SHERLOCK I, II, III & IV • #wattys2016

The Rescue

“Turn here,” Sherlock said to the cabbie. He had been thinking the entire way and already had a plan to rescue his colleague. The cab pulled into the city of London where the familiar Ferris wheel greeted him. Smiling to himself at his stratagem, Sherlock paid the driver and exited the vehicle. He didn’t enter the city, instead, he sniffed the air and placed his hands into his pockets. In a familiar nursery rhyme, Sherlock sung, “London Bridge came falling down. Falling down, falling down. London Bridge came falling down, my fair lady.” He glanced at his watch and walked over to a nearby wall and leaned against it. He looked up and down the street and then said bitterly, “I wish I had a smoke.”

Meanwhile, John was being beaten within an inch of his life. The final stroke was Mullen snapping the two front legs of the chair, sending John onto his knees. Mullen growled and cracked his knuckles. Looking down at the victim with animus, Mullen said, “Your friend made it to the gate of his death. Better say good-bye.” Before leaving the room, Mullen knocked the chair sideways so that John couldn’t see the monitors.

John lay on the cold floor, staring down at the bases and legs of the furniture in front of him. He couldn’t hear the video playing, as Mullen had put it on mute. And the only way he could see what was happening was by the very blurred reflection of the screen on the floor. John closed his eyes and listened to Mullen’s footsteps fade out. The closing of the doors followed afterwards. Knowing that he was alone, John tried to nudge the ear set off, but it was nearly impossible since they were ear buds molded to his head with a tight metal frame.   

Panting, the poor doctor tried to relieve the pain in his hands and body, but any direction he moved caused a new agony. Squeezing his eyes shut, he mumbled a plea for help from somewhere, and then, as if hope heard him, John saw the reflection of Sherlock taking off his jacket, observing it, and then peeling something off of it. Desperate to see the actual screen, John struggled to his feet. It was terrible difficult with the chair in the way, but he managed to stand up with a bent back.

John looked up and a smile sprung to his face when he watched Sherlock hold up a quarter-size black device. And then, as if Sherlock knew he was being watched, he presented the device victoriously to the cameras he knew were watching him. Then, with his usual smug smirk, Sherlock took apart the explosive stowaway and scattered the pieces onto the pavement. He then threw his jacket back on and breezed through the entrance. John winced and his chest jumped, but not one sniper shot at him.

Right when Sherlock disappeared off screen, Mullen raged in with his fingers curled in anger. He shouted, “How did he do that? What did you tell him?”

John looked over his shoulder and sunk to the ground. “I didn’t tell him anything. That’s just Sherlock Holmes for you. He probably knew it was planted on him.”

“While he was unconscious? That was what my man said when he planted it on him.”

“Ummm, well, people do know how to fake situations such as those.”

Mullen made for him and grabbed him by the collar. He shook him violently all while shouting abuses at him. “I bet he can’t stop a bullet.” With that threat, Mullen whipped out a handgun and jabbed it under John’s jaw.

“Of course he can’t!” came a voice from the doorway.

John moved his eyes to the new voice and sighed in relief. It wasn’t Sherlock—but close enough.

“Mycroft Holmes!” Mullen addressed with a scoff. “I should’ve had my dogs on you when I first met you.”

Mycroft twirled his closed umbrella as six armed officers fanned out behind him. In his overly proper voice, the eldest Holmes said calmly, “Well, I may not be like my brother. But I am a Holmes, and any friend of Sherlock’s is a friend of mine.”

Quivering with anger, Mullen threw John to the ground and closed his fists. “I’ll call in my dogs.”

“No, you won’t,” Mycroft retaliated. “My men have infiltrated this entire place. Your sex-trafficking victims have been released and Detective Inspector Lestrade will be closing this up.”

As Mycroft’s officers advanced Mullen, Mullen trembled and boiled with anger. “How did you find me?”

“Well, Sherlock gave me a ring and told me where you were headed—and all from the type of car you were driving. Though your license plate was exchanged with another, he somehow used what your tires left on the pavement to figure out where you were. He also told me to inform you that he doesn’t like the model of your car.” Mycroft released his slow, slinky smile before turning onto his heels and leaving the room.

Mullen tried to make a run for it to a back room, but John threw himself against Mullen’s legs and sent him crashing to the ground. That gave the officers enough time to tie him up and slap the cuffs on him. As he was hauled away, Lestrade ran in with Donovan behind him.

“Oh, Greg, thank God you’re here,” John breathed as he let the two free him.

“Well, thank God you’re all right!” Lestrade laughed in relief as he helped John to his feet. “We’ll take care of your face when we get you to an ambulance.  By the way, I’m so sorry about all this. We were told that if we tried to help, Sonia would die.”

John lowered his head and said quietly, “Well, sorry. She was shot before our eyes. He must’ve kept using that threat long after he killed her.”

Donovan placed her hands on her hips and looked John up and down. “What was that all about anyway? You and Mullen?”

“Long story. But it doesn’t matter now, he’s out of the way—out of my life, thank God.”

“Well, how did Freak get away?”

“Mullen didn’t want him, which was a mistake,” John replied. “Anyway, thank God for Sherlock, too. He saved my life…again.”

“Let’s get you home,” Lestrade said, letting John use him as support since he was badly beaten. “When you get home, Dr. Watson, tell me how Sherlock got out of this one.”

“Don’t worry, you’ll hear about it on my blog!” John said through a growing smile. He could already see his adventure spilling out in hundreds of words with Sherlock behind him, breathing his criticism.