Welcome to Baker Street

20. Wolf's Lair

Sherlock shuts his eyes while Cathy's voice echoes in his head: "I need to accomplish one last mission," she had said.

"What did you mumble?" John furrows his brow, getting annoyed at Sherlock's frequent visits to his mind palace.

Sherlock cracks his eyes open and stares at him.

"Did you hear what Cathy said when the terrorists showed up?"

"No. I was momentarily busy preventing my skull from turning into a colander," John shoots back.

"She called her hideout Wolf's Lair. Does this name ring a bell?" Holmes's gaze is so intense that John is compelled to look away, ill-at-ease with his friend's inquisition of his general knowledge.

He shrugs. "Not sure, maybe. It does sound familiar: I probably studied it in school, a lifetime ago."

"Let me refresh your memory, then. Wolf's Lair, in German Wolfsschanze, was Adolf Hitler's military headquarters on the Eastern Front during the war."

"Hold on, I thought she tried to re-create Hitler's bunker in Berlin," Giulia objects. She hates it when her genius flatmate makes it impossible for her to follow his train of thought.

"Yes and no. That was the clue left in the room with the emergency exit. But she is very fond of history, so she made another reference that I didn't immediately catch. Wolf's Lair was also the scene of a failed assassination attempt against Hitler: the so-called '20 July plot'. And that is Cathy's last mission: killing the führer," Sherlock concludes in a grim tone.

"Isn't she a bit late?" John sarcastically replies, earning a stern look from Sherlock.

"Maybe neither of you can speak German, but I'm pretty sure you both know that the English translation of führer is—"

"Leader," they pronounce simultaneously.

"She wants to kill the leader of the terror cell," Giulia realises, shocked.

"Bingo." Sherlock beams at her and turns around, heading back to the construction site they have just fled. "I have to go back." It's the only explanation he provides them.

"Are you kidding? Those terrorists are probably still tracking us. You can't walk back in there. That's too reckless, even for you." John struggles to keep his voice down, even though he is boiling with rage. Does his friend have any idea what surviving means?

Sherlock half-turns to him. "She's going to kill him, John."

"Yeah, and the victim is a terrorist leader. Who cares?" Watson rolls his eyes.

"John, you don't understand—" Sherlock protests but is immediately interrupted by him.

"No, I don't. In fact, I can barely recognise you. You undervalue your own life all the time and now you're concerned about the survival of a criminal?"

"No, I'm not. He could be tortured and executed for all that I care. But if she kills him now, I will never be able to interrogate him. And I must do it: I need answers. I want to bring this cell down," Holmes affirms stubbornly.

John shakes his head, showing his signature disappointed, tight-lipped smile.

"Here's the Sherlock Holmes I know, the man who always puts his life at risk just because he needs to know," he spits out every word tartly. He knows that there is nothing left to say, and he is all too aware of his friend's stubbornness; he can see a glint of determination shimmering in his eyes right now.

Sherlock finally finds the strength to look straight into John's pale blue eyes.

"Keep Giulia safe and stay away from the building. Are we clear?"

Watson stares back at him for a long instant before nodding quickly, speechless.

"Behave, you two. I'll be back in ten minutes." He winks at them and runs away.

John watches his silhouette disappear into the night, then turns to Giulia.

"I'm sorry. This insane situation took an unexpected turn, and I still haven't checked on you. Are you alright?"

She touches her arms and legs as if to ensure that all limbs are accounted for, then flashes him a faint smile.

"A bit upside down, but I'm fine."

The moans of sirens wail in the distance: the police are close.

"Good. We should alert Lestrade, now. I suppose someone in the neighbourhood must have heard the gunshots and called the police, but it's better to let them know exactly what we're dealing with. Half of the terrorist squad is here, and it wouldn't be a bad idea to ask for adequate backup."

After a few minutes of calls with Scotland Yard, he eventually pockets his phone and tilts his head with a pensive expression.

"Wolf's lair. How could he recall that? How can his brain work so fast? As I said, I remember I studied it at school, and now it just came back to my mind. I did a research project on that German headquarters," he speaks freely, as childhood recollections come and go.

"That one specifically? Why?" Giulia asks. She hasn't spent a lot of time with her new flatmates yet, and she hopes to have more occasions for a chat, especially with John, who seems the most human of the two. It would be nice to sit down in the living room and let him talk, just talk, about whatever he feels like sharing. He seems reserved; it's clear that he is still readjusting to civilian life. In the end, that's all she knows about him: he is a retired Army doctor who got shot in the field—which makes more logical sense than Sherlock's made-up occupation as 'consulting detective' anyway. She wouldn't mind knowing a bit more about their life, possibly without being chased and shot at.

"I liked the name," he replies automatically, lost in thought. "I remember it surprised me that the whole complex comprised eighty bunkers." Some details resurface distinctly from the mists of his memory. "They were so colossal that, at the end of the war, aerial bombardment didn't provoke severe damage. They managed to blow them up only through massive explosives..." he trails off.

And it's like a brick has hit him in the head; the blood turns cold in his veins.

"Oh, God." The words die away in his mouth. He instinctively leaps forward, crying out, "SHERLOCK!"

At that exact moment, a tremendous explosion knocks the two of them down while the building collapses upon itself. The crash of the detonation reverberates through their chests for seconds on end. John coughs spasmodically and props up on his knees and palms with difficulty. He squints ahead, trying to ignore all the dust that has lifted from the ground. He stares at what remains of the construction site: a pile of rubble and flames rising towards the night sky.

While facing the very hell, one single thought possesses his mind: my best friend was in there.