No triggers.
Chapter Forty One
Sherlock was rudely awoken by the sound of his bedroom door being thrown open and a gruff voice barking,
'On your feet! We're leaving!'
He rolled over, languidly, and sat up, blinking at the guard who had become his near constant companion.
'It's still light outside. I thought we were leaving after dark?'
'Change of plan. Get your boots and jacket on and come with me.'
'I suppose a visit to the loo is out of the question?' Sherlock enquired, yawning and stretching.
'If you need to piss, do it now. We have a long journey and we won't be stopping on the way,' came the abrupt reply.
With a petulant huff, Sherlock stood up and strolled to the bathroom, locking the door before using the toilet. He didn't really need to pee but he needed time to think. They were leaving early - his watch read four o'clock - so they must have rumbled his coded message to Mycroft via Molly. That was a little inconvenient. If they had figured out the first part, perhaps they had worked out the rest, too. Potentially, this could scupper his plans but he shrugged off that thought and, as he zipped up his fly and moved to the basin to wash his hands, he gazed at his face in the mirror.
'Oh, well, onwards and upwards,' he sighed, flushed the toilet, dried his hands and exited the bathroom.
'You'll need one of these,' the guard snapped, tossing over a balaclava, which Sherlock caught deftly and stuffed in his trouser pocket before sitting on the bed to put on his newly acquired boots and tie the laces. Standing up again, he picked up the combat jacket from the bottom of the bed and preceded the guard out through the bedroom door. Truly, the Game was now on.
ooOoo
In his hospital room, Arthur had just finished speaking to the Consultant Psychiatrist, who had rather predictably suggested that he was high risk for PTSD and should be treated by specialists in that syndrome. He had, therefore, sanctioned Arthur's discharge from Tameside on the understanding that he be referred to a suitable unit as soon as possible. The Ward sister wasted no time in calling the number she had been given and was answered by Anthea's calm, clipped tones. The PA informed the nurse that an Air Ambulance would be dispatched, immediately, to collect Arthur within the hour and transport him to St Hugh's.
Arthur was alone with his thoughts. He got out of bed and crossed the room to retrieve the shopping bags that had been delivered to the hospital earlier in the afternoon. He upended each bag in turn, dumping the contents on the bed – boxers, socks, two T-shirts, jeans, a lightweight jacket and a pair of trainers. Slowly, he dressed himself, snapping off the price tags and labels as he went and stuffing the rubbish into the empty bags. He collected the toiletries from the en suite shower room, in the toilet bag that Mycroft had included in the shopping list. Shampoo, shower gel, toothpaste and brush, mouthwash, deodorant, shaving foam and razor, hair gel and comb, and his favourite brand of cologne – yes, Mycroft had thought of everything.
He turned, at last, to the final shopping bag – a small one, from an exclusive jewellery company. He held the package in his hand for quite some time before finding the courage to open it. He was both astonished and a little dismayed when he discovered what the package held. It was a Breitling Transocean gentleman's watch, the latest model. The price tag had been removed but Arthur knew that these watches retailed for around four thousand pounds, in the United Kingdom.
He sat down on the bed, staring at the watch in his hand, before closing the box and putting it back in the bag. He couldn't accept such a gift, not yet, not while he was so unsure about so many things. Could this be a bribe, a persuader, or a very generous gift and a declaration of love? That was the root of the problem. He just did not know.
ooOoo
In the absence of a helipad, the helicopter carrying Mycroft, Anthea and John lifted off from the grounds of Tameside Hospital and headed due south at the beginning of its ninety minute journey to the City Airport in London. The three passengers sat side by side, each engaged with their own thoughts. Mycroft was still mulling over Sherlock's cryptic message to Molly and deliberately putting thoughts of Arthur out of his mind. John was looking forward to seeing his wife and child again but also concerned for his friend. Anthea was in communication with Agent Delaney, awaiting an update on the recce of the racing yard in Middleham.
Mycroft had solved Sherlock's little puzzle easily enough by looking at the satellite view of Leinster Gardens. From that perspective, it was immediately obvious that Nos 23 and 24 were merely facades, only a few feet deep, concealing the tracks of the Circle and District Underground Railway lines. A 'nice little place', indeed!
The master strategist would have very much liked to evacuate a stretch of Leinster Gardens of all civilians and place armed Special Ops personnel in strategic positions along the street, behind perimeter walls, in front bedrooms and on roof tops. Unfortunately, that was impractical, so he had to settle for snipers on the roof tops and other personnel sitting in the backs of white vans, which were ubiquitous on the streets of every town or city in the UK, so would attract little attention.
He had no idea how large a force Moran was planning to bring to the party so he had gone for overkill, with approximately forty well-trained, well-disciplined individuals on the ground. There was always a risk of civilian casualties, where such operations were concerned, but these men and women were veterans of action in the urban centres of trouble hot spots all over the world and, so far, their record in that department was near perfect. Mycroft trusted that this night would not result in any collateral damage.
