Author's note:
Hi everyone!
Soo...Yup. This is a long one.
This chapter required quite a bit of research as I do like to give authentic information. Hopefully you won't find it boring, I tried to cut parts out or at least to make it shorter but I just couldn't help myself! I was simply so exited to finally get to this part of the fic, although I'm not quite sure how you'll react to this... Hopefully you'll enjoy it.
Anyway, on to the story!
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"Your Excellency, what do you wish to do now?" Roberto enquired.
James Bailiff was sitting on the hospital bed, his head lowered, eyes fixed on the clasped hands on his lap.
"It takes him so bloody little." He muttered under his breath. "So bloody little..."
"Your excellency?"
Fighting the urge to kick something, to shout, to just...Get ANGRY, James stood and walked to the orange daisies Sherlock had bought her. Using a technique he had learned in Japan, the ambassador gently placed his index and thumb on either side of one blossom, holding it closely enough to feel the tips of the flower against his skin, but delicately enough to cause no folding or moving of the petals. In this state of forced lightness, through this excercise of self-control, he felt his heartbeat slow down and his mind become clearer.
"What is that expression Italians use, Roberto? 'Tutto fumo e niente arrosto?' Am I right?"
"Yes, your excellency."
James smiled. It was a fitting way to describe someone or something: all smoke, no roast.
And a girl's got to eat.
James turned his back on the blossoms and left for the consulate.
The orange daisies were left behind in the empty room.
Sherlock was practically running down the hospital corridor, pulling Molly along. They were almost out of the door when she noticed something near the E.R. entrance. "Sherlock, wait!" She called.
"What?" He turned around as she let go of his hand.
After checking that nobody was watching, Molly opened the transparent doors of a cupboard, took one of the extra small first-aid kits and shoved it into her bag.
"Ok. Let's go." She gasped, feeling slightly giddy with the sheer daring of what she had done.
The minutes that followed saw Molly basically just trying to keep up.
After leaving the hospital, Sherlock turned right and went straight ahead. Very soon they reached the Metro in Conciliazione square, where a line of white cabs waited for clients. The consulting detective headed for the first taxi, eyes squinting slightly as he stared at the driver.
"Buongiorno..." The man at the wheel started to say, his original smile fading into a confused-bordering-on-alarmed demeanour as the consulting detective glared intently at him for a moment.
The car was old and had travelled many miles. The smells and conditions of the vehicle confirmed it as a real taxi. The driver on the other hand...Sherlock leaned in through the drivers window and sniffed him.
"Ehi! Che cazzo fai?" The cab driver cried out is surprised anger.
Sherlock turned for a fraction of a second to look into Johns eyes.
That was all he needed.
"Please forgive my cousin, sir. We have just come from the hospital...I hope you understand..." John then used one of the many Italian gestures he had learned: one hand in front of the face with the palm facing the side, then rapidly moved up and down as one might do when swatting at a fly in front of one's eyes.
The cab driver nodded and his frown deepened as he recognised the meaning: he's nuts.
John moved slowly to the passenger door while Sherlock, a vacant expression on his face, started to drool. Spittle fell on the driver's wrist.
"Ma cazzo che schifo!" The Italian swore. "I'm sorry, I cannot give you a ride." He said gruffly, wiping his hands with disinfectant gel.
"Oh, well. We understand. Have a nice day." Sherlock said brightly, smiling cheerfully at the now befuddled driver before walking away, the very picture of a healthy, vigorous young man.
The consulting detective walked past the second taxi in line without a glance, then looked quietly at the third; after a quick perusal, he got in the car. John held the door open for Molly and then followed. It was a tight fit.
"Paolo Lomazzo, per piacere." Sherlock directed the cabbie.
"So, what was wrong with the first car?" Molly asked him, trying to keep her mind off the fact that their legs were touching.
He cleared his throat.
"There was nothing wrong with the cab itself. The multitude of footprints on the floors and seats, the dents on the armrest and the smells confirmed it as an old taxi. The driver, on the other hand, was a different matter entirely. He shows signs of spending many hours behind a wheel, and I would have fallen for it if not for one vital detail." Sherlock looked out of the window.
John sighed. Show off.
"What detail?" The doctor asked, indulging his friend.
"Did you smell the taxi?" Sherlock asked.
Molly blinked, then started when she realised the question was directed at her as a pair of icy-blue eyes pinned her to her seat. "Uhm..."
"Try."
