OPERATION SEPARATION (Chapter 5)
FIFTEEN MINUTES
If Sherlock had ever wanted to conduct an experiment on the complete uselessness of human emotions, his present circumstances were giving him excellent data for the same. He should have heard these morons before they had picked the lock on the front door. Had he been in full possession of his mental faculties, he would have alerted Lestrade and his brother AND made a cup of tea in the time these idiots had made it up the stairs. As it was, thanks to his self induced plus emotional, visual and aural impairment respectively, he had been hard pressed to see the fist before it had crashed against his cheek (thankfully the other side). His first instinct had been to shout for help, but the next instant reminded him, how he had had forfeited that right barely minutes ago. So he settled for crashing the coffee table to the floor, as a warning to John.
His vision was still blurry. There was an hour to go before the mydriatic wore off completely. He hadn’t actually taken drugs, but the blurry vision combined with the 3:1 ratio meant that any attempt to put up a fight, would have caused him more damage than he could have hoped to inflict. That hadn’t stopped him though. No.1 was sure to be nursing a black eye, while the second man had bent over wheezing when his knee had connected with a groin. He concentrated on breathing, ignoring the sharp pain that arose from his ribs- bruised, most likely. His head was throbbing, but he had not lost consciousness. He had a bloody nose and a split lip. His left wrist had certainly been broken when he had been flung against the door… all in all, a bit not good. Thankfully John had already gone up to his room. By now, he must be out of the apartment alerting Lestrade. Any residual regret for the showdown earlier was being eclipsed by a sense of relief, for that must have made it easier for John to walk away. He had been tied up securely and flung down to lie horizontally on the sofa. He had struggled but the plastic cable-ties binding his wrists and ankles had no give. He had resigned himself to waiting for the cavalry, hoping that this lot wasn’t smart enough to just kill him instantly. In the meantime, he was already cataloguing all the information being supplied by his other senses.
From what he could see, all the three were dressed in black with ski masks covering their faces. No.1 - the man who had attacked him first, height six feet, four inches…built like a prizefighter…four rings on each hand which included the thumb. He was wearing a leather jacket, but there was a distinctive smell of gasoline about his clothes, works in a garage…hard callused hands…were used to manual labour…most likely had a record. Entangling with No.2 confirmed his hypothesis of the two belonging to the same gang; as he was similarly dressed, down to the rings. Additional data in support of it was how they were working in tandem on him wordlessly. So they probably did this (i.e. roughing people up) on a regular basis. Brainless hired thugs without any initiative or intelligence, hence no attempt to search the flat for witnesses. How pedestrian!
That made the third person (5 feet 6 inches), who had stood back and not participated in the initial proceedings, infinitely more interesting. He had stood back observing in silence, until No.1 had flung Sherlock against the door, at which a new voice had snapped at him, “Careful…I need him conscious.”
The voice had been low, cultured, commanding and most surprisingly, female.
Sherlock mentally chided himself. Statistically more likely my ass…there is always something…then his next thought had been- I know that voice.
Something about the helplessness of his situation prompted him to speak up.”To what do I owe the pleasure? I would have been better prepared for company, had I been expecting it.”
