Chapter Forty Two

After a four hour drive, the car carrying Sherlock, Colonel Moran, and his close protection personnel approached the slip road to the London Gateway Service Area, on the M1 motorway. At a subtle signal from Moran, the car took the exit and negotiated its way to a remote part of the car park, where it pulled into a parking space and stopped.

Sherlock, who had spent most of the journey in his Mind Palace, looked around at the sparse vegetation bordering the tarmac wasteland and said,

'Oh, are we having a pit stop? Good-oh! I could use a trip to the Gents.'

'No, Mr Holmes, this is not a pit stop, although if you are in need, feel free to irrigate the bushes,' Moran replied, acerbically. 'You do seem to have a bit of a bladder problem, though. When this is all over, you should have your prostate checked.'

'Rather not discuss that, if it's all the same to you,' Sherlock replied, wrinkling his nose at the very idea. 'So, why have we stopped?'

'We're waiting for sunset. It will be dark in about an hour and then we can continue our journey.'

Sherlock shrugged - as much as he was able, due to the broad shoulders of his back seat companions – and gazed nonchalantly through the tinted windows. Each occupied with his own thoughts, assuming they were all capable of coherent thought, though Sherlock had his doubts where his two wing men were concerned, the five occupants of the car sat in silence, until Moran's text alert sounded and broke the mood. He extracted the phone from his breast pocket and checked the message.

'Are you sure we aren't going to Bayswater, Mr Holmes?'

'Quite sure,' Sherlock replied.

'Then perhaps you can explain why my people have intercepted an extraordinary amount of encrypted radio traffic in and around Leinster Gardens, in Bayswater,' the Colonel declared, with more than a touch of sarcasm.

'Ah, yes, I believe I can explain that,' Sherlock replied, with a self-satisfied grin. 'I would call that a diversion.'

'Explain?'

'Well, I assumed that my wife would pass on my message to Mycroft. She doesn't see him in quite the same light as I do. But then, she hasn't had to put up with his interference as long as I have. I knew she would tell him about our little place in Bayswater and that he would act on that information. I imagine that Leinster Gardens is sewn up pretty tight, by now.'

'So how can we go there to retrieve your memory stick?' Moran demanded, feeling thoroughly sick and tired of Sherlock Holmes and his whimsical nature.

'Colonel, have you been listening to me? We are not going to Bayswater. I sent my brother there to keep him occupied while we go and collect what we came for from somewhere else.' Sherlock enunciated the last three words as though talking to a child.

Demeaned in this way, in front of his men, was an insult too far for Moran. He shot a look at the man on Sherlock's right, who opened the rear passenger door on his side and stepped out of the car. As Sherlock turned his head to watch the man exit the vehicle, grateful for the extra space this afforded but apprehensive about what this abrupt departure might presage, he was knocked sideways by Mr BO, on his left, and found himself pinned down on the back seat, with the man's forearm pressing hard on his trachea, crushing his airway. As he stared into the grim face of his assailant, a fist of stone thudded into his ribs once, twice, a third time, forcing the air from his lungs.

Sherlock's left arm was trapped between him and the man on top but he managed to get his other hand to the man's wrist and pushed hard, in an attempt to relieve the pressure on his throat. However, the heavy's full weight was behind that forearm and there was no shifting it. As the pressure built inside his head, Sherlock felt his eyes begin to bulge and his tongue start to protrude from his mouth. The pain in his ribs was nothing compared to the blind panic he felt as he slowly asphyxiated. He began to descend into blackness but the pressure was suddenly released and the other man sat back, opened the car door and climbed out, leaving Sherlock collapsed across the plush upholstery, coughing and gasping for air.

It took a while for him to recover sufficiently to push himself up to sitting, during which time he tried to carry out an internal scan of possible injuries to his ribs, his internal organs and his windpipe. Despite the release of pressure, the pain in his throat was still intense and the coughing did not help. He opened his eyes to find that he and Moran were now alone in the car, the driver having departed at some point during the last few minutes. The two back seat trolls were standing behind the vehicle, smoking.