The pathologist closed her eyes, striving to remember something, anything... It is strange how difficult it can be to recall something that happened mere moments earlier.
She had been standing in front of the car and...Oh, yes!
"It smelt a little...Dirty." Molly began hesitantly."Like...Like it hadn't been cleaned in a while?" She looked up nervously at Sherlock.
"Anything else?" He questioned her, for a moment sounding like Doctor Paten when he wanted to see if she remembered the lesson.
"Well, uhm... Cigarette smoke and...I think it was some kind of cheap perfume...That's it." Molly shrugged. "I can't think of anything else, sorry."
"Don't be. The cheap perfume was actually a combination from various women, and you missed 6 other odours, but you go the most important scent: smoke."
"Why is that relevant?" Molly asked, violently repressing the urge to grin inanely at the small praise.
"Well," Sherlock sighed "I sniffed the driver. He's not a smoker, and no non-smoker would allow people to light their cigarettes in his cab. That wasn't the man's taxi. It is likely he had been planted there for us."
"But...He refused to give us a ride! Why would he turn us down if he was supposed to pick us up?" John frowned slightly.
"Simple." The consulting detective leaned back against the seat, closing his eyes. "He thought we'd take the cab behind his-another plant, obviously- and that's why I skipped it."
The cab drove down Corso Sempione, then turned right and made its way to Paolo Lomazzo. At the beginning of the street a huge church towered over the relatively small flats. The taxi stopped in front of the building, and as Molly got out she noticed children playing noisily in the church garden next to a grotto, in front of which old grannies chatted and knitted while sitting on the benches in the shade.
As soon as the car drove off, Sherlock strode down the street in the direction of Paolo Sarpi, the undisputed core of Milan's Chinese district. He looked up while he walked: as expected, there were fewer surveillance cameras here, and it was closed off from traffic...Just what they needed.
Chinatown in Milan is rather low-key now, but its past is more tumultuous than its quiet present implies.
A couple of decades ago, Paolo Sarpi street used to be a vibrant area for shopping fashionistas, where one could find a plethora of fashion stores, selling anything from designer dresses to a vast array of hand-crafted hats and gloves. It was even full of historic shops, some over a century old. There was also a cinema where only...Ahem...'adult' films were screened, but nobody would talk about that trifling matter...
Then, one at a time, the shops started to close and were sold to be replaced by Chinese restaurants, exotic supermarkets and cheap clothes stores where items are bought in bulk. The face of the district changed, becoming completely unrecognisable from the fashionable hub it was just a decade before. Today, only the old bookstore and the small, family-run arts&crafts shop survive, along with the antique drugstore, where the aging owner still creates custom herbal remedies like his grandfather used to do.
As the nature of the district mutated, so did its relationship with the police. Inexorably, the Chinese Mafia gradually oozed into the area like a sickly, venemous squid: its tentacles putrid with gambling, prostitution, usury and human trafficking, ensnaring the victims and drawing them to it in its fateful grasp. Soon matters escalated with reported cases of young men being shot in the streets in the name of the Triad.
Tensions with the local police became dangerously high and finally came to a breaking point, with people protesting in the street and violent confrontations. For weeks shops remained closed in fear of new conflicts as newspapers reported the 'Chinatown revolt'.
Eventually, a begrudging and fragile armistice was reached. The Chinese Mafia is still live and kicking, but has become much more discreet...And harder to eradicate. At the moment, as long as you stay well away from the Triad's business, Chinatown is a very safe place to be, despite the general absence of police.
The sign of a delicate, unspoken non-agression pact.
Now the beating heart of the past conflict, Via Paolo Sarpi, has been turned into a pleasant and innocent-looking pedestrian area with potted plants and a clear, clean cobbled street down which our three friends marched.
Sherlock quickly took a turn, leading John and Molly through the narrow, smaller roads and avoiding the main streets of the Chinese districts.
"Camera dodging." John explained to Molly. "We've played this game before, usually against Mycroft..."
Finally, they reached Kathay: a small, international supermarket where one could buy anything from Chinese furniture to the very-hard-to-find Marmite.
Near the shop was a big wooden door; Sherlock rang the bell. "It's me." he simply said when a delicate voice inquired who it was, in Mandarin. The door was instantly opened and they were quickly told to go to the second floor.
When they took the last few steps, John recognised the young girl Qiaolian as she greeted them. Dressed in jeans and a light pink shirt with frills, she ushered them swiftly and quietly into her home.
"You found a lead?" The girl asked a short time later, handing Molly a cup of green tea.
