No triggers, folks!

Chapter Forty Five

John Watson had been in the Control Vehicle, parked just around the corner from Leinster Gardens, for what seemed like hours, listening to a load of incomprehensible encoded chatter though a set of head phones and staring at a bank of monitors which all showed a darkened street, from a variety of angles. Except for the occasional passer-by, the street was deserted.

He had almost nodded off a couple of times, through tiredness and inactivity, and was wondering how much longer this waiting would go on when the chatter suddenly became rather animated and the image on one of the monitors changed to an entirely different view. It took him a moment to realise that this was not a new perspective on Leinster Gardens but a different street altogether and it took him another few moments to recognise the new street.

'That's Carlton House Terrace,' he exclaimed. 'Why are we..?' he began but the camera angle changed and a vehicle came into shot, causing the words to dry. The black and white image had no soundtrack and the windows of the vehicle were tinted so there was no way of knowing whether there was anyone inside until the near side rear passenger door opened and a rather large, broad shouldered figure stepped out, followed by a taller but much more slight figure.

As the second passenger stood upright, the far side rear door opened and another thick set man emerged but John barely noticed him as he focused on the slimmer man.

'That's Sherlock! What's he doing there?'

'Are you certain it's him, Dr Watson?' the Operation Coordinator asked him.

'Absolutely,' John replied.

'Scramble to Location B,' the man almost shouted into the microphone of his head set.

Even as he spoke, the images on all the other monitors sprang to life as half a dozen white vans containing Special Ops personnel started their engines and exited the area via the most convenient route. The Control Vehicle did not move, however. It stayed exactly where it was but, as the other vehicles moved off, all the images changed to show a number of locations in and around London W1.

John continued to concentrate on the screen that showed his friend striding along the pavement, flanked by the two men built like WWF wrestlers, up to the grand portico of The Diogenes Club. John was very familiar with that door. He had been summoned there on many an occasion and he had gone there of his own accord a time or two. None of these visits had been particularly enjoyable.

He watched as Sherlock opened the door, turned to his companions and put a finger to his lips. John shook his head at the audacity of the consulting detective. Even in a life and death situation – as this surely was – he could not resist showing his utter contempt for lesser members of humanity. One of these days, Holmes, you will piss off the wrong person, John mused, as the party of three disappeared from view.

'Why aren't we moving?' Dr Watson asked, anxious to be where the action was, especially now that he knew that Sherlock was there, too.

'We don't need to go there,' the OC explained. 'We can direct operations just as well from here and if we start to move we may lose the satellite signal and all our communications would go down.'

John nodded. He could see the sense in that.

The seconds ticked by and the view of the street outside the club remained static and uneventful, in stark contrast to all the other images which showed a variety of police and military vehicles manoeuvring into position at key locations in and around the new Ground Zero, The Diogenes Club. John watched as the area became well and truly locked down.

'Where did all these trucks come from?' he asked the Operation Coordinator.

'St James Park, sir. We received intel regarding an alternative target location. We positioned resources appropriately. Now we have moved them into their active positions.

'So that Volkswagen is boxed in, is it? Can't possibly slip the net?' John probed, seeking confirmation, and shamelessly mixing his metaphors.

'Not unless he can fly,' the other man replied, rather smugly.

A movement in the top left hand corner of the centre screen caught John's eye and he saw a double line of Special Ops personnel appear from one of the side roads and begin to pour into the street, behind the Volkswagen.

'Sent in the cavalry, have you?' he began, jokingly, but sobered immediately when the target vehicle suddenly burst into life and began to reverse at speed towards the advancing troops. The front end of the vehicle swung round dramatically, as the rear tyres smoked, and the Touareg shot forward, scattering the men in black, who dived out of the way.

'He has other ideas,' John observed, blandly.

'He won't get far,' the other man declared. 'All the exits are blocked and that road is a dead end.'

'Are you sure about that?' John asked, as the getaway vehicle accelerated towards the double metal gates at the end of the street and smashed through them, knocking both gates off their hinges and leaving them to fall at crazy angles as the car disappeared into some bushes.

Mr Smug swore under his breath then began to gabble jargon into his microphone whilst the view on the main monitor changed to an overhead perspective, tracking the speeding Touareg through the grounds of Carlton House, the building for which the terrace was named.

'Where's that image coming from?' John asked, utterly fascinated by all the technology arrayed before him. 'Have you got a helicopter in the air?'

'No, sir, that's from the satellite,' his companion explained, in between giving a running commentary to the troops on the ground about the movements of the Touareg. As the Operation Coordinator spoke, the other vehicles began to manoeuvre again, regrouping, repositioning, reforming the net.

John was stunned. The aerial view was so clear, so detailed. It was hard to imagine that the images were being captured by a camera up in space.

