Life After Death - A Post-Reichenbach Trilogy

Part Three – Unfinished Business

Chapter Twelve

Sherlock's iPhone rang out. He switched it straight to speaker and said,

'Sherlock Holmes.'

'Do you love your son, Mr Holmes?'

The voice was distorted, disguised, filtered through some electronic process to render it unrecognisable. It could not even be identified as male or female, but Sherlock thought he detected a hint of a Dublin accent and was in no doubt as to the identity of the caller.

'I will not dignify that question with an answer,' he stated, his tone acid.

'Then I imagine you would be willing to do anything in order to secure his freedom,' the caller replied.

'How do I know you really have him?' Sherlock challenged.

Almost immediately, his phone beeped with a text alert. He flicked over to 'Message' and opened the text. William's face gazed at him, his eyes, luminous with unshed tears, staring from a very grubby face, stained by the tracks of tears previously shed. Sherlock strained to keep all emotion out of his voice.

'What did you have in mind?' he asked.

'I'm willing to consider an exchange,' came the reply.

'I'm listening,' Sherlock countered.

'I'm sending you a map reference, Mr Holmes. You will come there and I will exchange your son for you,' the voice continued.

'I see a fatal flaw in your plan already,' Sherlock replied, increasing the acidity still more. 'Do you expect my two year old to find his way home on his own?'

'If you will allow me to continue, Mr Holmes, I will explain how this exchange is to be conducted.' The voice sounded a little agitated.

Sherlock waited in silence for the explanation.

'Your associate, Dr Watson, will accompany you to the meeting place and he will take responsibility for the child. You will come with me. Do you approve this arrangement?' the voice asked.

'I hardly think the word 'approve' is appropriate but I do accept your terms,' Sherlock answered.

'Be warned, Mr Holmes. There is to be no police presence. At the first sign of any boys in blue, the meeting will be cancelled and you will not see your child again – alive, at least.'

'Send the map reference,' Sherlock snapped and closed the connection.

The silence in the room burst, in a flurry of activity. The officers charged with the task of tracing the call began furiously tapping the keys of their computers, Sgt Donovan began speaking urgently into her phone, DI Lestrade turned to Sherlock and John, shaking his head, about to launch into a strong argument against the meet but Sherlock silenced him with a raised hand. He was going to keep this appointment, regardless of what anyone else might say.

At that moment, his text alert sounded again and he opened the message. A grid reference appeared on the screen and the words:

Come at once.

ooOoo

John and Sherlock sat side by side in the back of the black cab, Sherlock gazing out of the window at the passing scenery, John glancing repeatedly at his friend, worry etched in every line of his face.

'You do understrand that this is a trap, don't you, Sherlock?' John finally blurted out.

'Of course,' Sherlock replied and lapsed back into silent contemplation of the scenic beauty of the A1089, approaching Tilbury Docks. The taxi slowed and turned right off Ferry Road, into a seemingly derelict industrial estate. On either side of the unnamed road were empty warehouses - decrepit buildings, falling into deeper decay, a 'brown field' site, beloved by property developers everywhere, sitting silent and dark, just waiting to be bought up and redeveloped into stylish homes, out of town shopping centres or leisure parks. With the current recession, this one would probably have a long wait. The cab pulled up outside a large warehouse.

'You sure this is the place, gents?' the cabby asked, dubiously.

Sherlock was already out of the cab, as soon as it stopped moving. John assured the cabby that this was the place, paid him the hefty fare and thanked him for his trouble, advised the man that he did not need to wait and got out of the cab. The vehicle drove off and Sherlock and John were left in the gathering gloom of the early evening. As the red tail lights of the departing cab disappeared from view, Sherlock's text alert sounded.

'Here at last,' it read. 'Come inside, Mr H.'

The two men walked toward the enormous doors of the warehouse, designed to allow access for lorries and other large vehicles. These were securely locked but a pedestrian door allowed them access. They stepped through the door and paused so their eyes could adjust to the dim interior of the abandoned warehouse.

Inside was a large open expanse, with a triple height ceiling, punctuated by shattered sky lights, which allowed a view of the early evening stars, just becoming visible, in the darkening sky. The concrete floor was littered with the detritus of the building's former purpose - including abandoned forklift trucks and stacks of empty wooden pallets. In the gloomy recesses of the warehouse, they could discern a sort of prefabricated shed, which presumably had been the nerve centre of this operation, when it had been a thriving business.

Sherlock's phone chirruped again. The message read, 'Dr Watson will wait by the doors. You will keep walking forward.'

Sherlock signalled for John to stay put whilst he continued to advance into the middle of the internal space. A movement near the 'office' caught his eye. A figure stepped out of the shadows, into view.