"We have come across some very useful clues, all we need is your help to put them together." Sherlock informed her, leaning back against the white fabric of the sofa.
The girl's appartement seemed to be small but impeccably kept. Modern, simple furniture and clear surfaces showed a rather minimalist and cosmopolitan taste. The only overtly Chinese item in the living room décor was a rather impressive painting, of a green dragon wrapping itself around a tree on a red field, hanging over the sofa on which Qiaolian's guests now sat.
"How can I help?" The girl asked softly, nervously tugging a frill of her shirt.
"I need everyone to be here, first. No phones, use the system." Sherlock answered her unspoken question.
Quiaolian nodded, stood and walked to a door adjacent to the living room. When she opened it, two big and burly Chinese men, who seemed to be spending a lot of time lifting weights, emerged with a quietly threatening countenance.
"去叫那兩個，請喜歡!"Qiaolian barked at them, her voice sharp and very loud, much to Molly's surprise. John muttered something about women bossing men around, but the pathologist didn't take the bait. She just nudged him instead.
"They will call the other two." Qiaolian told Sherlock, once more the quiet and graceful incarnation of dainty, delicate femininity.
The two men scuffled out of the apartment without a word and the girl returned to her guests.
One of the two men ran to the nearby Monutmentale cemetery, where Rom people often can be found, sometimes to let their chickens graze on the surrounding shrubberies. It is hard to imagine that the eclectic, Romanic building - which until 1971 held the spoils of Evita Peròn and to this day boasts some of Italy's best and finest historical figures as its guests - is sometimes characterized by the distinct sound of clucking!
In front of the cemetery is a rather drab-looking flower shop where the man purchased three items: a dog rose, a coctu spectabilis and a plum blossom. After acquiring the three national flowers of Romania, Nigeria and China respectively, he wore the plum blossom as a button hole while leaving the shop.
The other man had taken his car to Milano Centrale railway station. A mixture of classicism, liberty and art déco, the imposing building towers over the green gardens below. When looking at its majestic façade, one can imagine what a terrifying sight it must have been for those unfortunate Italians who had to pass under its foreboding sculptures to reach the infamous platform 10, from whence torture and death awaited them in the jaws of the feared German concentration camps. Today, that blood-stained platform has been converted into a museum after decades of inactivity, and the bustling, lively passengers of the station fill the building with energy, noise and life.
Near the station is another Kathay, a supermarket very much like the one near Qiaolian's home. The Chinese man strode purposefully into the shop. The owner recognised him and handed him the three flowers. Once more, the plum blossom was donned as a buttonhole while Qiaolian's envoy walked slowly through the Station's gardens before returning home.
The message had been sent.
It was time.
A couple of hours later, Violca and Abdel walked into Qiaolin's house.
The Rom lady sat down on the armchair opposite the consulting detective and looked around the apartment appraisingly. Her eyes met Sherlock and her host's glare, so begrudgingly ceased their roaming. There was little use, anyway: Chinatown was pretty much off-limits for her kin. Abdel seemed more respectful, so much so he needed a little coaxing before having a seat.
"So." Sherlock began. "As I am not as familiar with this city as I am with London, I need your help to piece together the clues we have to pinpoint Carthy's location."
The consulting detective took a sip of tea and leaned forward to put the cup back on the table...
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He was standing in an empty space, darkness all around...The puzzle before the first piece is added.
Then the memories of the sounds he heard came thundering back into his ears.
Voices, slightly in the distance. About 80 meters away.
Suddenly faceless silhouettes of people appeared, walking close-by.
No. Not just adults. There were children.
The silhouettes transformed into mothers and fathers, holding hands with their offspring.
Two more ladies became manifest, welcoming people and talking with a British accent.
Some Italian was spoken and...Chinese? No...
A featureless woman stepped forward.
She had said something..."Joeun haru dweseyo." Have a nice day.
Now with pitch-plack, straight hair and Korean features, the woman stepped back.
Other sounds joined the fray.
A bus. Stopped cars with the engine on, slow traffic. People dropping off their children to school.
A building took form to his right, in the direction where the silhouettes were walking.
Bells tolling, only a few metres away.
A Church materialised on the opposite side of the street.
Rustling leaves...Closer than the voices.
Trees grew to his left.
When Carthy had moved, his steps sounded like he was standing on unkept, abandoned earth.
Weeds, dead grass and some rubbish surrounded Sherlock's feet.