His host continued,

'The satellite is in geostasis above London. It's one of our main anti-terror resources. We can focus in on any part of the city in seconds.'

'Remind me never to pee in the street,' John commented, ruefully, and the other man grinned.

'He can go one of two ways now,' the OC mused. 'Either way, we can kettle him. Ah, he's heading for the A4. That's just fine.'

He passed on the information to the other vehicles and John watched on the bank of monitors as they all converged on the Victoria Memorial in front of Buckingham Palace. Some went straight past, up Constitution Hill and formed a road block, just out of sight of the roundabout. The rest turned left, in front of the palace and pulled up, side by side, masked by the elaborate memorial to Queen Victoria, and lay in wait for the approaching Touareg.

'How do you know he won't go down Birdcage Walk?' John asked.

'There is an outside chance but, if he does, we have a couple of armoured cars in reserve, in St James's Park, who will drive him off the road if they have to.'

But even as the other man said this, having barged its way through the light late-evening traffic on the Mall, the Touareg turned right at the Memorial and drove straight into the trap. John wondered whether the driver would try to crash through, which would have been madness but who knew?

However, he didn't. The driver hit the brakes and, engulfed in billows of tyre smoke, the Volswagen screeched to a halt just a few feet from the road block. A tightly-formed group of paramilitary personnel appeared from behind the road block and advanced on the Touareg and its occupants, weapons all trained on the people inside the car.

'Game over,' John exclaimed, with a grin.

'Job done,' his companion confirmed and offered him a high five, which he accepted.

ooOoo

'Mission accomplished,' Mycroft murmured, with a self-satisfied smile, closing his phone and returning it to his inside breast pocket. Looking across at Sherlock, he added,

'John Watson is on his way here. He had a grandstand seat for the operation and seems to have enjoyed it immensely.'

Sherlock shrugged. He was glad someone was having a good time. Sadly, he didn't share that sentiment. He was actually feeling rather sorry for himself, since the pain in both his throat and ribs had intensified as the adrenalin in his bloodstream had diminished. He was loath, however, to admit as much to his brother since he knew he would only get a lecture of the 'I told you so' variety.

Instead, he held out the now-empty whiskey glass and inclined his head toward the decanter on the sideboard. It was the most readily available source of pain relief and he intended to make good use of it. Mycroft pursed his lips, in disapproval, but got up and obliged him with a refill.

While he was doing that, Sherlock took the pad and pen from his pocket and scribbled a note. When Mycroft returned with the whiskey, he showed it to him.

I know what has unhinged Arthur, it read.

Mycroft frowned.

'Is it what I suspect?'

Sherlock wrote again.

I'm not a mind-reader.

And then:

They showed him some cleverly manipulated sex tapes with you in the starring role.

'There must be more to it than that,' Mycroft replied. 'Who were my co-stars?'

Your butler, your Estate Manager and me!

Mycroft looked genuinely shocked.

They were very good, Sherlock wrote again, reading in his brother's eyes the undisguised hurt that Arthur could have believed him capable of such indiscretion or depravity

If I didn't know better, I might have been convinced. Obviously, the one of you and me was a giveaway. I'm sure I would have remembered!

'Where are these sex tapes?' Mycroft asked, his lip curling with disgust at even having to say the words.

At the house in Middleham. They are DVD's, actually, not tapes.

Mycroft took out his phone again and dialled Delaney's number.

'There are some DVD's at the house in Yorkshire. I want them brought straight to me.'

He paused, listening to the reply.

'No, have them taken to my house in Hertfordshire. I will be going back there tonight.'

Another pause, then,

'Yes, please, have those brought there, too. Yes, and those. No, I want the originals, not copies. I will pass them on to the relevant authorities when I've looked at them, fear not. Yes, and good work, Delaney, you've done an excellent job.'

Closing the call, he turned back to Sherlock.

'A courier will deliver those DVD's tonight, along with some security footage from the house cameras. And, you'll be pleased to hear, your clothes.'

'Ah, John, how good of you to join us,' he added, as the door to the private room opened and John Watson entered.

Sherlock glanced up as his friend crossed the floor toward him, with relief etched on his face. For an uncomfortable moment, he feared that John might actually hug him but the doctor must have recognised the look of alarm in the detective's eyes at the prospect and commuted the gesture to a hand shake. But he did grip Sherlock's hand really firmly and shook it for an inordinately long time, fervently demanding,

'Are you alright?'

'He has an injury to his throat,' Mycroft supplied. 'Perhaps you could take a look, doctor?'

'What happened to you?' John asked Sherlock.

'Someone tried to strangle him,' his brother replied.

'Well, I can sympathise with that,' John muttered, taking his penlight torch from his pocket. 'Ok, open wide,' he instructed his friend.

Sherlock scowled at him, annoyed by the sardonic remark, but opened his mouth, rather reluctantly, and let the doctor peer down his throat.

