CHAPTER 8: LIKE THE OLD DAYS IN HELL
A few minutes before the explosion
Sherlock walks around the unfinished building and cautiously steps in through a side entrance.
Cathy was alone before we arrived, but she knew her chasers would find her, eventually. She must have prepared a backup plan, but what is it? And why hasn't she resorted to it yet? These questions swirl in his mind as he turns around a corner stepping into a large corridor.
The ruction and gunfire have ceased. A dead silence has fallen on the building. The terrorists have given up on chasing the three of them and have chosen to pursue Cathy instead.
Yet they don't know that their very prey is now hunting them, he thinks, smiling to himself. He stands still as he hears footsteps wandering around the room next door. He pricks up his ears. Four men, maybe five, judging by the gait and the walking paces, he deduces listening to their movements. They're gathering and discussing: a new course of action is probably necessary, which is why they will have to meet with their leader. And where is the leader, there will be Cathy, too. His thoughts come in quick succession until the most logical assumption. She knows she could never survive a head-on fight against four or more gunmen, so she's probably hiding somewhere near their rally point, waiting for the right moment to strike.
He doesn't waste a second and silently slides down the walls, his eyes piercing through the darkness. He catches a movement out of the corner of his eye and finds Cathy crouched down next to the glass doors connected to the main room where the terrorists have assembled. She is positioning a rifle near the doorjamb, taking advantage of the ajar door. She didn't hear him approach; she is completely focused on her target.
"That's a bit cowardly, backstabbing your former boss," Sherlock says, faking indignation.
His unexpected appearance startles her, but she immediately recognises his voice and tries to hide her astonishment while her wide grin shines in the dark.
"Technically, it's back-shooting, and he was never truly my boss."
He steps forward, coming within her visual range, and she half-turns towards him.
"I thought you were on the safe side."
"I was. A bit boring for my taste."
"You are certainly going to enjoy this entertaining execution, then." A flicker of cruelty sparkles in her eyes while she looks through the crosshairs.
"I didn't come to be a spectator." He takes one more step forward.
She sighs are replies without looking at him, glowering at the terrorists.
"My sister was forced to commit suicide because of these people and the crazy plan of their leader. I hold him responsible for my twin's death, and if you think I'm going to spare his life, you're sorely mistaken."
"There's always an alternative. We can work it out together," Sherlock proposes softly, walking closer. "Let me help you."
"There's nothing to be done, not now, not anymore." She leans forward to take aim.
He leaps towards her, shouting, "Cathy, don't!"
The terrorists hear his muffled scream and spin around, guns blazing, and open fire against their position. The wall next to Sherlock and Cathy is riddled with bullets, while the glass doors shatter in a rainstorm of noise. Flying splinters of glass fall everywhere; Sherlock instinctively protects his head with his arms, ending up with a few scratches on his pale skin. Cathy, instead, gets a nasty gash on her leg from a ricocheting bullet. He crawls towards her to examine the wound: it is deep and bleeds fast. He quickly tears an edge from his shirt and carefully wraps it around her leg.
She props up on her elbows and growls.
"Mr Holmes, you've made a mistake: you should have never come back."
"Why?" He takes care of her injury without losing sight of the approaching shooters.
"Because you won't make it out of here alive," she breathes out between groans.
He stops for an instant to look up at her, determination glimmering in his fiery eyes.
"I won't let them kill me."
"I'm not talking about them." She winces in pain and suppresses a screech when he applies pressure to the wound to stop the blood flow. "You figured it all out, didn't you? My personal war, my bunker, my plot. You're brilliant, indeed. You haven't considered what lies beneath every conflict, though. Collateral damages, detective, human lives. I regret that your name will be among the casualties, too."
He cocks a brow at her and rebuts boastfully, "I may not be bulletproof, but I can assure you—"
"That you're bomb-proof?" she cuts him off.
At that precise moment, the terrorists quit shooting as another man of the squad breaks into the room, panting heavily.
"Stop it, you idiots," he yells. He takes some deep breaths before being able to articulate, "We need to get out of here now. This place is stuffed with explosives."
Sherlock freezes as they run away. "Did you plan to—" he doesn't finish his question; he already knows the answer. He merely points out the obvious consequence: "This place is about to blow up."
She nods. "It's a matter of minutes, maybe seconds. I lost track of time in the shooting."
His mind sets in motion, examining the entire building. "What's the shortest way out?"
She shakes her head with a resigned expression.