Heavy equipment...A hydraulic excavator. A Hitachi.
Imposing construction machinery began to work nearby.
An ETR 500.
High-speed rails appeared behind him as the distant sound of a train could be heard.
...But it did not move as fast as an ETR 500 normally would...It was intentionally slowing down, but not putting on the brakes yet.
The train thundered behind him...
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...And the cup was gently placed on the coffee table.
"I need you to find me an International School, probably one following the British National Curriculum. Next to it is a park and a construction site within it. Behind the school and the construction site, on higher ground, are train tracks. There is a railway station in the neighborhood, but not too close...I'd say just under 2 km."
John and Molly exchanged glances, for they remembered the precious few seconds the consulting detective had listened to that phone call.
Violca, whose kin often relied on railways to provide a space for their camps, and on churches for a little extra food or income, could think of 20 churches which were very near train tracks.
Abdel, who had just been recently searching for some work, was aware of 10 construction sites that were currently hiring, 7 of which were close to the districts Violca mentioned.
Qiaolian opened her computer and ran a quick search. Within the neighborhoods described by Abdel and Violca, 3 had schools, one of which was an International school within 2 km of the Lorenteggio train station.
"Great! Now we just have to get there." John grinned lopsidedly.
"Some subterfuge will be needed: we have to change mode of travel and appearance if we are to be sure we're not being traced."
"Hui Kang will drive you part of the way." Qiaolian offered, her eyes turning rather authoritatively to one of the two men who had acted as messengers. "I can give you wigs and costumes, but you have to pay for them." She cautioned them, her gratitude to Sherlock not stretching beyond a chance to make an honest profit.
A few minutes later, Hui Kang emerged from Qiaolian's house along with what appeared to be a Rom woman, a Nigerian gentleman and a colourfully-dressed fellow with blue hair behind a taller, blond man in a white suit next to a Chinese girl with long black hair, heavy make-up and a big handbag. At a first glance, they seemed like they were on their way to a wedding or a party, but a closer examination would have revealed the quiet tension of someone on a mission.
"Good luck!" Quiaolian whispered before closing the door, her job done.
Hui Kang was as good as his word -actually, as good as Qiaolian's: he never spoke - and he drove them in his very expensive-looking car to a train station Abdel assured was free of surveillance cameras.
Molly, almost unrecognisable in her wig and various layers of dark eyeshadow with black eyeliner, stepped out of the car and into the small park on one side of the rather peripheral Certosa train station.
In the middle of the park there were children playing on the swings and see-saws, surrounded by rows of large lavender bushes. Molly breathed in the familiar perfume and closed her eyes. Suddenly, for the first time since she took that plane, she felt homesick.
"Come on, Molly." Sherlock called impatiently as he marched through the park. The young pathologist sprinted to keep up with the group.
Abdel lead them to platform 5, where the train from Novara to the city of Treviglio would make one of its multiple stops in Milan before reaching its destination. The Nigerian man jumped on the train and the group followed.
It was a work day, and the carriage was packed as people were trying to go to the office.
Molly kept her fists close to her chest in an attempt to make herself as small as possible and not be squished by the mass of passengers, who all together seemed to move in a wave, harmoniously predicting each break and acceleration of the carriage...A skill they'd learned from years of practice.
The train was so full there was no way to reach anything stable, so Molly tried her best to do what the others seemed to accomplish so effortlessly: keeping her balance without holding on to anything...Something she failed at miserably when the train reached its first stop at Lancetti and braked suddenly with a jolt.
Molly stumbled and almost fell onto an elderly woman when a strong hand reached about her shoulders and pulled her close. After a moment of surprise, she mustered the courage to look up, although all she saw was his chiselled jaw as his icy eyes continued to scan the crowd. He didn't say anything, but his arm remained wrapped around her, holding her steady against his chest. She could barely breathe."Uhm...Thank you." She mumbled. He did not reply.
A few minutes later the train emptied out a bit as it stopped at an important station, so he relinquished his grasp on her.
"We stop at Porta Vittoria." Abdel said, oblivious to Molly's slightly flustered state.
When the group got off the train, the Nigerian man led them out into the open through a busy street over which a helicopter could be heard. Without hesitation he swiftly took them down a narrow, long and winding street called Viale Ortigiara. Next to it was a vast, empty field with overgrown grass, probably destined for some kind of construction. For now it was put to good use as the travellers took advantage of its neglected state. They discarded the cumbersome wigs and costumes, and Violca put them in her bag.
