Welcome to Baker Street

17. Incursion

"Dear God, a bomb. We need to warn Lestrade, Scotland Yard, firefighters, every law enforcement agency," John exclaims frantically. He would swear to hear alarm bells sounding furiously inside his skull—a remnant of his past in Afghanistan when dealing with bombs was a daily concern.

"Why don't we alert cavalry, too?" Sherlock sarcastically asks, typing on his phone.

"This is no time for jokes." John glowers at him.

"Calm down. I'm informing Lestrade right now; there is nothing more we can do. This isn't our priority at the moment."

"What do you mean, this is not our priority? All that matters now is that a bloody bomb is about to explode," John hisses.

"Yes, on the other side of the city," Sherlock specifies, furrowing a brow. "That's the odd thing. I don't understand: why would the terrorists choose the Palestinian mission in the UK? There are several important embassies in London. Why that particular building?"

"Precisely because it is not an embassy," Giulia replies.

"Excuse me?" He shoots her a puzzled look. It was a rhetorical question. He wasn't expecting an answer from either of them.

"What is Cathy's nationality?" she inquires, seemingly off-topic.

"No idea. It wasn't in the missing person report."

"British," John confidently says.

Sherlock raises his brows. "You impress me, John. How can you know?"

"While rummaging through documents at the editorial office, I found the CVs of all of their employees. Cathy's CV was there too, but it didn't contain significant information. However, I remember her form, and I'm sure she is British."

"You found her CV? Why didn't you say that before?" Holmes grumbles.

"Oh, let me think. Maybe because while I was reading it, a madman shouted my name and then made me rush out of the office and run across the city like a burglar. When could I have told you?" He barks.

"It doesn't matter now," Giulia cuts them short. "She's British: this is fundamental. It means that the terrorists used to recruit British citizens. They were probably looking specifically for them."

"Why would it be relevant?" John stares at her with a confused expression.

"Because they don't want to carry out a simple terrorist attack; they intend to provoke a diplomatic incident, possibly worse," she states, as fear and concern flash in her eyes.

"But that doesn't justify their choice of target," Sherlock argues.

"I think it does. The situation is delicate: the UK has never acknowledged Palestine as an independent State. An intentional attack accomplished by British citizens (there might be others in the terrorist cell, besides Cathy) could make tensions flare up between these two countries. Since the Palestinian mission is not officially an embassy, diplomatic relations with Palestine are of a different kind, and a bombing against that target may cause many more casualties than we can imagine. International relations between Palestine and the UK would deteriorate in no time, and we can't exclude the possibility of war," she explains extensively.

"How do you know this stuff?" John looks amazed.

"Because I study International Relations at the university, even though you never asked." She grimaces with disapproval.

"We need to stop all that from happening," Watson affirms.

"Very heroic. Unfortunately, it is not our problem now," Sherlock reiterates flatly.

The doctor shuffles in his seat and turns to look him dead in the eyes.

"Are you kidding me? There will be fatalities, for God's sake. Why do you always act like that? How can you not care? This is typical of you."

Sherlock glares at him. "Why does it still come as a shock to you, then?"

"You're right. I shouldn't be surprised at all. I wonder why we're still discussing." John surrenders without taking his eyes off him.

"Because, beyond your unflattering opinion of me, you don't seem to understand that we are here for a reason. We need to find Cathy Baraal and save her life. That's all that matters now," Sherlock replies drily.

They exchange a quick glance, putting their discord aside. There is no time for that.

At that moment, the cab pulls over next to what looks like an abandoned construction site. They quickly hop off and look around. The structure of the unfinished building is squat and sunken, in sharp contrast to the surrounding blocks of flats. There is a small park on the east side of the construction, and it constitutes the only dab of colour against the gloomy buildings that rise to the starry sky.

They walk past beams and blocks of cement scattered everywhere, and John murmurs, "I'll ask again: are you sure, Sherlock?"

He nods silently, strutting towards the entrance.

"Wait, she shouldn't come with us. It might be dangerous," John protests, hinting at Giulia.

Sherlock spins around with a sarcastic look. "Sure. Why don't we leave her alone in a dark yard in the middle of the night? Safest place in the world."

Giulia glances from one man to the other. "I think we're past the point of safety concerns. I'm in."

As they enter the building, Sherlock whispers, "Keep your eyes peeled. She must be close."

Suddenly, they hear the distinctive click of the safety of a semi-automatic weapon behind them. Nobody moves, but Sherlock perceives the cold pressure of a muzzle against the nape of his neck.

"Any last words before the oblivion?" A voice asks behind him.

He takes a deep breath and smirks. "D-Day."