'Hmm,' John said, in the manner of physicians everywhere. He reached into his jacket pocket and took out a pen, using it as a tongue depressor, while Sherlock glared at him, feeling ridiculous. After a few more 'hmmm's, John removed the pen and Sherlock clamped his mouth shut.

'Well, it looks rather red and angry but you need a laryngoscopy, really, to see what's going on down there.'

'Well, there's a stroke of luck,' Mycroft remarked. 'I know just the man.'

Sherlock rolled his eyes and took another swig of whiskey. He hated being at the mercy of other people's decision-making but he was also concerned about the state of his larynx. The pain was not decreasing, despite the whiskey.

ooOoo

In the Summer Drawing Room at Colbert House, Molly and Mary, having put their children to bed, sat in front of the TV, sipping tea – courtesy of Mrs Orgreave, the cook - and trying to watch a historical drama, though neither of them could really concentrate on the action on the screen. Their own lives were far more dramatic than anything the characters in the show had to contend with.

Molly's phone sounded with Mycroft's ring tone.

The two women exchanged a look of concern as Molly took her phone out of her pocket. She hesitated, not pressing 'Answer', fearful of what dire news the caller might be about to deliver.

'Here, Mary, you answer it, please!' Molly blurted, passing the mobile to her friend. The other woman pressed the dreaded button and put the phone to her ear.

'Molly's phone,' she announced, apprehensively.

'Ah, good evening, Mrs Watson, I trust that my staff are taking good care of you and your daughter? Are you finding your accommodation satisfactory?'

'Yes on both counts, Mr Holmes, thank you. We're most grateful to you for inviting us to stay here,' Mary replied.

'Not at all, madam. All gratitude is owed to you for helping out during our current family crisis. Is Molly nearby?' Mycroft enquired, suspecting that Mary had been delegated the task of phone answering.

'She's sitting right next to me,' Mary advised him.

'Then please put her mind at ease by telling her that Sherlock is safe – and sitting right next to me.'

'He's safe!' Mary exclaimed, tears starting in her eyes at the expression of overwhelming relief on Molly's face. She passed the phone back into her friend's trembling hand and Molly spoke into it.

'Is he there, Mycroft? Can I speak to him?' she gulped.

'Yes, my dear, he is right here and you can speak to him but he, unfortunately, cannot speak back to you,' Mycroft replied, somewhat enigmatically.

'Oh, God! Is he hurt? Is he unconscious?' Molly gasped, full of trepidation once again.

'He is as fully conscious as he ever is,' Mycroft quipped, his humour reassuring Molly that the situation could not be too serious, 'but he has an injury to his throat which makes speech rather painful.'

'Has he seen a doctor?' Molly asked.

'Not yet, apart from Dr Watson of course, but as luck would have it one of our club members is an ENT specialist and has agreed to see us in his surgery as soon as we can attend there. We are on our way to Harley Street, even as I speak to you.'

'That's very kind of him,' Molly declared, feeling a mixture of concern that Sherlock was injured and relief that treatment was pending. 'Could I speak to my husband, please?' she asked.

'Of course, Molly, here he is,' Mycroft exclaimed and passed the mobile to his brother, who was hunched up in the corner of the back seat of the staff car. John had chosen to sit next to the driver to escape Sherlock's morose scowling and, having succumbed to the comfort and warmth of the luxury car, was quietly dozing.

'Sherlock, don't try to speak, just listen,' Molly began. 'I'm sorry you're hurt and I'm hugely relieved that you are free again but you and I need to talk. Not now, of course, but as soon as you are able. Tap on the microphone if you understand.'

There was a short pause and then Molly heard the distinct sound of tapping.

'Good. Now, I will be asking Mycroft for a full report with regards to what the doctor has to say so don't imagine for one moment that you can trivialise the seriousness of this injury or the nature of the treatment, understand?'

Another bout of tapping followed.

'Good, again. Now, the children are in bed but William has been very concerned about you and trying very hard not to show it so I am going upstairs now to tell him that you're safe. I will give him your love, shall I?'

Slow, thoughtful tapping.

'I won't tell him you'll be back tonight, just in case the doctor has other ideas. And if he does decide you need to go to hospital, you will do as he says.'

This was not a question. She listened - and nodded with satisfaction when the sound of reluctant tapping came from the phone.

'OK, excellent, I'm glad we understand each other,' she declared, with another nod. 'And I love you,' she added, in a softer tone.

Three more taps sounded.

She heard Mycroft's voice, in the background, announce,

'We're here.'

'Good luck, darling,' she whispered and closed the call.

ooOoo

Sherlock shut off the phone and handed it back to his brother before following him from the car, across the pavement and up the steps to the front door of the doctor's surgery. He was in a thoughtful mood.

