Hey guys Hope you all had a spookily good Hallowe'en and a fantastic Christmas! Hope 2013 brings everything you deserve!
Urgh. This is getting harder and harder to write. Seriously. I feel awful making you guys wait so long for a story that is so BLOODY slow to develop…
So, quick recap: Bad guys gloating, Good guys stressed. Stuff about to go kablooey.
….
London flew by in a grey drizzly blur. The noises of the city dulled by the throbbing pulse in his own ears. No-one in the car spoke a word as the car sped to the power plant except Lestrade barking orders down the phone.
'I don't care if the bloody King of Narnia has turned up; you get the bomb squad down there NOW!'
Sherlock's mind was whirring. Even if the bomb was found and deactivated in time, there was surely a Plan B to whatever Moriarty was doing. If there wasn't additional trouble he'd be incredibly surprised. He could see the solid shape of John sat stiffly in his peripheral vision and vaguely wondered whether there would be any trouble with Lestrade bringing civilians to a danger zone. Even he had to admit it was stupid of them to be tagging along, charging in and undoubtedly putting everyone at risk.
The car pulled up to the gates of the power plant. Sherlock barely listened as Lestrade ordered clearance to the haggard security guard. The man had probably been up since the crack of dawn, and a suspected bomb was most certainly not going to get him home any quicker. Rain formed droplets on the car's windows as they lingered.
By the time they arrived at the entrance the evacuation was underway in full force. Confused employees were being shunted into minivans whilst having random shouts of 'This way please!' and 'Move it people!' barked in their faces. Sherlock sprang from the car and marched up to the doors in long strides.
'Excuse me Sir!' a bomb squad member called, rushing forward, 'You have to leave, there may be a bo-'
'There most certainly is a bomb.' Sherlock cut across him, not bothering to mince around. Time of the essence and all that. 'And I'd be most grateful if you got out the way.'
Lestrade caught up to him and flashed his badge to the youngster. 'Do as he says mate.'
'I'm sorry Sir, but I have my orders-'
Sherlock rolled his eyes and made to barge through and was most surprised when the man shoved him back.
'I said NO. I'm sorry.'
Sherlock glared but had no choice but to obey. He backed down. Lestrade also found himself shunted back to the car where John was surveying the scene.
'No luck?'
'Well, I can't say I'd ever thought that I'd be sorry the bomb squad did their job correctly.' Lestrade mused, pinching the bridge of his nose with exasperation. All three of them turned back to look at the people fluttering in around in a dignified panic.
Sherlock huffed, 'We need to get inside, they let Moriarty slip past them, but now they're being embarrassingly thorough.'
John exhaled and let his eyes roam over the scene. A stairwell was tucked round the left hand side of the building, leading to a big red fire escape. As John watched, two more men came out of the building and, in their rush, the door didn't completely close.
John nudged Sherlock with his elbow and jerked his head in the direction of the stairwell. Sherlock frowned for a second and then broke into a sly grin.
'Excellent.'
John raised his eyebrows questioningly at Lestrade, who in turn sighed in good-natured exasperation and gave them a Do NOT let them catch you glare. He then deliberately turned away from them and began to study a nearby lamp post with feigned interest.
Sherlock hissed 'Come on' and grabbed John by the elbow, effectively dragging him in the direction of the stairwell, when both men were a good few feet from Lestrade, they broke into a run.
Lestrade heard a shout from a member of the bomb squad as the lad spotted somebody going into an out-of-bounds area. Glancing back he saw the edge of a navy Belstaff whip around a closing red door. Biting back an amused smile, he looked around with benignly bland confusion.
'Oh no guys..' he said in a low, barely audible voice, 'Don't do that. Someone stop them…'
…
'Right.' John asked as soon as they were inside and the door clicked shut behind them. 'What now?'
'We find the bomb.' Sherlock answered, raising an eyebrow at the endearingly obvious question. 'Find it. Stop it.'
'Good plan.'
'Thank you.'
John smiled thinly, 'And if we run into Moriarty or…or the other one?'
Sherlock shrugged in a way that suggested he didn't particularly care, 'Hit them repeatedly with a large brick? Or just shoot them if you're not feeling particularly creative.'
John mirrored the shrug. 'Oh don't tempt me.'