"Nothing would be quick enough. We're going to be within the blast radius, anyway. There's no escaping an explosion."
Sherlock looks around the hall and narrows his eyes in concentration as a sudden idea strikes him. He quickly stands up, grabs her arm, and slides it over his shoulders, holding her up at the waist as they trudge, one foot after the other until they reach the back of the room and the top of a staircase plunging into darkness.
"We'll stick to the vintage methods," he states as they rush downstairs together as fast as possible.
Five minutes after the explosion
John stands still in the same spot where the explosion flung him. He hasn't moved; he hasn't taken a single step forward. He cannot take his eyes off the dreadful hell of flames in front of him. He stares at the burning rubble, still unable to process what happened. He simply stands there without moving a muscle or uttering a sound.
Suddenly, his phone rings. He pulls it out mechanically and glances at the screen: unknown number. It must be someone at Scotland Yard, maybe Greg with a colleague's phone, he thinks distractedly.
He presses the answer button and talks to the receiver without giving the caller time to speak.
"It blew up. The bloody building blew up." His voice breaks.
After a moment of silence, the person on the other end of the line finally talks.
"I know. My ears are still ringing," a familiar baritone voice replies.
John almost drops the phone. His veins pump blood at a frantic rate, threatening to explode.
"Sh-Sherlock?"
"Yes, John, it's me. Were you expecting another call?" Holmes asks, annoyed. "Anyhow, could you come pick us up? We are two blocks away. And John, call an ambulance, would you?"
Sherlock hears him hold his breath, so he promptly adds, "Before you ask, I'm fine, but Cathy needs medical assistance."
John grips his phone tightly as his knuckles turn white. Among all the possible questions he could ask, he simply breathes out, "How did you end up there?"
"We took the Tube," he replies enigmatically and ends the call.
John and Giulia hurry to the telephone booth from which Sherlock phoned him. Watson runs towards the two figures seated on the kerb and clinically scrutinises their injuries. Cathy is clearly worse off than Sherlock, but nothing life-threatening. He kneels to examine her wound, then looks up at his friend in shock.
"How did you survive the blast?"
"I simply thought that if London could withstand German air strikes during the Battle of Britain, we could trust the old English survival skills as well." Sherlock shrugs as if he was talking about a peaceful walk, while the sound of approaching sirens pierces the peaceful silence of the night.
John frowns. "I don't understand."
"Because you never observe," the detective grunts, exasperated. "When the cab got there in the first place, did you notice how sunken and low the building looked? The stark contrast with the neighbouring high-rises was evident. It should have been obvious, but I have been slow. So, I needed to see the ticket barrier inside to finally understand: the construction site was meant to be a new underground station."
Giulia's face lights up at his words.
"Apparently, history has saved your life for the second time today."
"Exactly. I presumed that if a station was being built above the ground, there had to be platforms and tracks below. That's how our grandfathers escaped the air raids: they sought shelter inside the Tube stations. Cathy is a war lover, and I certainly didn't want to disappoint her; so, we got out vintage-style. We went downstairs and tried to run as far as possible along the under-construction tracks. We re-emerged down there." He gestures to a fully-functioning underground station at the corner of the street.
"You made it. Everything is fine." John exhales, relieved.
Sherlock's face clouds over. "No. The terrorist leader escaped."
"No, he didn't," a hoarse voice says behind him. Sherlock turns around, startled.
"We caught him when they all stormed out of the building before it exploded. He is in our custody now," Lestrade asserts, closing the door of a police car that has just pulled over next to them.
Holmes looks at him in disbelief while John bursts out, "How did you do that? I texted you only a few instants before the explosion, and the terrorista were already out at the time. You were on the other side of the city."
"I had already been informed. Before getting your distress message, Mycroft Holmes had personally contacted me, notifying your position. He practically commanded me to come to your aid. I think he said he was speaking on behalf of the British government," he recalls, furrowing his brow. He doesn't quite like being bossed around, especially not by someone whose last name is Holmes.
John is even more bewildered.
"Mycroft? Hang on, how did he know our coordinates—" he stops and sighs. "Oh, I see. He deciphered the crossword, too. Of course. The deduction thing of the Holmeses."
Sherlock gives him a death stare, making Giulia chuckles.
"What about the bomb, instead?" Sherlock changes the subject.
"We found it inside the building of the Palestinian mission, exactly as you had indicated in your text. Bomb techs took care of it: the area is clear now," Lestrade reports.
