspector felt guilty about his reaction altogether.

"Look, John," he ran a hand through his grey hair. "I'm sorry. It's just that it's been three days and we have nothing to show for it; I was really hoping Sherlock could—"

"I know," the doctor broke in, giving Lestrade a reassuring pat on his shoulder. The detective was beyond tired, and it was starting to show even through his lax nature. But there wasn't much time left between them; Sherlock was starting to reach the outer edge of the rubble. "I'll talk to him; see what else is on his mind. Just, take it easy Lestrade."

"You'll let me know if there's anything else, yeah?"

"Sure."

Lestrade watched as John chased after Sherlock, hoping for the best. It was a pause, a moment of rest for him, before he set off on the tedious task of directing corporations on Intel accounts. To be honest, it should have been the last thing on his list; Scotland Yard wanted answers on the cause of the explosion, suspects, and the motives by next week, and things already weren't looking good. But, as usual, if Sherlock said it was important, it was important. And, as usual, he had to trust the bloody bastard.

"Cornerstone!" he hollered to two of the assisting officers. "Get me a list of all the corporations in the Business Square, excluding those demolished in the North building. Russo, come with me to the West building."

"Very good," Alice teased him lightly, catching up with his deep stride. Her hair tossed lightly behind her, her body bouncing with graceful agility. "So you do remember."

"How could I remember something I never forgot?" Sherlock muttered under his breath.

"It's simple when you put it like that, but let's not forget I had to remind you of your own deductions."

"You are nothing but a reflection to my own mind," he countered, conscious not to look at her and to maintain his focus on the path in front of him. He could hear John's footsteps farther behind him, no doubt monitoring his actions from afar. The last thing he wanted was to have John know he was hallucinating. If the doctor knew about the visionary Alice, there would be no end to the medical tests and bed rest and… he held back the desire to groan at the thought of another few months under Dr. Watson's babysitting. "Besides, most of those deductions were child's play."

"Ah, but the look on their faces when you said 'diversion;' that was priceless," Alice continued. "Do you always intend to sensationalize your revelations on others?"

"I did no such thing."

"Outright announcing the bomb was a 'diversion' was a little dramatic, you must admit."

"I was simply stating the conclusion the facts ultimately led to."

"I guess it's just a force of habit, then." He could feel her grin beside him, her graceful figure walking tall; she was taunting him, almost like—

"Sherlock," John called out from behind him; he was walking faster than usual, which could only mean one thing: there was something he was looking for. So he did remember something else; something he didn't want Lestrade to know about it. While John always wondered why Sherlock withheld all the important details from the DI, the doctor could really only think one thing: good thing he wasn't Lestrade.

"Have I proven to you that my memory is beyond satisfactory yet, or shall I have to recite the medical definition of 'amnesia'?" Sherlock paused, allowing Dr. Watson to catch up to him before proceeding at the same pace.

"Erm, I'm good, thanks" he replied, somewhat rushed on his words. This was good; Sherlock was good enough to be making fun of him, but that would only last as long as the detective maintained interest. Running through his memory, he tried to recollect the important things Sherlock had said during his witness testimony; something that would spark his memory a bit further. One thing instantly burst into mind: "What about the girl?"

"Alice Claireborne."

"Yeah, her," he pushed, "what do you remember about her?"

"Enough."

"Enough for what?"

"Enough to know the obvious," said Sherlock. "She had prior knowledge of this explosion; find her, find the threads to the explosion's origins."

"She's dead, though. How exactly are we supposed to find her if she's in St. Bart's morgue?"

"I have my suspicions," he replied vaguely, watching as Alice's figure ran slightly ahead of them and towards the south exit of the Business Square.

"Right, suspicions…" John murmured under his breath; classic Sherlock.

"Look," Sherlock stopped abruptly, motioning John pause as well. Turning around himself once, the detective took three paces back and five paces to his right, practically jumping over large slabs of concrete on his way. John crossed his arms; whatever the man was doing, it was completely unbeknownst to him.

"This was where I stood when Alice Claireborne ran past me," his hand motioned towards an invisible figure rushing past. Suddenly, he leapt into a semi-sprint, running further into the mountain of crushed concrete until he froze, reaching a hand out and grasping an invisible figure. "This was where I stopped her."

John's eyes widened as he began to understand where Sherlock was going with this. Sherlock continued, "At the trajectory she was running at, the most logical assumption to make about her choice of entrance is—"

"The south exit," John completed, turning back towards the intersection of the South and West buildings. It was so obvious; of course Sherlock would figure that out. Looking back, Sherlock was grinning, knowing his point had gotten through. With that, the two exchanged a knowing glance before sprinting onwards.

When they had reached the shaded area of the south exit, breathing heavily and laughing at each other, Alice was already there, resting her back against the wall, her olive green dress contrasting against the dark window of the South building. "Took you long enough," she grinned, but Sherlock ignored her entirely. Rather, he was more interested in what she was sitting on.

"There," Sherlock huffed, pointing behind John. He turned around to see a black bicycle leaning inconspicuously against the wall. "That's it; that's how she got here."

"Are you sure?" John began to question, looking around the south exit for its potential owners. "I mean, that could be anybody's bike, so—"

But Sherlock didn't bother listening. Just as Alice hopped off the seat, he grabbed the bike off the wall, testing its brakes and wheels. "This is it."

"So where are her belongings?" Alice asked, her voice from behind him slightly resonating against the walls.

Sherlock studied the bike momentarily. The items had to be there somewhere; the girl wouldn't have had time to put her things anywhere else. It was there; he just had to find it. With that, he kicked up the bike stand and began to walk further down the south exit.

"Where are you going?" John called out.

"St. Bart's labs."

"You can't take that; that's evidence."

"Precisely," Sherlock countered, "which, by default, means Anderson will ruin it. Preemptively, I'll save the trouble and take it now."

"Alright," John sighed, "just don't let Lest—"

"Hey!" one of the patrolling police officer called out towards them. Obviously a newbie if he couldn't recognize the Sherlock Holmes, but still blatantly stupid enough to follow all orders to the exact letter. "What do you think you're doing there? This area is off limits."

"Go!" Sherlock called out, tossing the bike towards John and darting past the cop.

It had been years since Dr. John Hamish Watson had ridden a bike, and as he flung himself on top of the metal apparatus, there was the mild anxiety of chance: what if he didn't remember? But in all honesty, it was something he had never forgotten; a second later, he was flying past the cop, following Sherlock through alleyways and secret side-streets to who knows where.

As usual.