Sherlock looked around them. 'The bomb'll most likely be in the underground levels, more damage potential that way.' It seemed unreal, being back in this situation. Sherlock could almost hear the ticking clock in the concrete walls.
'Split up?' John suggested. Sherlock turned to face him, weighing up the pros and cons. If they went alone, there was more danger for them individually. If they did two separate searches, there was double the chance of the bomb being found.
'Split up.' He agreed.
…..
Sherlock swore under his breath. This was the fifth damn cleaning cupboard he'd come across whilst trying every door. If he were in some sort of thrilling novel or one of those stupid action DVDs in John's collection, he'd be face to face with the bomb or some villainous lunatic by now. If the bomb was hidden in one of the cupboards (which he sincerely doubted), he was a little put off by the idea of dying amidst mops and cleaning fluids. He slammed the door shut again with undue force and set off down another featureless corridor at breakneck speed. This was getting ridiculous. His instincts told him the bomb should be hidden somewhere in plain sight, as was Moriarty's style, why was so wrong so far?
Suddenly the phone in his pocket beeped out the text message alert. Sherlock whipped it out and opened it, maybe it was John, had he found it?
I know you're here. M x
Oh that was it. He'd have to change his phone number as soon as possible. Seemed a bit pointless Moriarty sending him threatening texts when he all but begged Sherlock to fix the messes he was making. Of course Sherlock would be here. Nevertheless, curiousity got the better of him and he fired of a reply:
How?
It took only a few seconds before his phone beeped again.
Top corner on your right. Smile xx
Sherlock rolled his eyes and glanced up. True enough, tucked amongst pipes and wires was nestled a tiny little black webcam. It was so small he wouldn't have seen it unless he looked for it. He inwardly lambasted himself for being so careless, how many cameras had tracked his every movement? Was John also being watched? His fingers flew across the keypad again.
Are you here?
As he waited, he fired off a warning text to John about the cameras. Moriarty's reply came soon after.
Within explosion distance? Don't be stupid sweetheart. X
P.S. You're wasting time. Tick Tock.
Sherlock pocketed the phone, politely told the webcam where to shove it and ran off down a corridor. The distraction was a stupidly unoriginal technique, but even more galling was that Sherlock had allowed him to do it.
His footsteps sounded odd in the muted environment, but he kept on running.
…
John craned his neck around a corner, checking for signs of life. It was like being in one of those weird video games Harry had been playing recently, empty corridors where you plodded along until a zombie came out of nowhere and ate you. Thankfully, there were no zombies in London just yet, one less thing to worry about.
There was a couple of maniacs though, that always kept London on its toes.
Pushing open a door he found an empty stairwell, the red neon lights making it glow eerily. Remembering what Sherlock said about lower levels, John set off downwards into the bowels of the building. Feeling ever more creeped out as he did so.
He saw a door to the below level and pushed it open. For a second he stood still, and heard the sound of footsteps.
Footsteps?
John pressed himself flat against the wall, nearing a corner slowly. An old muscle memory twitched and his hand flew up to his ear, ready to relay information to his unit via an earpiece that wasn't there. He thrust his hand back down, squirming at his own silliness. This wasn't a mission, not the army, just anarchy in the UK. Different war, different soil.
His phone buzzed in his pocket, making him jump. Fishing it out silently he glanced at the brightly lit screen:
Be careful. Moriarty's watching us. S.
Cameras. Great. That's all they bloody needed. John glanced around him, visually sweeping his immediate surroundings for bugs. There didn't seem to be any, but that didn't mean he wasn't being watched. He sent a text of his own.
There's someone down here.
He waited in silence for a few moments then began tip-toeing his way down the corridor the sound of footsteps had come from. There seemed no sign of any other living being down here. Maybe he'd imagined it, his brain creating an enemy where there was nothing but his own paranoia. But then again, knowing Sherlock's world, there was some nutter.
A few seconds later, a message came through from Sherlock again.
Follow them. But be careful.
John couldn't help but roll his eyes. What did Sherlock think he'd do? Run full pelt at the loonies? He'd spent a good three decades being careful, it was a hard habit to break. He slowly walked down the space, treading as lightly as he could. There were no more sounds. For a moment, John contemplating asking aloud if anyone was hiding, but decided that was probably a stupid move.