"Did you catch some other terrorists, too?" Sherlock inquires in a disinterested tone. He solved his case, after all. His main goal was to track down and save Cathy Baaral. Mission accomplished, somehow. He couldn't care less about side results.
"All of them, actually. It's strange; most of them are British citizens. I wasn't expecting it." The D.I. scratches his head, visibly stressed and worn out.
Giulia turns to Sherlock with a satisfied grin, and he stares back at her, trying to hide his admiration. It doesn't happen often that someone can provide the right answer before him. To be precise, it never happens.
As Lestrade steps away, she walks up to the detective and breaks the ice. "So, how did I do?"
"Very well, indeed. You survived a day on the field with us: an unprecedented success."
She rolls her eyes. "I solved the case, no? I found the second message in the puzzle and warned you about the bomb. I told you why the terrorists were targeting the Palestinian mission, and I was correct about their nationality."
"Nothing exceptional," he replies disdainfully, even if he has admit to be rather surprised. "Nothing personal, but you are far too average, in my opinion."
She sighs and gives him a side glance. "You undoubtedly have unusual standards. Most people do their best to be just average."
"Yet you agree with me, don't you?" he points out suggestively.
"Why should I disagree with them?"
He fixes his eyes on hers, and she notices his amused look.
"Because you keep referring to everyone else as them, as someone different from you."
"I am different," she rebuts proudly, staring back at him.
"We'll see about that," he concludes dismissively. Being an exception isn't necessarily a good thing, and he knows that all too well. To the rest of the world, 'different' isn't a synonym for unique but an omen of threat.
The paramedics have placed Cathy on a stretcher and are carrying her into the ambulance. Giulia remembers something and runs to her, with Sherlock following suit.
"Cathy, wait," she calls, slipping her hand into her coat pocket as she reaches the stretcher. "Here," she says, pulling out a creased note. "I thought you should have this. Your sister wrote it before—" she gets choked up and her voice dies in her throat.
Cathy looks up at her and smiles faintly, clutching her hand around the paper. "Thank you."
Giulia bows her head, overwhelmed by emotions. Cathy lifts a hand with great effort and gently caresses her cheek. "Do you have any siblings?"
At that question, Giulia's eyes shimmer for an instant.
"I have a sister. She lives in Italy. We are a bit far away these days."
"Distance doesn't matter. When we were working on the MI6 project, my sister and I were always in different places and could never be together. But we were just one person; I was her, and she was me. And I must live for her too, now." She shoots a glance at the hurrying paramedics and turns towards Giulia for one last word.
"Tell your sister that you love her. You never know how greedy time could get: tell her."
"I will."
Sherlock places a hand on Giulia's shoulder in a clumsy attempt to comfort her and drive her away from the ambulance that pulls away, accompanied by the plaintive wail of its sirens. She gives him a faint smile, then takes the phone out of her pocket and dials a number, rubbing the back of her free hand under her watery eyes.
He understands that someone has picked up when he sees her face light up with pure joy.
"Hey," she says fondly. "It's me. How are you? I just called to hear your voice." She walks away laughing and talking on the phone.
The detective looks at her for a moment, then makes a call himself.
"Good evening, Sherlock." A well-known voice picks up.
"Hello, brother mine. It appears I've just solved the case you wanted to assign to me all along," he replies smugly.
"I heard. You've found and saved an agent of the Secret Service, and kept international relations between Palestine and the UK to a stable level, thus sparing us all the catastrophic possibility of World War III. Yes, I've already been informed. Why are you calling me, then?" Mycroft can't hide the exhaustion in his voice.
"Just to underline that it was extremely unwise of you not to tell me about the twin project."
"I'm the big brother. It's my duty to protect you."
"Oh, shut up," Sherlock snaps back.
"Did you call to complain? Goodbye, brother dear." Mycroft is about to hang up when Sherlock stops him, an unusual trace of urgency tainting his voice.
"Wait, Mycroft."
"Yes?" He asks suspiciously. He can distinctively hear Sherlock take a deep breath on the other side of the line.
"One more thing," he almost whispers.
The elder frowns in confusion. "I'm listening."
Sherlock makes a pause. He wonders why he has always found it so difficult to deal with his brother. They share blood ties, after all. Shouldn't it be enough? Sibling rivalry: is this the only kind of relationship they can have?
He realises his silence is becoming awkward and says, "You aren't the smart one."
"Of course I am. Goodnight, Sherlock."