It was a female shape but it was not Molly. The person was holding William by the hand and the little boy trailed behind, confused and listless, passively accepting whatever his fate might be. The gap between Sherlock and the kidnapper and her victim had closed to about forty yards when the woman suddenly called out,

'Stop there, Sherlock Holmes!'

Sherlock halted, noting that William's chin lifted slightly at the sound of his father's name.

'I'm going to send the child to you,' Bernadette declared. 'You may say your goodbyes but don't take all day. Send him on to Dr Watson,' she barked.

She released William's hand and gave him a push in the back. He stumbled forward, under the force of the push, but came to a halt, not sure what he was supposed to do. Sherlock went down on one knee and, spreading his arms wide, called out,

'William! Come to daddy!'

The little boy looked, expectantly, in the direction of the voice and began to run towards the sanctuary of his father's open arms. As he came close, Sherlock reached forward and scooped William up, pulling him into his embrace, as a surge of emotion rose from the depths of his soul.

But, even as he clasped the child to his heart, he caught a sharp movement in the corner of his eye, as the woman's arm came up, extended forward, with the glint of dull metal at its extremity. As Sherlock rose to his feet, holding William tight, he spun on his axis, to place his own body between the child and the woman.

A gun shot sounded, its sharp crack amplified by the hollow interior of the building, causing Sherlock's ears to ring. Almost instantly, he felt the impact of a bullet, hitting him between his shoulder blades with the force of a wrecking ball, hurling him forward. As he was thrown through the air, he twisted like a tumbler to land on his back, with the little boy on top of him. He hit the concrete ground so hard that stars exploded in his vision and he began to lose consciousness, though he fought, with every ounce of strength he could muster, to maintain control of all his faculties.

As the sound of the first shot rang in his ears, a second shot reverberated from the walls, floor and ceiling of the empty building. The woman was hit in the shoulder and spun around, as she was thrown backwards, onto the ground. Then the scene erupted into motion as uniformed police seemed to pour in from every direction.

Several officers, carrying assault rifles, converged on the recumbent woman, kicking the gun out of her reach and taking aim, as they stood over her. Two plain clothed figures ran toward Sherlock, lying motionless, with his arms spread-eagled, but they were beaten, by a long stretch, by John Watson, who charged from the doorway, sliding to a halt, crouched over his fallen friend. Sherlock was not moving and his eyes were staring blankly at the ceiling above.

'Sherlock! Sherlock! Can you hear me?' John hissed, urgently, pressing his first and second finger tips to the pulse point under Sherlock's jaw. There was a strong, rapid pulse. Sherlock began to gasp and cough, fighting for breath, and William, clinging like a limpet to his father's chest, was bounced up and down by the wracking coughs. John peeled William off his father and, with comforting words, held him close. DI Lestrade and Sgt Donovan reached Sherlock's side and John passed the child over to the woman police officer, who hugged him and rocked him, reassuringly.

The double impact of the bullet and the hard floor had knocked all the air out of Sherlock's lungs and shocked his diaphragm into spasm, making it difficult to draw a breath but normal function was beginning to return. His ears were still ringing, and he couldn't hear what anyone was saying, but his vision was clearing and he could see John's lips moving. He reached out and caught John by the shoulder, trying to pull himself up to a sitting position, feeling exposed and vulnerable lying on the floor.

'Steady on, Rambo. You've just been whacked by a semi-automatic high velocity bullet and thrown about ten yards across a concrete floor. I'd stay down, if I were you. Thank God for Kevlar,' he added, as an aside, to DI Lestrade.

'Where's Molly?' Sherlock rasped. 'Have they found her?'

'Still searching,' Lestrade advised

The final whoop of an ambulance siren, announced the arrival of the first crew of paramedics, who were directed to attend to the kidnapper, still under armed guard on the other side of the building.

'Has she said anything? Ask her where Molly is!' Sherlock wheezed.

'Just as soon as we can,' Lestrade insisted. 'We can't interrogate her 'til she's had medical attention. Good shot, John, by the way. That distance in this light, I don't know how you did it but you managed to hit her clean in the shoulder, nowhere near any vital organs. You're a useful man to have around. But, please, let's keep it between ourselves that you carried and discharged an unlicensed weapon in a public place.'

'I don't know what you're talking about, Greg. Your marksman did a great job, tonight,' John replied, the epitome of innocence.

Sherlock pushed John away and struggled to his feet. He removed his coat and jacket with difficulty, as his hands still shook in reaction to the physical shock to his body. John helped him unfasten the Kevlar vest then insisted on inspecting the bullet's impact area, under his shirt. There was a large reddened patch on his upper back, which would become a very angry bruise over the next few hours.