Sherlock's cigarettes and lighter were in one of his trouser pockets but he somehow thought that smoking would be a bad choice of activity, just now, considering the state of his airways.

Moran was grinning at him and holding out a bottle of water. Sherlock took it grudgingly and unscrewed the lid, taking a swig. To swallow was agony and made him cough again. He tried to curse, but his voice came out as a strangled wheeze – strangled being the operative word. He took another swig, instead.

'I don't know if anyone has ever told you, Mr Holmes, but you can be an annoying little shit,' Moran growled. 'That was just a little hint that my patience may be wearing thin. I've sent my driver off to get us all some coffee – black, two sugars, for you – and to give us a few moments alone for this little chat.'

Sherlock stared back at the man, hugging his ribs with the arm not engaged in holding the water bottle, and took a third swig of the cool water. Moran must have a mini-fridge in here somewhere, he thought, unable to curtail his deductive tendencies, even in such dire circumstances.

'So, if we aren't going to Bayswater, where are we going?' Moran enquired, nonchalantly.

Sherlock tried to speak again but his vocal chords were still compromised and the coughing brought on by the effort only made the sharp pain in his ribs more excruciating. He drank more water.

'Well, at least I've shut you up for the time being,' Moran chortled. Reaching forward, he opened the glove compartment under the dashboard and took out a notebook and pen, which he passed to his passenger in the back seat.

'Here, write it down,' he ordered.

Sherlock took the pad and pen and wrote down the postcode and house number of their destination then passed it back to Moran, who looked at it and frowned.

'And this is where?' he asked, not being familiar with the post code areas of London.

Sherlock took back the pad and pen and wrote the name of the area.

'Oh, Belgravia!' Moran exclaimed. 'Nice! And that is your secret hiding place, is it?'

Sherlock shrugged.

'Well. I look forward to seeing it. Ah, and here's the refreshments,' he commented, as Robinson climbed back into the driver's seat, having given two coffees to the men outside. He gave one to Moran, handed one back to Sherlock and took the last one for himself.

The Consulting Detective took a sip of the hot liquid, leaned back against the head rest and closed his eyes. He had pushed Moran's buttons once too often and paid the price but, in doing so, he thought he might have just persuaded Moran that he was sufficiently cowed not to try anything smart. And that he was on the level and seriously intent on double crossing his brother. Over to you, now, Mycroft, he thought. Please don't let me down.

ooOoo

The helicopter had no sooner touched down at the City Airport in London than the doors were thrown open and the passengers disembarked to transfer to a staff car and be transported to Mycroft's office in Whitehall. John was still adamant that he wanted to take some sort of active role in the events about to unfold. Truth be told, he was feeling a little like a spare part. He was particularly irritated that he had known absolutely nothing about his friend's little pied a terre in Bayswater. He sometimes wondered whether he actually knew Sherlock at all.

'Don't take it personally, John,' Mycroft advised him. 'Sherlock likes to play his cards close to his chest. I don't think anyone, not even Molly, is fully in his confidence. He has never trusted anyone, entirely. You really should be honoured that he allows you as much access as he does.'

Strangely, John did not find any of that remotely comforting.

'If I can't participate, I might as well not be here,' John chuntered.

'Then why not go home and relax?' Mycroft suggested. 'Or, alternately, I could arrange transport for you to Colbert House. You could take care of the ladies and the children, there.'

The prospect of seeing Mary and Lily Rose, not to mention Molly and the Hooper-Holmes children, was tempting but he was loath to leave the scene of the action.

'I'll go to Baker Street and wait there. Just keep me in the loop, will you? And if there should be anything I can do, please let me know,' he insisted. Mycroft instructed the driver to take John on to Baker Street after delivering him and his PA to their destination.

He and Anthea entered the building and made straight for the Incident Room set aside for managing this operation. Agent Delaney was still at his post. No one asked whether he had slept at all since the balloon went up but, had they done so, he would have advised them that he had, on a folding cot, in one of the side rooms.