A heavy door was nestled between cardboard boxes and fire extinguishers and through the barred window John could see yet another empty corridor beyond. With a tug the door swung free and John poked his head through to get a better look. Nothing.
Sighing he reclosed the door. As the door clicked shut the sound of footsteps began again.
John stood very still, listening carefully. With the echoes it was night impossible to tell which direction the noise was coming from.
Except that they were coming closer.
'Oh shit.' John breathed, turning to duck behind the cardboard boxes piled in a heap beside the door. His knees groaned in protest as he squeezed himself into the tight space, craning his neck at an almost painful angle to glimpse through a gap with his good eye.
A dark shape came around the corner in a brisk stride, when it came into view John's grip involuntary tightened.
The Sculptor paused. He stood mere inches from John's peep hole. John pressed his lips together to cover the sound of his rapid breathing. His knuckles were white as his fingernails dug deeply into the palm. He could see every line in the skin on the Sculptor's hand…Oh God…Is the BLOOD on his fingers?
The hand flexed, as if Sculptor could feel John's terrified breath. For a split second, John felt a surge of hot, white blinding rage. He could do it. Spring from where he crouched and slam the man into a chokehold so tight it would hurt his own hand. To see the veins pop in the neck, for the eyes to bulge as the air was strangled out of him…to feel bloodied hands claw at him as their owner fought for life…
He could do it.
As quickly as it came, the monster within him died and fled. Every muscle tensed and seemed to be made of stone. His own body betrayed him, refusing his commands to move. His jaw ached where his teeth were clenched together. He watched Sculptor's fingers curl and uncurl, almost hypnotised, it was impossible for him to close his eyes or look away.
The hand then did something John never would've expected. It curled again as the index finger extended to point back the way he'd come.
God help me. He knows I'm here!
'That way John' Sculptor whispered silkily.
John's throat tightened, not daring to confirm his presence. Was the man actually giving him tips? Why? He didn't even dare to blink. There was no way in Hell he'd trust anything that crawled out of that poisonous mouth. As he struggled to draw breath, the hand vanished and the man began making his way down through the corridor.
John held his breath until the footsteps died away; this was going to be more trouble than they had first anticipated. Once the echoes had died away, all the breath left his lungs in one explosive rush, his windpipe feeling tinier than it did. Shakily rising to his feet John accidently knocked over a few of the boxes, causing them to make dull crashing noises in the suffocating silence. He planted his hands on the opposite wall as he composed himself. Seconds passed and the dizziness subsided. Straightening up John squeezed his eyes shut, then forced them open as he stared blankly in the direction the Sculptor had disappeared. As if pulled by some invisible wire, his feet shuffled a few paces to follow the man. He wanted to know where Sculptor was going, just in case they direction he'd pointed out was a lie. Maybe if he could catch up to him, he could stop him, get information from him…
What ARE you doing?! Get as far away from that monster NOW!
John felt physically wrenched backwards, his own disgust propelling him backwards. Every fibre of his being screaming at him to turn and run.
And yet…
John whirled himself around and hurried down to where Sculptor pointed. His own footfalls sounded thunderous to his own ears as he pelted his way down the steel corridors.
…
The air seemed even colder down here, John noticed. Not so much as to make his breath steam in the air but cold enough to raise the hairs on his neck and arms.
He paused at what met his eyes as he turned the corner. Two feet splayed at a careless angle. After a brief moment of surprise he ran forward, his medical side kicking into high gear.
'Are you alright ma-'
He drew up short, eye widening in horror. The man was very certainly dead, his skin grey, save for the vivid scarlet gash across the throat. Died and congealed blood pooled on the floor around him turning a shade of brown. John's nose wrinkled involuntarily at the sharp metallic scent and he turned away in disgust, swearing to himself.
There was no question, none at all, of whose handiwork that was. John sighed with pity and kneeled next to the corpse and closed the man's staring glazed eyes with shaking fingers. A blood splattered name-badge hung awkwardly from the guard's chest. John couldn't help himself; he peered at the laminated photograph and took note of the printed name. Another name, another victim, another statistic to be filed away in and never thought of again. John thought of the little boy, murdered only days ago to get Sherlock's attention and now this man who was just "collateral damage" at his feet. It seemed to John every senseless death was another shard of ice to cling to his heart.
