Chapter 9: The Phoenix Called "Hope"~
Sherlock awoke to a violent bout of vertigo, but was at least 99 percent lucid now, leaning against the train tunnel wall, still wrapped in the orange shock-blanket.
John sat beside him, laughing melodically. What about ,exactly? This was a very serious situation they were in here. Sherlock's insatiable curiosity got the better of him, wondering what had spurred that hopeful sound, wanting some of that grace to fall like cool rain on his fevered ,flint-hard brow. He lifted his head slowly to see none other than Major Sholto, standing in the center of one of the tunnel lights.
Illuminated like a Phoenix rising out of the ashes of their long-lived despair. Sherlock's breath caught, at the sign. Here this man whose life had been utter chaos, damned without cause, had been redeemed. If it was possible for this Phoenix-of-a-man, this spirit called hope, then Sherlock could be delivered too. His soul stirred to life in that knowledge, and he smiled.
"Would you look, John? Sleeping Beauty's here to grace us with his presence. Good evening. I've brought you something medicinal." Major stated ,very matter-of-factly.
And then held forth a ginormous popsicle, striped with rather loudly colored red, and blue, and yellow, and purple, and orange ,and green, and even a few pink stripes.
"Was my prize for the dance off back there. Bloody well earned it to, getting down to a beat as sick as you are, with a bum leg and all!"
"Thank...you?" Sherlock said, taking the offered popsicle, not really certain why it was "medicinal."
"Is it...is it medicated?" he asked John, brows twisting , in great confusion.
"Only with seriously large amounts of sugar!" the Major placed both hands on his hips, and his mouth formed a straight line.
"Sherlock...don't be a child. I order you to eat that. I order you to savor it like one does a Tootsie pop. You will eat it very consciously , until you have either completely devoured it, or it has melted in your hands. Are my orders clear?!"
"Sir, yes, sir, I shall do my best...sir." Sherlock gasped, exasperated, he and John both saluting. John still cracking up, his spirits lifted greatly.
"What are you laughing at ,Watson?"
"Oh, sir, nothing ,sir, just admiring your medical skills ,sir." John gasped, pinching the bridge of his nose.
The Major gave a curt nod. "Oh, and, that bloke...what's his name-uhm...Amperstand...is here FINALLY to see you...Sherlock."
With that he turned to go fetch the forensic in question.
John reached an arm around Sherlock.
" You ok?" he asked, and Sherlock turned to look at him.
Could see the care-lines the last few months had added in between his eyes. Wished his face were a slate, so he could dust the trouble off of it like chalk from too many years kicking up dust. He would leave the laugh lines, the fine points, the good, and take the bad away. But maybe the bad was there to add shadow and depth, to only further illuminate his nature of light, and such profound thoughts did Sherlock regularly have when studying John's face. He shook his head, blinking.
"This poison...the nature of it. It will work in episodes. I will have lucid moments like now, and bouts where I'm unaware, possibly deranged and spouting things off. Those...will be the test moments, that was the whole point of the Game. To see if I could beat her...with my mind under-siege. If I am able to solve the hallucinations, and maintain the integrity of my confidence, as well as solve her puzzle and take her into custody, I win. In the event that I should alternate, start to give in to the hallucination...she will win, and my life...my Work, the people I care about...All is forfeit...John."
"Which is why you will solve her hallucinations no problem. No matter how psycho this poison is...you're gonna beat it. I know, I know what you can survive. I've seen it. And...a little bit ago...you were talking in your sleep. About Magnusson, or Youngblood, or whatever his name is. You were talking about his unique chemical in the fear stimulant lobe of his brain. About his master poison threat,..talking about how he turned you...into a 'porcelain doll'."
Sherlock looked horrified...
"Those...are things...I would never...have told you...willingly..."
"Well, I needed to know them, right? I need to know so I can help." his voice had taken on a lit of offense, that immediately softened,...
"You should know better by now...I'm going to be here, until the end. Going to help. And you are going to win. It's just the two of us against the world, remember?"
Sherlock laughed, pleasantly, as if the Phoenix called hope recently revived in him, took to the sky-like blue of his eyes. Life restored however briefly into his dark countenance.
"You and me against the world. Anderson up against Appledore." he said, as Major, and Mycroft lead Anderson up to him.
"Appledore?" Anderson asked, face twisted in an awkward position.
Sherlock took Anderson in, observing everything. He'd stopped messing around with Donovan, and had really reconciled with his wife, how Sherlock can deduce such things, only God and Sherlock know.
Sherlock's conclusion was that Anderson had changed a great deal since he was gone. Wondered how that would work in the grand scheme of things?
"Appledore? You wish to send him ...to Appledore?" Mycroft gasped, irritably.
"Why would Mary be leading us to New York City? We always have to be asking ourselves why,brother dear." Sherlock began, adjusting his long legs under the blanket, cocking his head in wonder at how he was going to eat the tree-sized popsicle as commanded.
"My God,this!, you could put ornaments on it, and set it up in the kitchen for Christmas! Mrs. Hudson would love that, wouldn't she?..." he hissed, irritated and delighted all at once. Peculiar, that one. He took a careful nibble of it, and looked back up at his brother, and Anderson.