'Our personnel are in position in and around Leinster Gardens, sir,' Delaney stated, as Mycroft and Anthea entered the room.

Mycroft nodded. It was nothing less than he expected.

'Is there any news from North Yorkshire?' Anthea enquired.

'We are just receiving reports for the Middleham team,' Delaney replied. 'Apparently the place is well fortified, with all manner of security technology, but there is hardly anyone there. The losses they suffered at the old hospital last night must have made quite a dent in their resources.'

'Or they have already dispatched a large contingent down here for tonight's little party,' Mycroft suggested.

'That is entirely possible, sir. Either way, there was only a skeleton crew at the house and they were easily over-whelmed,' Delaney advised.

'And was Moran amongst them?' asked Mycroft.

'No, sir. Neither he nor Alpha Alpha were in situ. But there was evidence to suggest that he had been there,' Delaney added.

Mycroft quirked an eyebrow in response to that nugget of information.

'Yes, sir, the team found some personal items in one of the bedrooms that I have identified as belonging to your brother. His clothes, sir.'

Mycroft found that revelation a little worrying. Knowing how particular Sherlock was about his appearance, he could not imagine him giving up his clothes that easily. Unless he was in disguise. That thought snuck into the Holmsian forebrain unbidden and struck a chord with the last part of Sherlock's email to Molly.

'Sherly xxx'.

Could that be his brother's way of telling them that he was not 'himself' or in some way not looking like himself? 'Sherlock X' might not have looked so out of place to Molly but 'Sherly xxx' certainly aroused suspicions that something was not as it should be.

'I think he must be dressed in combat gear, like one of them,' Mycroft declared.

This would make things rather complicated if the operation degenerated into a fire fight. It would make Sherlock so much harder to spot amongst all the other combatants. No doubt that was Moran's intention. The irony of the Colonel's hostage being the victim of friendly fire was not lost on the Iceman.

But Sherlock must have realised this and made a contingency plan. Mycroft needed to see the original copy of his brother's email – not just the words but the actual script. He must scrutinise it for any odd phrasing that might hold hidden meaning that he had not yet discerned.

Taking out his phone, he called Molly's mobile and was answered almost immediately.

'No, my dear, no news yet, not any that I can divulge, anyway, for reasons of security,' he replied to her whispered plea for information.

'What I need, dear lady, is for you forward to me the email that you received today. I need to see the original text. Could you do that, Molly dear?'

She obviously said yes because he nodded and gave a thin smile, saying,

'As soon as I have any information, you will be the first to know, I do assure you.'

Mycroft hung up and then opened the email app on his phone. The alert sounded immediately and he opened the message, walked to a quiet corner of the room and sat down to study the text in relative peace and solitude.

ooOoo

Molly sent off the email to Mycroft then put her phone back in the pocket of her cargo pants. She caught Mary's eye, across the Summer Drawing Room, where they were sitting waiting for the dinner gong, and gave a slight shake of her head. William looked up from his tablet and furrowed his brow. Mummy was very worried about Daddy, he knew.

Daddy had not phoned or texted since last night. That was most unusual. Uncle Arthur, he knew, was safe now. Mummy had told Katy and Charlie that they would be able to see their Poppah the next day but she had said nothing about his Daddy. So he was obviously not helping Uncle Arthur any more. Auntie Mary had spoken to Uncle John earlier today, so Daddy wasn't with him, either. Mummy always worried about Daddy more when he was on his own.

William looked at Freddie sitting cross-legged on the rug with Lily Rose and his cousins, watching a cartoon dvd on the TV in the corner. His little brother did not seem worried but he wasn't really old enough to notice when Mummy was upset, she was so good at hiding it. Violet, who was asleep upstairs in her travel cot, was missing Daddy too, but she wasn't old enough to be worried about him, either. So, he must keep his concerns to himself and not give Mummy any more worry.

ooOoo