His miserable train of thought was interrupted by a faint high-pitched beeping. He turned to follow the sound and realised it came from a small panel not three feet from where he crouched. A dawning sense of horror was oddly mixed with a feeling of satisfaction. He'd found it.
His hands scrambled for his phone and he called Sherlock, who picked up on the second ring.
'John?'
'Yeah, I've found it. Basement….east corner.' John said rapidly. Glancing back at the guard's body he felt a ripple of hollow guilt as he realised he couldn't remember the name he'd read. David?...Daniel?
'And get Lestrade.' He finished lamely.
…..
The three of them stood around the grey panel, Lestrade threw a pitied glance to the body.
'Poor sod.' He said quietly.
Sherlock however, rolled his eyes. 'Priorities Lestrade.'
Lestrade didn't even bother to respond. John tentatively reached out to pull off the panel.
'Be careful.' Sherlock said unnecessarily, making John flinch. Lestrade found himself sucking in a breath and holding it, bracing himself for a sticky and untimely end….which was greatly quelled as John pulled off the panel with relative ease, revealing scarlet wires and a lump of plastic explosives. A small timer flashed in regular beats accompanied by the telltale blip of an electronic countdown. They had all of three minutes left.
'W-Where are the bomb squad?' John asked shakily.
'Bringing their equipment down.' Lestrade replied, fishing for his phone. The three men shared a grave look.
'There's no time.' Sherlock said simply. 'We'll have to do it ourselves.'
Lestrade couldn't help himself, a small incredulous laugh exploded from his chest.
'We don't know the first thing about bombs Sherlock! Jesus Christ!'
Sherlock shot him a familiar 'Silence puny mortal' smirk and crouched near John in front of the device.
'You don't know the first thing about bombs, I've made a point to do some extensive research on the subject.'
Lestrade squirmed uncomfortably, well aware of his two friend's brush with bomb loving maniacs. It didn't strike him as remotely odd Sherlock would find out the ins and outs of things that go kaboom. Just in case.
'We need to cut the red wire.' Sherlock announced.
'What?'
'It's always the red wire.' Sherlock said simply, turning to look at John, 'In those boring spy films you made me watch, right?'
John gaped. 'That's Hollywood Sherlock! This is an ACTUAL bomb. With ACTUAL explosives and if we don't get the fuck out of here right now we're going to be found in bits. ACTUAL BITS!'
Lestrade hurriedly whipped his head around, if push came to shove, he could hurl his two friends around a corner and then dive for cover. Beneath all the panic Lestrade felt pure silver line of clarity; he was probably going to die here. With his two best friends. It was going to be a messy end, but the company was the best he could have hoped for in the circumstances.
This thought was rudely interrupted by John and Sherlock sniping at each other.
'You can't stop a bomb with sheer intellect Sherlock!' John snapped, 'We should just go!'
'No! I have to stop this, I can't let Moriarty win this round-'
'FUCK your 'game'! We'll die if we stay here! Or should we just stay here whilst you try to outthink explosives?!'
'I hate to interrupt,' Lestarde cut in irritably, pointing at the timer that was now on 2 minutes and rapidly counting down, 'But we're on a bit of deadline.'
Sherlock shot both of them a cold stare and returned to glaring at the bomb and ran his hands over the wires, much to Lestrade's intense discomfort. Pale fingers plucked at the wires, to which both Lestrade and John winced. Sherlock ignored both of them.
'Something's wrong.' He mused.
Lestrade rolled his eyes. There was a lot wrong with this situation. Every hair on his skin was stood to attention and his imagination ran away with him as he imagined what death would feel like.
Calm down Greg. He's brilliant. There's still time…
'50 seconds.' John said flatly.
What?!
Lestrade whipped round and gripped Sherlock by the shoulders.
'Time's up Einstein.' He said, physically hauling the tall man to his feet.
'No! I'm not finished!'
Lestrade looked to John. The smaller man glanced back at him with an iron hard resolve and he stepped forward. Sherlock's surprise doubled as John wrapped his arms around him and joined Lestrade's efforts to pull him away.
'John no!' Sherlock yelled, 'I know! I know what he's done!'