'Where's William?' Sherlock asked, as he buttoned his coat back up.

'He's fine. He's with Sally. She's very good with children,' Lestrade added, at the look on Sherlock's face.

'The paramedics are giving him the once over,' John explained, 'and they need to see you, too. Come on.'

He virtually dragged Sherlock over to the ambulance, and sat him down, on the steps, to allow the paramedics to check his vital signs and treat the large swelling on the back of his head, where it had hit the concrete floor with such force. Examinations complete, father and son were reunited.

'This baby should go to hospital. He's very dehydrated and by the look and smell of him, he's had a bit of a rough few days. He could go into shock,' the lady in the fluorescent paramedic's jacket advised.

'Don't you have any Dioralyte?' Sherlock asked, rather abruptly. The woman nodded and took a sachet of powder out of a drawer, mixed it with water in a cup with a spout and gave it to Sherlock, to feed to his son, He looked into William's face, which had been wiped clean of the tear stains.

'Are you OK, Will?' Sherlock whispered. The little boy nodded and leaned in to his father's warm shoulder. Sherlock sat hugging his son, both wrapped in a shock blanket, whilst the Port of London and Met police, partners in this joint operation, continued to search the area for Molly. When the ambulance had to leave, Sherlock moved to Lestrade's unmarked police car.

ooOoo

After an hour of thorough searching, it was clear to Sherlock that Molly was not here. He knew they were wasting valuable time. All they had found was a blue Ford Transit van, the one shown in the photograph obtained from the Hilton Park Services CCTV, featuring Bernadette Jamieson.

The rear compartment showed evidence of recent occupation, not the least being some lengths of twine attached to an internal strut and scuff marks where someone had apparently crouched on the floor. To Sherlock, it was obvious that these marks had been made by someone imprisoned in the van, and that that person was Molly, but she was not there now.

Her image, from the texted photograph, was burned on his internal monitor. The longer it took to find the mother of his child, the less likely it was that the outcome would be favourable. He was tormented by fear for her welfare and this boiled over into anger and frustration. Suddenly, he could stand it no longer. Getting out of the car, he strode over to Lestrade, with William on his hip.

'We need to talk to that woman. She has to tell us where Molly is!' he growled, through gritted teeth.

'I need to talk to her, Sherlock, not 'we'. And there are rules about interrogating wounded prisoners. Any break with protocol and the evidence is inadmissible,' Lestrade insisted.

'And which is preferable,' Sherlock snarled, 'inadmissible evidence in a trial for kidnapping or admissible evidence in a murder trial? We don't have time for rules!'

Lestrade had to concede it was a valid point. He heaved a sigh of resignation and called Sally Donovan over.

'We need to go to the hospital, see if we can get anything out of Rosa Cleb,' he told her and waved to John to come, too, as they all climbed into his car.

Lestrade drove and Sgt Donovan rode shotgun, as they headed back along the A1089, away from Tilbury Docks and back towards the A13 and London. John and Sherlock sat in the back seat of the police vehicle, with William in his father's arms, his head resting against Sherlock's chest, listening to the reassuring rhythm of his heartbeat. Eyes wide in the gloom of the car, he watched the lights from the street lamps wax and wane.

Sherlock rubbed his cheek against the top of William's head, aware of the pungent scent of stale urine that pervaded his hair and clothes. Suddenly, he felt William tense. The little boy pushed himself up from Sherlock's chest, gazing intently out of the side window of the moving car. He turned his face to look at his father then turned back to the window and, raising his arm, pointing his out-stretched finger at the passing scenery. Sherlock looked in the direction of the child's pointing finger and saw that they were moving past a huge shipping container storage facility.

'What is it, William?' Sherlock asked.

'Mummy,' the little boy whimpered.

'Stop the car!' Sherlock shouted, urgently. 'Stop the car now!'

Lestrade slammed on the breaks and steered to the curb, as following vehicles hooted angrily and veered wildly to avoid colliding with the rapidly decelerating police vehicle. As the car screeched to a halt, Lestrade looked at Sherlock in the rear view mirror.

'What the hell's the matter?' he demanded.

'She's over there. In the container park. There!' Sherlock barked.

'How can you possibly know that?' Lestrade retorted.

'William told me!'

'What? Sherlock, he's just a baby! How…' Lestrade began to protest.

'He's not just a baby, he's MY baby!' snapped Sherlock. 'He notices things. He works things out! Get us into that park!'