By the time the helicopter landed in London, the scene would be set, just waiting for the curtain to rise. But the last two lines of Sherlock's email were still puzzling the Iceman. 'Much love, as always, Sherly xxx.' That was so out of character, it had to be significant. The best cryptographers available had been working on those words for several hours and had so far only succeeded in ruling out a number of Alphanumeric codes, a variety of skip codes and a whole host of anagrams in the many languages Sherlock was known to speak.
Mycroft ruminated on those five words and three symbols, applying his personal knowledge of his brother's thought processes, trying to find the key that would unlock their hidden meaning. Time was running out and his brother's life may well depend on him getting this right.
ooOoo
'I may be an idiot in your opinion, Mr Holmes, but I'm not completely stupid. That email of yours was clearly a coded message, just as the one before had been. It took my IT Tech no time at all to work out what it meant.'
Sherlock affected an air of bored indifference. They were travelling south on the A1(M) in a metallic black Volkswagon Touareg, with dark tinted windows. Sherlock was sitting in the middle of the back seat, in between two burley bruisers, feeling squashed despite the generous dimensions of the vehicle. Moran, sitting beside the driver Mick Robinson, turned to leer at his passenger.
'I have absolutely no idea what you are talking about, Moran. I sent my wife an email. She worries about me – and not without just cause. The rest is a product of your ridiculous James Bond delusion,' he drawled, turning his head, ostentatiously, in a vain attempt to escape the body odour of the man on his left.
'So your brother won't have the streets of Bayswater staked out when we arrive then?'
'Bayswater? Why do you imagine we are going to Bayswater?' Sherlock asked, his brow crinkling with curiosity.
'Oh, Mr Holmes, you should be on the stage! You are such a comedian,' Moran barked with laughter and turned back to look at the road ahead.
Sherlock settled into his seat and hoped that Mycroft had read the message right. Had he been too cryptic? He had never yet outwitted his brother when it came to hidden meaning. Now was no time for a pyrrhic victory.
ooOoo
Two cyclists turned into the car park of the racing yard run by Wendy Burrows and drew to a halt, disengaging the clips on their cycling shoes from the pedals of their road bikes and dismounting. They both leaned their bikes against the gate post and removed their helmets, running their hands through their sweat-slicked hair. One of them unclipped his mobile phone from the holder attached to the handlebars of his bike and held it up in the air, turning in a circle, scanning for a signal.
While this ritual had been panning out, a woman had appeared, through the stone-built arch that led from the car park to the stable yard, and approached the two men, asking in a broad Yorkshire accent,
'Can I 'elp you gents?'
'Oh, hi, yes! Sorry to intrude but we seem to be lost. Our Sat Nav runs off my phone signal but the reception round here is pretty useless. We seem to have taken the wrong turn somewhere.'
By the time the man had said his piece, the woman was standing right in front of him, smiling sympathetically.
'Oh, we get a lot of lost tourists around 'ere, mostly cyclist, like yourselves, but also a lot of Americans. They come 'ere for the history – medieval castles and ancient Viking burial mounds and whatnot, y'know. So, where are you lads 'eadin'?'
'We're trying to get to Hawes, in the Yorkshire Dales. We're planning to follow the route of the Tour de France, though not as fast as those guys!'
'Oh, well, you're not so far out of your way. I can draw you a map, if you like.
'Oh, we've got a OS map,' the second man piped up. 'If you could just show us where we are now, on our map, that would be really helpful.'
He went to his bike and pulled an Ordinance Survey map out of one of the paniers, slung either side of the rear wheel. Looking around for somewhere to open the map out, he spotted the black SUV parked in the far corner of the car park and strode towards it. The woman followed and, in doing so, failed to notice the first man take a photo of the SUV, on his mobile phone, and send it in a text to the contact number he had been given.
The text alert on Anthea's phone pinged and she opened the message. Turning to her left, she nudged John Watson on the arm and showed him the photo of the SUV. He looked at it closely and then nodded his agreement. He was sure it was the same one that he had seen at the deserted hospital the night before. Anthea showed the photo to Mycroft, next, and he nodded. She forwarded it to Agent Delaney, along with the message, 'Send in the clowns'.
Mycroft sat back in his seat, considering the ramifications of this new information. If Moran and his men were still in situ, in the Yorkshire Dales, they could wrap this up without having to risk the safely of the good citizens of Bayswater. But he could not afford to make that assumption yet. So, the London operation was still on the cards and he still needed to crack Sherlock's code. He resumed his mental dissection of the email message and hoped for a flash of inspiration.
ooOoo
Many thanks to Sherlockology for the details about Leinster Gardens and to my son, an avid cyclist, for the cycling knowledge.
BTW - Someone asked me a while ago which actor I would like to play Arthur, if he was a real canon character. Well, I have found the very person! Iwan Rheon IS the Arthur in my head, apart from being about 5 inches too short. So, Moftiss, when you shoot my episode, you know who to cast! (If only!)