Sherlock once more donned his black coat, ruffling his curls after their forced containment in that itchy wig. Molly remained in a pair of black leggings, pumps and a black turtleneck Quiaolian had given her. She looked up at the helicopter flying overhead. Embarrassing as it might be to admit, she felt a little like a bond girl!
Suddenly, in the distance she could hear a train passing by and all the excitement was violently washed away by a wave of tense anxiety: they were getting close.
"I don't know how to get to train track." Abdel admitted. "Only to station..."
"Thank you, Abdel, this is good enough. I am sure Violca knows the rest of the way." Sherlock looked at the woman, who nodded grimly.
"I know." Violca confirmed. "I take you."
Abdel smilingly took his payment, bid them farewell and left the group in the hands of the Rom woman, who led them through the field to a wall heavily covered in graffiti. After walking alongside it for a few yards, they reached a large, plastic screen which partially covered the neglected barrier.
Violca unceremoniously pulled the screen aside to reveal a gaping hole in the wall. "You tell no one of this, my family has worked a long time. You tell no one." She glared.
Following multiple assurances that her secret passageways would not be revealed to others, the woman led the group through an intricate labyrinth of hedges, tunnels, holes and cracks. Finally they stepped next to train tracks on high ground.
"Lorenteggio station is that way." Violca pointed straight ahead. "SS Nereo & Achilleo Church is that way, too. I go now, you are too much trouble." She concluded gruffly.
"Thank you, Violca." Sherlock smiled as he handed her some money. John and Molly also thanked her earnestly, and the Rom woman became flustered, muttering something about English people and giving Sherlock a slight push before hurrying off with reddened cheeks.
Sherlock, John and Molly, now on their own, quietly walked along the tracks, at a safe distance in case a train were to pass by.
After a while, the noise of the helicopter was joined by the tolling of bells, the cries of children playing and the grinding sound of heavy equipment.
John instinctively brought his hand to his side for his gun before remembering that he didn't have it in Italy. God, he missed it right now... With a determined sigh, he pulled out his pocket knife instead. It was better than nothing, after all.
Sherlock slowed his pace, listening to each noise carefully with every step as he attempted to reach the exact sound that he heard on the phone. Something was wrong but...What was it? Shaking his head, he took five more steps then stopped, one hand upraised to keep Molly from coming any closer.
From his spot atop the hill, he could see the children playing in the school grounds below. A tall, reddish church stood majestically on the other side of the street. Next to the plaground, construction was underway for a new Metrò station.
They had arrived.
"Come out, Carthy." Sherlock called.
There was a rustling of leaves as Michael, an almost unrecognisable shell of himself, crept out from under a bush.
Molly blinked as she saw him for the first time. He was wearing a cocktail dress, partially covered by an oversized hoodie. A blonde wig hung in disarray on his head and the deadly pearl bracelet was still wrapped around his wrist.
The consulting detective's eyes fell on the large, masculine clothing that so clearly was not part of Carthy's original disguise...There was little doubt in Sherlock's mind that the police would soon find another victim.
"Thank you. Thank you for coming." The assassin murmured, taking a hesitant step towards them. His face was gaunt from the sleepless and stressful night, his body weakened by exposure to the cold, but Molly still moved back when he came closer. "I need to get away from here. You...You can help me." He croaked.
"Yes, we can help you." Sherlock replied coldly, his steel eyes cutting though the man's gaze with icy contempt. "We will hide you, then get you back to England where you will face trial and pay for your crimes."
"Yes, yes, I'll do anything." Carthy nodded. "Just get me out of here."
"Not so fast. Who ordered you to kill the ambassadors? Who do you work for?" Sherlock barked.
"Please, I'll tell you everything, but not here..."
"I need to know what I'm up against, Carthy! Tell me, who..." Sherlock froze as a noise he had been ignoring suddenly made his blood run cold. The children's laughter, the workers and the rustling of the trees all faded away as the sound he hadn't heard on the phone became louder and louder in his mind, deafening and terrifying.
The helicopter.
"Carthy, where's your phone?"
"I dropped it on a bus..."
The consulting detective's voice raised slightly as he spoke faster. "Did you make a call, see anyone or pass by a surveillance camera since our phone call? Did you?"
"No, I..." Carthy hesitated. "A man with a dog. He spoke to me, but..."
"We've got to go. Now!" Sherlock cried as he grabbed the assassin by the arm and started to drag him away from his hiding place.
"Too late, Mr Holmes."
