DCI Chris McCullough liked to think that he always got his man. He'd already been so close with this one. He didn't mind if the man he caught was Sherlock Holmes or someone he'd made up, or a freaking fairy-tale.
All he cared about was locking someone up for this bomb plot. And taking the credit. As far as he was concerned, Mycroft could shove his umbrella up his -
Beep-beep.
Right now there was only one thing standing between him and the suspect.
A bright red Toyota 4x4 was parked at an awkward angle across the lane, blocking the way to their ultimate destination. A youthful, forty year-old man had the hood up and was leaning over the engine, deep in concentration.
"Police, get out of the way!" McCullough leaned out of his open window.
The stranded driver looked up. "Oh, sorry. It's the radiator."
As they spoke, one of the uniforms got out of the next police car and went over to the Toyota. "Is this your vehicle, sir?"
"Yes. Ever so sorry officers."
What was this buffoon playing at? Was that a… was that sarcasm?
Then the uniform looked back at McCullough. "We could get ten of the men and lift it sir - "
"No time." McCullough thumped on the outside of his door as a signal to the other police cars behind him. The uniform jogged back to his vehicle, leaving the driver of the Toyota smirking and leaning on his bumper with folded arms.
McCullough signalled to the convoy with a flailing arm, back up a bit and turn left…
Then he swung the steering-wheel around violently, intending to drive right over the low hedge and take them all for a drive down the beach. He got stuck on the hedge and cursed to himself as he changed gear and revved it up.
This was exactly why he worked in the city.
David watched the police convoy destroy the farmer's hedge and proceed down the beach, albeit at a much slower pace, their wheels sinking in the post-tidal sand.
Oh, well, delayed them a bit.
At the other end of the repair bay there was a door marked 'Plant Room'. Sherlock pushed it cautiously, only just getting his breath back. One hand rubbed his throat. He was sure some of his hair had been ripped out; his scalp smarted, but he didn't have time to bother checking for blood.
The door was unlocked. It creaked on its neglected hinges as he stepped down onto a metal staircase. Below him, in the near dark, steam rose from a maze of fuel tanks, pipes and generators.
He called out, "you're not playing by the rules."
His voice echoed around the cavernous basement. No answer.
The stairs clanged under his footsteps as he descended into darkness. There could be anything down there; contamination, more bodyguards, the dispersal device itself.
He reached into his pocket. The right hand hip pocket contained his iPhone, the left, his makeshift alpha detector and a knife. He used the burner cell to test the galvanised railing as he descended. Nothing yet. They must know what they're doing, otherwise he'd have noticed symptoms in his adversary when they grappled in the security office.
He reached the bottom and pocketed the handset. "What's your real name?"
The question hung in the damp air and echoed off the grimy walls. Sherlock could just about see the other end of the basement. There were a lot of places to hide in amongst the huge pipes. They once contained things like compressed air, water and propane for welding. A boiler to the right of the stairs came to life and started emitting a low roaring sound.
Slowly, his prey emerged from behind one of the pipes. The weak emergency lights cast down on his face like a grotesque gargoyle. He took his stance about twenty feet from Sherlock.
"Danijel Jokic," he said heavily, with ceremony. He looked down to the left. "Doesn't look like much does it?"
Sherlock followed his gaze to a device on the litter-strewn workman's bench against the wall. It was not your typical bomb. A mass of wires plugged into a jacket of plastic explosives surrounding what he knew to be a lozenge of pure polonium 210. He knew the exact dimensions of the material because it had been taken from Jane Doe's thigh wound. The payload was suspended by springs in a cage of welded metal struts. The whole thing was smaller than a picnic cool-box.
Sherlock saw an alternative reality of Jokic's plan playing out. The device would be secured to the underbelly of the chopper - range, about a hundred miles. It would be released over the city and detonated by mobile phone. Debris and particles of polonium would shower down into the weather system, precipitating a radioactive rain. There would be no way of controlling where it landed; no take back; no crossed fingers and hope to die. Everything within the 'two square miles' would be contaminated. It would be a humanitarian and economic disaster of epic proportions. Jokic would get away.
That was what could have happened, but Sherlock had made sure this would play out a little differently.
Jokic reached out and flicked on a dusty 1970's Sony turntable on the bench next to the dispersal device. The needle lifted and moved over the disc, then finally dropped down into the groove. Sherlock shifted his weight to his other foot, unsure what was going through his enemies mind. He was truly insane and therefore unpredictable.
The tinny speakers started up with beautiful Aretha singing 'Never Let Me Go'.
Oh crap, Sherlock blinked, he's going to kill me.
Just let me love you tonight
Forget about tomorrow
My darling won't
You hold me tight...
Jokic began to surge toward him like a terminator. Their eyes locked. As he got closer, emerging from the shadows, Sherlock could see that he was holding a metal pipe in his hand. "Remember this?" he said, through gritted teeth.
Sherlock took a few steps back, his heart palpitating wildly, and lunged for a large monkey-wrench hanging from a tool panel on the wall. Ah, who needs drugs, he said to himself, this is what life is about. Jokic was still coming resolutely toward him, wielding the pipe like a baseball bat.