John ignored him as they both dragged Sherlock, who was twisting and writhing in desperation to break free of their grip. Lestrade couldn't help but feel a little guilty. His foot slipped slightly in the murdered man's blood, causing him to slide a little. Glancing back at the bomb the red numbers seemed even brighter as to burn his retinas. His own heartbeat sounded slow and thunderous in his ears and appeared to muffle all sound. Distantly he heard John yelling, Sherlock yelling and quiet, steady beeps. Perhaps he was shouting too, it was incredibly difficult to tell.
'I KNOW!'
'Leave it Sherlock! We gotta go!'
'You don't understand!'
'10 seconds!'
'Oh Jesus GET DOWN!'
'IT'S NOT REAL! THE BOMB'S A FAKE! IT'S A FAKE!'
All three men hit the ground with a force that forced all breath from their lungs. Lestrade tensed his body for the colossal explosion.
Except no explosion came.
Shakily Lestrade clambered onto his elbows. Perhaps the counter hadn't reached zero yet? They waited, Lestrade and John looking about them in frightened confusion. Sherlock was now sat with his back poker straight against the wall, staring at them with cold thin-lipped fury.
A small popping sound came from around the corner. Lestrade shakily got to his feet and had a look.
The cover of the clock had been pushed off by a spring that had apparently been connected to the timer. On the end of the spring was a big yellow smiley face.
'What the-?' came John's breathless voice.
The three of them got nearer, Sherlock yet to say anything. Lestrade heaved a massive sigh of relief. Glancing at the other two, he saw nothing but confusion on John's face, nothing but anger on Sherlock's.
'He played us.' John stammered, looking to Sherlock. 'There was never any danger?'
Sherlock didn't respond as his mobile went off. He opened the new text message with nothing but contempt. Lestrade glanced over his shoulder at the message:
GOTCHA.
I'll let you have that one sweetheart. You DID get it right after all. M x
Sherlock briefly closed his eyes. Lestrade extended his arm and lightly placed a hand on Sherlock's shoulder.
'It's ok mate, we're alive.'
'He tricked me.' Sherlock said coldly, leaning forward to inspect the fake explosive. 'The components are real. But there's no connection. See?'
Reaching into the cavity he plucked a scarlet wire out of the hole. Now it was in the light, Lestarde could clearly see the frayed end of a cut wire.
'If either of you idiots had let me finish. I could have told you.'
Lestrade begin to feel his face flush, but tried to fight it down. There was no way he'd let Sherlock make him ashamed of trying to save his friends. He'd have done it if the bomb was real. He'd gladly do it again.
Sherlock straightened and walked to a fire extinguisher that was on the wall. He picked it up with ease.
'He tricked me.' He said, eerily calm, feeling the weight of the thing in his hands.
John frowned. 'Sherlock?'
'He made me look like an IDIOT!'
With an almighty strength Lestrade never suspected, Sherlock flung the fire extinguisher along the length of the corridor, where it clanged loudly as it bounced on the hard ground.
'Jesus Sherlock!' John hissed. Lestrade cleared his throat with unease. Sherlock stood with his back to them, breathing heavily. John glanced at Lestrade apologetically and took a few steps toward the detective and touched him gently on the upper arm. Without a word Sherlock shrugged him off violently, causing John to look hurt. Sherlock turned, not even looking at his partner. He didn't look at anyone. With a final disdainful glance at the bomb, Sherlock stalked away at top speed.
Lestrade could only watch helplessly as John set off after him. In the silence he cast an eye at the poor guard, lying where he'd been attacked. Heaving a massive sigh, Lestrade phoned Donovan.
'Hey it's me, listen, get the guys from homicide down here. We're ok but there's a poor bastard with his throat slit down here.'
The precious few seconds that followed Donovan disconnecting before the bomb squad burst into view were perhaps the longest in his life. Gregory Lestrade suddenly felt a lot older than he had ever done before in his life.
…
Well. That was tense.
This was a BUGGER. To. Write. I had writer's block a mile wide. This was going to be uploaded a good fortnight ago but I came down with a bad headcold, which was most inconvenient.
I can only thank you guys enough for being so patient with me. There is a plot here I promise, it's just agony getting it into words.
Thank you xx
Next time: 'John?' 'Mmm?' That man's been watching you for over ten minutes.'