A tall man, clad in black and wearing a mask, jumped over the wall on the other side of the tracks and aimed a gun at Sherlock and Michael Carthy. John took a step forward to stand in front of Molly.
Everything seemed to slow down as the five people stood perfectly still.
A gentle wind rustled through the trees while children laughed and played with the falling leaves below. The very faint noise of a train could be heard in the far distance.
"You are a very slippery man, Mr Holmes." The stranger mused.
Sherlock looked at him silently. There was no accent at all, a clear sign of painstakingly practised diction. His face was completely covered with the dark mask, but the eyes were a warm chestnut brown. His athletic physique was lean and toned, a body trained for speed, agility and precision in preference to strength. A martial artist, probably. The clothes...They had just been washed and donned to keep any hint of a clue to a minimum. That, in itself, was a clue: they did their homework.
"How did you find me?" Carthy whimpered, cowering behind the consulting detective.
"That nice man you met, Michael, saw a picture of you in the news. Being the good citizen that he is, he called the police. You hid quite well, though. We've been flying the chopper for hours, waiting for Sherlock to lure you out. Thank you, by the way, Mr. Holmes."
The consulting detective didn't reply, his mind calculating the various outcomes of the scenario.
"You cannot stop us, Mr. Holmes. We'd much rather have you on our side, of course...But still, you cannot stop us."
"Who are you?" Sherlock asked coldly.
The stranger chuckled. "Ones who will not make Moriarty's mistake."
Sherlock's eyes flew to Molly's face.
Then Carthy bolted.
Running in the direction of the doctor and the pathologist, the assassin raced with all the desperation of a crazed animal.
"No!" Sherlock cried as the stranger impassively extended his arm and pulled the trigger.
Carthy's eyes widened as the bullet went through his brain and escaped from his right cheek.
John threw his pocket knife and hit the stranger in the arm, making him drop his gun. In a heartbeat Sherlock was on the man, wrestling him to the ground, swiftly joined by his friend.
The assassin who killed Doctor Paten took a couple of hesitant steps towards Molly, blood trickling from his wound and out of his mouth. Then he collapsed.
Without a second thought, she did what her mentor would have expected of her.
Molly pulled out the first aid kit and got to work.
She would save this man.
As she kneeled beside him to help, Molly saw her patient look up at her.
"I...I'm sorry." He spluttered before closing his eyes. He lost consciousness.
While the pathologist endeavoured to save the assassin, the consulting detective and the doctor had a hard time keeping the stranger at bay.
Finally the gunman kicked John in the groin and managed to slip out of his grasp. Sherlock tried to grab him but was left holding the man's mask in his hand. Without missing a beat the consulting detective jumped to his feet and gave chase, but the stranger managed to get to the gun first.
With a chilling laugh the stranger turned around, moving closer to the rails, the pistol aimed straight at Sherlock's forehead.
Molly gasped when she looked up and saw the man's face, his features contorted in a crazed glee as the thundering noise of a fast-speed train became even louder, the driver sounding the bell as he saw people close to the rails and tried to slow down.
The gunman pulled an envelope out of his pocket and threw it at Sherlock's feet.
"I have a message for you, Mr. Holmes." He cried, his dark eyes steadily holding Sherlock's.
"Homo Homini Lupus." He said.
Then he stepped onto the rails in front of the oncoming train.
The consulting detective raced forward, arms outstretched to try and save him.
"Sherlock!" Molly screamed.
John pulled his friend back just as the train rushed by. The two fell to the ground while the stranger's body was crushed in the violent impact.
Sherlock, panting heavily, looked at Molly and John who nodded to confirm they were both fine.
The consulting detective blinked, then slowly picked up the envelope and slipped it into his pocket.
The ETR 500 finally came to a grinding halt, people started calling for an ambulance, for the police...
The helicopter was gone.
Carthy, still alive thanks to the pathologist, was rushed away to the nearest E.R.
"Sherlock..." Molly moved closer to the consulting detective, whose eyes remained fixed on the rails, unheeding of the growing chaos around him.
"Sherlock...I knew that man."
He turned to look at her. "What do you mean? How?"
"I...I took a ride on his taxi in Paris."
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Warm thanks to: NiceNipps, Everygirl 132, SaraBahama, mrspencil, Guest, Arcoiris, Emma Lynch, iamanasaziana, coloradoandcolorado1, Bucky5, likingthistoomuch, Rocking the Redhead, SammyKatz and 16magnolias for the wonderful reviews!