Sherlock took two more steps back and neatly ducked Jokic's first swing. Early in life he'd learned to take a punch (and a fall), and was now well versed in all kinds of violence, like a second language, but even he didn't fancy a two-foot pipe blow to the head.
"Some of them were only... eight years old," Sherlock said, in between weaving out of Jokic's blows. Still he pushed forward, bent on Sherlock's defeat. Steam pumped out of the boiler and it continued to churn and roar as Aretha sang.
Cry your eyes
No tears no sorrow
Cling to me
With all your might
And never let me go...
"So?" Jokic laughed. "You're not doing this for them." Another swing.
"This is for the girls, all the people in the mass graves, people who's names you never even bothered to find out. But this isn't only about them, oh no..." A beat passed as Sherlock sidestepped another blow. His hand went to the handcuffs in his knee pocket. Now, how to get them on? There were weak spots at the knees... elbows. "You hurt my friend."
"Who you think you are, Batman? I read blog. See, Mr Holmes, I know that not like you." Jokic struck again. The pipe connected with the wrench and sent it clunking to the floor. Jokic was tiring and he lost his balance, teetering on one foot.
Sherlock's fingers were bruised, but he took his opportunity and grabbed the pipe with both hands, yanking Jokic towards him. They were locked in a stalemate, the pipe between their chests. The other man's face was a little too close.
"It took me a while to figure it out," Sherlock spat, grimacing with the effort, "but the only way to beat someone like you is to care. So for you I'm breaking the habit of a lifetime. But this part, the part where I tell you that you forfeit your life, is done without emotion, because this isn't personal. We are just cannon-fodder in an eternal war, one that will probably never be won. But for a little while we can hope that good will have the upper hand. You are a worm. One that needs decapitating before it can multiply and take away our hard won freedom."
A spot of Sherlock's spittle landed on Jokic's cheekbone. His eye twitched. "What are you talking about? I'm not mythical creature. I'm just regular guy." He glanced down at the security badge pinned to his sweat soaked shirt.
"You are a genocidal maniac. Danijel Jokic, for your crimes, you will no longer be allowed the - "
But Jokic was too strong for him to hold onto forever. The bigger man wrenched the pipe away and went for his head again.
Sherlock caught it. He was quick. Not as quick as he was in his youth, but still quick enough. He pushed the pipe into Jokic's belly and twisted it down in a krav maga move that ensured an assailant could not hold onto the weapon.
It was sent skidding across the floor toward the work bench. In the absence of a better weapon, Sherlock could do with that pipe. They both lunged for it, sprawling on the floor and rolling together.
Sherlock could smell Jokic's sweat, the anger and the fear...
Their faces were very close, just like they were so many times before in that cell. Jokic brought his mouth close to Sherlock's ear, obscenely, almost tenderly. "I used to fuck guys like you in the navy," he said.
Sherlock's heart thumped with the memory of the water-boarding.
Ah, but lately
Lately I find
That you're a stranger
A stranger in my heart...
He squeezed his eyes shut to try and banish the image. He... would not... be broken... But while he was distracted, Jokic gained the upper hand with the pipe and discarded it, flinging it far into the corner of the basement. He grabbed Sherlock by the head, dragged him up to a half leaning position against the workbench and pinned him with his whole body.
Sherlock grasped the edge of the bench, hyper-aware that his face was only inches from the polonium hanging in the device. The needle scratched the record and jumped off, abruptly stopping the music. He kicked Jokic repeatedly, twisting and struggling, but again, his opponent seemed to be made of iron. There was nothing off use on the bench. How was he going to get out of this?
Jokic pushed Sherlock's head nearer and nearer to the polonium.
"You – " Sherlock managed to get out, "scarred me."
"So, what does that mean? It's not like I even touched your pretty face – "
"So..." Sherlock's face was squashed into the bench, "I can never forget yours. I'm always going to carry a reminder of those two weeks in your cell… the stench of your sweat… your putrid beer and liver-wurst breath… the fact that I have no idea what you did to me while I was unconscious.
"Oh, that it," Jokic laughed, "you cannot take a beating like a man, wear your scars like a man – "
"No, not at all. It's because you hurt my friend. You take her; I take you. It's very simple maths."
"Like you say. It was nothing personal. It's just business. But I don't think you in position to do anything."
Just then Sherlock had a revelation. He twisted his arm backwards, wrenching his shoulder in the process, and reached up to Jokic's face. He felt around a bit, grabbed the man's jaw by the teeth, and yanked down hard on the lower mandible.
Jokic roared in pain and released him, staggering back.
Sherlock took his legs out. "That's where you slipped up," he said, hugging Jokic's legs to stop him escaping, "you just couldn't resist, could you? If you'd left well alone you would've gotten away with it. But as it stands, your reign of –"
Jokic kicked savagely and one of Sherlock's phones slipped out of his pocket and got smashed. It was the iPhone.
Damn, Sherlock cringed.