Molly's tone of quiet determination had not been lost on him. He knew that his inability to reply was the only thing that had saved him from a long-range roasting. Nevertheless, his wife had opened the batting on what promised to be a tough innings and he could not deny that he deserved everything she hit his way. The fact that Molly had inferred an agenda for their 'talk' was an obvious tactical move, on her part. No amount of flannel would deflect her. This was a stay of execution, not a commutation.

Mycroft rang the doorbell and the brothers were admitted to the premises by the consultant who greeted the elder Holmes like an old friend, which of course he was. They exchanged pleasantries and Mycroft expressed his sincere apologies for the inconvenience of the late hour as Harry Levite conducted them through Reception and the Waiting Room to the inner sanctum of his Consulting Room.

At this point, the doctor, who had completely ignored Sherlock thus far, invited his patient to sit in the treatment chair and the patient's companion to sit on an elegant sofa at the far end of the room.

'So, Mr Holmes, I gather you have been the victim of an attempted strangulation? Let's take a look, shall we, and assess the damage?'

Without further ado, the doctor squirted a spray of local anaesthetic up each of Sherlock's nostrils and down the back of his throat, to desensitize the delicate lining membranes prior to inserting a fibre optic tube through his right nostril into his trachea, guided by the image on the monitor which displayed what the tiny lens at the tip of the filament was picking up.

Sherlock, with his head tilted back in the head rest, could see nothing but the ornate plaster ceiling rose, positioned right above the chair. Neither could he feel anything but a rather vague sensation, as the probe moved passed his epiglottis and into his larynx at the top of the trachea, manipulated by the consultant's practiced hand, but he could hear the man's grunts and other vocalisations in response to what the laryngoscopy revealed.

'Oh, dear,' the doctor murmured, 'what have we here? You have been in the wars. Could you give me an 'ah', Mr Holmes?'

Sherlock took a breath and opened his mouth to say 'Ah' but had barely begun to emit the sound when the doctor exclaimed,

'Stop, stop! No, that's not good. No, no, not good at all.'

The doctor adjusted the probe a little more, to perform a panoramic scan of Sherlock's larynx then withdrew the filament and allowed Sherlock to sit upright, inviting him to take a sip of iced water from a glass he put in the detective's hand. Placing the laryngoscope on a surgical tray, the doctor removed his examination gloves and dropt them into a small yellow bin, on his treatment trolley.

'Please take a seat, gentlemen,' the Consultant invited, indicating two chairs in front of his desk. He sat in his Consulting Chair behind the desk and his glance took in both brothers as he spoke.

'I'll just talk you through the video of the laryngoscopy,' he explained, tapping on the key board of his pc and then turning the monitor so that Sherlock and Mycroft could both see the images displayed there. The doctor pressed 'Play' and then used a pen as a pointer to draw their attention to the salient features.

'This is your larynx, Mr Holmes, and these two pale structures are your vocal folds – or vocal cords, as they are commonly called. As you can see, it's not a pretty sight. There's a great deal of swelling here and there has been a little bleeding, though it's not bleeding now. Your larynx has been subjected to considerable pressure and you have some severe damage here and here.'

'Your vocal folds are not compromised at the moment but the danger is that this sort of injury can lead to infection, which could spread to the vocal folds. Any damage there invariably leads to scarring which would be permanent. However, I am hopeful that we can avoid that, as long as you follow my instructions to the letter.'

Mr Levite looked at his patient to make sure he was paying close attention.

'You must not speak at all for the next five days, to allow these delicate tissues to repair themselves. I can give you some anti-inflammatories to take orally and an antiseptic throat spray, to prevent any infection developing or spreading. No hot food or drink is to be consumed during that time. You must eat soft food only, to avoid any risk of abrasion to your epiglottis. Just imagine you've had a tonsillectomy, Mr Holmes. Lots of jelly and ice cream for you! And drink iced water, frequently, to keep the area cool and reduce the inflammation.'

He waited for Sherlock to acknowledge these instructions but was met with a stony stare. It was left to Mycroft to thank the good doctor for his time, his expertise and his advice.

'I will ensure that my brother adheres to your instructions, Harry, and thank you so much for seeing us at such short notice.'

Sherlock waited by the door to the Consulting Room, looking bored, while the doctor dispensed the anti-inflamatories and the antiseptic spray and exchanged some banalities with his brother. He rather resented the fact that the consultant deferred to Mycroft, as though he were the responsible adult in the room, whilst speaking to himself as if to a naughty child – so he was channelling stroppy teenager.

He tapped his foot, impatiently, to hurry Mycroft along. He was anxious to be on his way to Colbert House, where there was a certain little boy, desperate to see his father return safe and almost sound.

ooOoo

Sorry this chapter has been a while coming but, to compensate, it is extra long!

Laryngoscopy info dredged up from my memory banks, though I was an observer on that occasion, not the patient, thank goodness!