"She clearly has failed to make the kill, if she came looking for Magnusson/Youngblood's body. She offered to trade her life to me, to escape him, because if she failed to kill him, then he is probably still alive, and if he is alive and she tried to kill him, then he will be coming to get revenge on her, and all that rot. She wasn't serious though, really?, a master assassin just give her life over to me, like a little dolly wrapped in ribbons? Pssh... She still wants to win, still believes she can win, was very confidant, not desperate, when we spoke to her. So, she must think she has a bargaining chip now, with us, drawing us into the game, not removing tale-tell signs of her and Irene Adler's recent New York getaway,on purpose, playing the game as usual, wanting to lead us there. And why? Ah! See, now we are forming a result! She is luring us into the trap, there's always a bigger fish, though, right? She's got Magnusson right where she wants him, he's in New York, because she's supposed to be in New York, visiting her lover who is permanently exiled to America after Karachi. What better time to come back for me, fill me with the poison that will ,eventually, temporarily drive me out of the same galaxy as my mind , and then lure me into the clutches of the king of blackmail? He'll have a weakened version of myself to toy with,...and he will forget about her. I'm her diversion; she will kill him this time, whilst he is distracted by me, take my secrets, and run back to her masters...Only, she won't be getting them. I'm not as fragile as the world seems to think I am." he spat the last bit, in absolute revulsion, and took an indignant slurp of the popsicle,like a bratty little school boy would. John chuckled to himself. Frightening, charming, child-like, impossible, and utterly generous, all at once? The world couldn't afford to lose Sherlock Holmes,not again. Once more John purposed in his heart that the world would not. One can't despair when he isn't alone, and Sherlock was most definitely not alone. Not this time.
"So...what do you,...want me to do again, Sherlock?" Anderson ventured.
Sherlock looked up, surprised. Never had Anderson addressed him so...humbly? Almost apologetically. As if, he were sorry for his part in his End.
"Oh, really, it's obvious ,right? Mycroft, even you can see the great benefit this will be. Whilst we are away, clapping Magnusson and Pandora, and the Woman too, all in irons, you Anderson,you , and Clearfield, and Smith and ...whoever...will be making your forensic study of the basements of Magnusson's private mansion. He may be the professional exterminator of Moriarty's reluctant hire, but he moonlights, daylights rather, as some sort of owner and influential person in media. I don't care exactly what his job is, it doesn't matter, what DOES matter, is that we prove him to be what else he is, which is the king of blackmail. We'll have enough evidence to convict him, without exposing all that he's done. Those having him locked up, possibly "hanged", without compromising national security, or ever letting his legacy be breathed abroad in light of day."
Everybody sat back, stunned by the plan.
"Yeah...so I'm...I'm looking for...evidence, hidden evidence...that he's got some kind of data base where he keeps all his blackmail, that he could just expose to the media on a whim, in his mansion?"
"Bravo, Anderson! You've apparently gotten a bit more clever since the last time I was alive."
Everybody looked stricken, by that sudden statement. Not because he had somewhat insulted Anderson at the same time as complimenting him...but also because he had just so openly expressed the fact that he had been...
John drew a shaky breath ,and Anderson clenched his fists.
"Sherlock...I'm...so sorry!" he fell to his knees suddenly, very repentant, indeed.
Sherlock swung his popsicle in the air, like a warrior-king would brandish a spear, trying to avoid its coming in contact with Anderson's scraggly beard as he groveled beside him. Reached and awkwardly, almost disgustedly, patted the top of his head.
"You...uh,...yeah...you are "forgiven" or whatever it is that people do,when they actually care what another person thinks about them, or if they are sorry for the irreversible past, and what not. Do what I'm asking of you,and I'll call it even too. Mycroft?"
Mycroft sighed, but nodded dutifully,
" Bad as I hate to admit it, you are almost always right, brother mine. Alright, I'll arrange for him to work with a stealth team of mine, and get him a search warrant, all that law rubbish. And looks like the rest of us are going on a holiday in America..."
"America? Hamburgers, hot dogs, pizza! Wonderful!" Major cried. Molly face-palmed.
"You...can buy a lot of those things...here?"
"Yes, but not the expressly fresh from the oven, bona-fide, American kind. So, right, we shall have a lovely holiday involving a great deal of hamburgers. And corn on the cob. And whatever else Americans eat and that we have time to enjoy eating ourselves, whilst Pandora is firing at us, or otherwise attempting to murder us."
John laid his head on Sherlock's shoulder.
"God, help me...This is gonna be one LONG flight!" he wailed, into the fabric of the shock blanket, and his voice reverberated off of Sherlock's bones, making the detective shiver.
"OI! IF WE'RE GOING TO AMERICA;I'M GOING TO NEED PANTS, MYCROFT! HONESTLY!" Greg growled, fed up with the hospital gown.
"Anthea, please bring the Inspector pants...No questions." Mycroft said into his omnipresent phone.
Sherlock rolled his eyes, and sagged against the wall.