"Were you trying to get confession?" Jokic nearly got away, booting Sherlock in the face. Luckily, his forehead took the worst of the force. Sherlock caught him by the ankle and, reaching into his pocket again, fumbled out the multi-tool knife and began slicing into his Achilles tendon. It was the only way to make sure the psycho couldn't get away or come after him. "Arghhhhhhh...!" Jokic screamed like a wild animal, clawing at the concrete floor.
"I really didn't want to have to do that," Sherlock panted.
His strength renewed by the adrenaline, Jokic dragged himself up into a sitting position and jammed something into Sherlock's side. "I never got... around to this one. It a lot of fun. You like?"
Good God... Sherlock's life seemed to ebb away as 400,000 volts coursed through him from the high amp cattle prod. He convulsed and his heart clenched and he could not see anything else but sheer blue pain...
Jokic stopped, laughing, as Sherlock slumped against the table leg, totally incapacitated. He rolled his head around groggily.
"Good, eh?" said Jokic, ignoring his slashed ankle, "you learn to love it. Then you start to crave it."
Sherlock pathetically tried to kick Jokic in the crotch but before he could recover, Jokic jabbed him with the prod again. His body joined in with the torture, betraying him to the pulsating fire in every nerve ending. This time he was sure his heart actually stopped.
Oh, shit...
He tried to roll over, but he couldn't use his limbs. He couldn't even breathe. Jokic repeatedly jabbed the prod in his side, thrusting over and over again.
And again.
And again.
Sherlock felt himself losing consciousness. Black began to creep in around the edges of his vision. He gave in to the convulsions, trying to preserve his mind.
Jokic was enjoying himself; he began to laugh, but there was a gleam of gun metal beside his head. Sherlock watched, as if in a dream, as Jokic's head exploded in red and the gunshot rendered him to the ground.
McCullough's men filtered into the overgrown compound and quickly discovered the unconscious security guard by the office door and the parked helicopter. One of the police officers peered into the cockpit to find a hole melted right through the instrument panel and a puddle of glowing metal on the ground underneath.
John was standing over them with gritted teeth.
"What the... hell did you do that for?" Sherlock angrily sucked in some oxygen, dragging his arms off the floor.
"He was going to kill you!"
"I was managing fine. Now we'll never be able to question him. Never get any justice."
"Oh, I'm sorry. I thought it was more important to stop the psychopath murdering you, but whatever - "
"How… how much did you hear?" Sherlock sat up stiffly and attended to his jaw, which had been knocked slightly out by Jokic's frantic kicking.
"Enough," said John checking Jokic's life signs. Nothing.
"Give me the gun." Sherlock was still moving with difficulty, and John helped him to his feet, his face a mask of concern. Sherlock cleaned the weapon with alcohol wipes from the workbench and tucked it in his belt. His hands shook the whole time. "Here, swap gloves with me…"
"What?" But John obeyed anyway.
"They're going to be here any second. Take these." Sherlock handed over keys, wallet... he picked up the broken phone.
John looked at him vacantly. There was a faraway noise of the cops coming down to the repair bay of the ship yard.
"What are you doing?"
"They're going to take me away now."
"Sherlock - "
"Oh, don't forget this." Sherlock finally gave him the envelope.
"No. Don't you need it?"
"I'm not going to be around forever. Do this for me." Sherlock looked at him with red eyes, his breath coming rapid and hard. He hunched over the bench and retched.
"Okay." John folded it and put it in his pocket.
"You earned it, anyway. You did all the footwork on that case."
"And every case," John said under his breath.
"Don't push it."
"In here!" shouted the cops. "Armed police, get your hands behind your head. Get on the floor."
McCullough stepped down into the basement. Armed police officers filtered in and surrounded them.
Sherlock knew when to call it a day. He lay down on the ground and clasped his hands behind his head. About six officers piled on, retrieved the gun and handcuffed him. One of them had a knee in his spine.
"Hey, that's a bit uncalled for!"
"And him," McCullough pointed to John.
"He had nothing to do with it," said Sherlock from the floor. "He tried to stop me, but it was too late – "
"Sherlock," said John as he was cuffed, too stunned to put up more of a protest.
The police officers dragged Sherlock to his feet. He looked down at Jokic's body and spoke slowly. "I did it."
McCullough began to read Sherlock his rights, you do not have to say anything... but Sherlock spoke over him. "John?"
"Yes."
"Heathcliff."
"What?"
"Good name for a boy."
"No."
"Okay."
So, there you have it, the long awaited conclusion. I can't believe it's been almost a year since I started this! But it's not really over yet. We're going to let the boys stew a bit first; John in his guilt and Sherlock in custody, and then there's going to be an epilogue... or two! Then there's always room for an alternative ending. (If you wondered why Lestrade's kids and David are in this fic it's because I'm setting them up for a version where the bad guy wins!)
The events in this story have nicely manipulated the characters into a place where I can get the best out of them in the next story.
Coming in 2015: Mainline. Sherlock is irresistibly drawn to investigate the death of a former acquaintance, against his better judgement and the dead man's daughter's wishes. John is away, so he enlists Molly's help. She has a mystery of her own to solve; who exactly is Sherlock Holmes? The answer to both problems might test their friendship to the limit.
Meanwhile, keep an eye open for my completely unrelated Sherline fic.