Lestrade was momentarily shocked by the vehemence of the detective's outburst but he recovered quickly and, pulling away from the curb, drove down to the container park turn-off and up to the check point. He showed his warrant card to the security guard on duty and the man raised the barrier, to let them drive in.

'Pull in here!' Sherlock ordered, indicating a layby, just inside the entrance. The car had barely rolled to a stop when he opened the rear passenger door and jumped out, with William in his arms. He walked out into the middle of the road, a little away from the car, as the others were climbing out of the vehicle. He turned to his son, sat in the crook of his arm.

'Which way, Will?' he asked, quietly, encouragingly. William pointed down the main road through the park and said,

'Down dere. Mummy down dere.'

Sherlock began to walk down the central route, stopping at every intersection and asking William which way. At each junction, William looked around carefully, studying his surroundings, then pointed one way or another, and Sherlock walked in that direction. John and Lestrade came hurrying after but the DI had to voice his scepticism again.

'What if this is a wild goose chase, Sherlock. Aren't we just wasting time?'

Sherlock rounded on him.

'This is not a wild goose chase. William says his mother is here. And he has been here before. He recognised it. Now, instead of really annoying me, why don't you go and ask that Security Guard to check the gate log and see if that blue ford transit has been in here at all during the last few days, huh?'

John carefully manoeuvred himself between the two men and, laying a hand on Sherlock's arm, said,

'Come on, mate, just calm down. We're all on the same side, here.'

'Actually, Sally is doing just that, right now,' Lestrade muttered, defiantly.

Sherlock turned away and continued his walk down the road, just as Sally Donovan came running up to her boss, saying,

'It's a positive, sir. The van has been in and out of here several times during the last week, at least once a day, sometimes more. It's registered to a charity that collects used clothes to ship them abroad to disaster areas. They own a number of containers stored in the park. Security gave me a list.'

Lestrade looked at the list of serial numbers and their locations.

'But these are all on the other side of the park. Sherlock, we're looking in the wrong place…'

'You go and check them out, then,' Sherlock snarled, then muttered, 'if it'll keep you out of my way.' He walked on. John hurried after him and pulled him round by his elbow. Sherlock glared at him but he pressed on anyway.

'Sherlock, you are staking a great deal on the testimony of a two year old child. Can you not see how irrational this looks?'

'I can see how it looks to you, John,' he snapped, in exasperation. 'But, you know what, when I was a kid, I noticed things, too, but nobody ever took me seriously. They never believed me or even gave me the benefit of the doubt. I remember what that felt like. It felt like shit and I'm not going to do that to him.' Again, he turned and walked on.

At the next junction, Sherlock stopped once more. William, after a good look in all four possible directions, pointed to the right and Sherlock moved off that way. Sally Donovan had been busy mustering the troops and there were several police vehicles manoeuvring round the container park, as Sherlock and William travelled deeper in amongst the rows and rows of containers, stacked three high on all sides.

They came, at last, to another junction and Sherlock stopped but William looked uncertain. He could not decide which way to go. There were so many containers and they all looked the same, except for the colours and the serial numbers written large, in black paint on their doors. William began to look distressed. Sherlock hugged him close and said,

'It's fine, Will, just fine. You've done a great job, this far. Now, listen to daddy. Can you remember the colour of the place where mummy is? What colour is it?'

William closed his eyes, just as Sherlock himself was wont to do, when he visited his Mind Palace. John, still following behind, watched this pantomime with a sense of foreboding. Was the world really ready for another Consulting Detective, especially one that was not even three years old? Then William opened his eyes and said.

'Red!'

'Red? Like this?' Sherlock pointed to a container nearby, showing red under the bright security lights of the park.

'Yet, li'e dat. Red,' William confirmed, then added, 'Mytoff Red.'

The two men peered at the child, each wondering what this new piece of information could mean. What did Mycroft have to do with any of this? John turned as Lestrade approached.

'Anything?' he asked, referring to the containers, rented by the charity, that were being checked out on the other side of the park. Lestrade shook his head – all full of used clothes and nothing else, so far.

Sherlock turned to Lestrade and said,

'We need back up. We need to search the whole of this section. Get some sniffer dogs, and Customs and Excise guys with those carbon dioxide detectors that they use to find illegal immigrants in the backs of lorries. And tell them to concentrate on the red ones.'

'Look, Sherlock, this is a huge place, this park,' Lestrade reasoned. 'It could take days to do a thorough search and we just don't have….'

This was one objection too many for Sherlock. He snapped.

'So stop wasting FUCKING time and call in some FUCKING back up!'

In all the time that Lestrade had known Sherlock Holmes he had never heard him swear – ever - so it was particularly shocking to hear him shout these words right in his face.

John stepped in front of his friend and pushed him away from the DI.

'Ok, Sherlock, that's enough. You're frightening the baby.'

Sherlock looked into his son's wide staring eyes and felt instantly mortified. He hugged him tighter and whispered,

'I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so, so sorry.'

William wrapped his arms around his father's neck and said,

'Don' cry, daddy. Mummy come soon.'

John patted his friend's arm in sympathy and wished he had the ability to sniff out carbon dioxide, himself.

'We will find her, Sherlock,' he said.

'I know we'll find her, John, because I know she is here but I wonder, will we find her in time?' Sherlock replied, his voice cracking.

John looked back up the road, in the direction that Lestrade had taken, after Sherlock's outburst. He saw a sleek black car gliding noiselessly towards them. It drew to a sedate halt and the chauffeur jumped out to open the rear passenger door so that Mycroft Holmes could step out. Friends in high places, thought John. We won't want for resources now.

After a brief conflab with Lestrade, Mycroft came over to John and Sherlock and took charge of his brother. He took him and his nephew and installed them in the comfortable interior of the limo. After a short discussion with Sherlock, it was agreed that a car would be sent for Mrs Hudson and that she should take William home to Molly's flat, which had been cleared for reoccupation, and get him fed, bathed and put to bed.

In less than an hour, Mrs Hudson arrived and took the child, who had fallen asleep in his father's arms. Sherlock and Mycroft then sat in silence in the back of the plush saloon whilst John sat up front, next to the driver and they waited.

Eight dog teams had arrived, in the meantime and spread out through the park, looking for evidence of human occupation, and the C and E guys were busy pushing their CO2 probes into all the red containers, extending out in a regular spiral pattern from the point where William had lost his bearings.

It was just over an hour later when a shout went up. John jumped from the car and ran off to find out what was happening. Within seconds he was back.

'They've found something,' he said.

Sherlock was out of the car and running towards the source of the consternation. He arrived at the large red container, just as they were swinging open the door, having sawn through the lock. Written in foot high characters on the door of the box was the serial number MY-65832. William had been right on both counts – Mycroft Red.

One of the officers shone a torch into the dark interior and it illuminated a body, huddled in the far corner, wearing a camel coloured coat, her wrists and ankles bound with cable ties. Sherlock rushed inside and dropped down next to Molly. She felt icy cold – hypothermic. John was right behind him but pushed him out of the way and called for a light so that he could examine her properly.

Her lips were dry and cracked, her skin papery, through dehydration. She had a bruise above her right eyebrow and a cut which had trickled blood down her cheek but it had dried long since. A dark patch on her left cheek turned out to be a smear of chocolate, her wrists and ankles were chaffed raw by the cable ties.

The ties could only be removed with sharp scissors, which John did not have, so they would have to leave them in place for now. Other than that, so far as he could see, she had no obvious injuries, though the dehydration and, most especially, the hyperthermia were more than enough to be going on with.

She needed to get to hospital as soon as possible. John called out for someone to summon the air ambulance. They would need to find a convenient place to land the helicopter and to move Molly to that more open space.

Pulling off his coat, Sherlock laid it on the floor of the container and lifted Molly, very gently, onto it then wrapped her in it, picked her up and carried her, carefully, to Mycroft's car. He climbed in to the back seat, cradling her in his arms. Mycroft flipped down the folding seat behind the driver and sat down whilst John flipped down the one on the passenger side and sat, too.

'She needs water,' John said, urgently, as the chauffeur began to drive slowly back towards the entrance gates, smoothly and evenly, so as not to jar the fragile passenger inside.

Mycroft reached across and opened a minibar in the armrest of the back seat, removed a bottle of spring water, unscrewed the lid and handed it to Sherlock. He tilted the bottle against Molly's parched lips. But they were so dry the water just ran off them and dribbled down her cheek, not penetrating into her mouth.

Sherlock thought for a brief moment, his eyes flicking from side to side in a rapid nystagmus, following his chain of thought, then he took a swig of water from the bottle, placed his mouth over hers, to create a seal, and let the water seep through his lips onto hers. She tasted of chocolate.

As her lips slowly rehydrated, he used the tip of his tongue to ease them apart, so that the water trickled into her mouth, moistening her tongue, which was stuck to her palate. The water seeped to the back of her throat and she swallowed, reflexively. Her eyes flickered open, briefly and she looked into his but without any sign of recognition, then she closed them again.

Taking another swig and then another and another, Sherlock fed Molly a third of the bottle of water, warmed to body temperature inside his mouth, as the car moved toward the main road. The air ambulance helicopter could be seen and heard, circling overhead, turning into the wind in order to land.

ooOoo