He was rewarded for his cheek with a punch to his face, which had him spitting blood. A gag was roughly forced into his mouth. Deceptively quiet footsteps approached the sofa. The closer she came, the less he could focus. She knelt, till the shape of her face was at his level. Suddenly strong hands were holding him down from behind, such that his face was turned towards her. She placed her hand on his head, gently caressing his curls, sending a cold shiver of fear down his spine. Fear, that even the hulking goons had been unable to inspire. She was very close now. Her lips uncovered by the ski mask, grazed his earlobe and Sherlock recoiled instinctively. Her whispered voice was like silk draped over the sharpened edge of a butcher knife. “What I don’t understand, Sherlock, is how did you fool yourself into thinking that we were through? You are responsible for my brother being locked away for life.” Her voice was tinged with regret, “Actions have consequences, darling.” Her hand fisted in his hair yanking his head back sharply as he suppressed a moan. She dropped a leisurely kiss on his throat. It took all of Sherlock’s self-control to hold himself rigid, to give no reaction. She gave a low husky laugh as she released him and moved back to make room for the muscle. “Pack him up, boys”
Suddenly there were three loud knocks on the door followed by John’s exasperated voice, ”Holmes! You idiot! If you have broken the coffee table for an experiment again, I WILL KILL YOU.” This was followed by fists banging on the door, ”Open up, you wanker”
If Sherlock had thought that he had already experienced too much emotion for one night, he was wrong. What he felt at that moment was an overwhelming sense of relief, that John hadn’t simply left him, followed immediately by mind-numbing, heart-stopping panic. His first reaction was to try and shout through the gag in his mouth, then berating himself , as his mind registered how John had addressed him; his ‘Holmes’ as fake as Sherlock’s earlier ‘Watson’ had been. He froze as the repercussions of the data hit him. JOHN KNEW! The bloody bastard knew there was danger, and he was literally walking into it.
The would-be kidnappers had already taken their positions. She had moved behind the door. No.1 had yanked Sherlock up and placed a knife at his throat while No. 2 had moved to open the door. He pulled the door open while simultaneously grabbing John by his shirt and yanking him inside. In the next moment, John had grabbed his attacker’s hand with his left, twisted it roughly, and in one fluid motion used his knees to take the man’s legs out form under him while wrapping his right hand around his neck in a chokehold. John would have dropped him right there, but there was a definite sound of a gun being cocked at the back of his head, followed by a woman’s voice, ”You really don’t want to be doing that.”
His eyes fastened on the knife at his flat-mate’s throat. He released the man, who sputtered to his feet; then landed a roundhouse to John’s solar-plexus causing him to double over in pain.
No! No! No! Sherlock struggled against his bonds and the gag wordlessly, like a fish out of water, causing the knife held at his throat to slice his skin repeatedly. All anger at John was forgotten, replaced by a cold fury. When he got free, he would…
At a sharp command from her, the thug holding him dropped him on the sofa and left through the door that John had entered, for a belated search for more occupants.
He looked up to see the woman, her face covered by a ski mask, holding the gun- a Sig Sauer on him. Her hand was rock-steady and the way she held the gun, showed that she meant business. He had yet to recover his breath, when the man he had almost taken down roughly hauled him up, patted his torso down and then proceeded to truss him up like a Christmas turkey, tying him to his usual chair. After making sure that he couldn’t move, John saw him give a nod to the woman who pocketed the gun and walked up to him.
“Now what do we have here? Sherlock…” There was a pout in her voice now.”You naughty man, you never told me that you liked boys too.” John didn’t bother to correct her. Four minutes down eleven to go… he stoically stared back at the deadened blue eyes, as he addressed her, “And you are…?”
“Unimportant, darling, just like you! So sorry to wake you up”, she said sounding considerate, like a perfect hostess. The second man returned. “There’s no one else here.”
He looked at Sherlock, looking worse for the wear, but conscious and lucid, his bright eyes fixed on John. The sofa was too far away to make out his pupil-size. John looked away, not wanting to be distracted by a mixture of concern and residual anger, noting the closed windows with the drawn curtains. He coolly regarded the woman with the gun, the unmistakable leader, who was again speaking to him. “You shouldn’t have interrupted us, you know. We were just going to take off with Sherlock here, but now that you have crashed the party, it is definitely going to be more fun!”
There was a sudden sound from the sofa as Sherlock finally succeeded in spitting his gag out. His voice was hoarse. “Leave him alone, Catherine. He is just my flat-mate. He has nothing to do with this.”
At these words, ‘Catherine’ turned to Sherlock, pulling off her mask as she did. “Very clever, Sherry. It was the kiss that did it, wasn’t it?” her voice was sickeningly nostalgic. With a herculean effort, John stifled his surprise and disgust at her words (she kissed him!), as he studied her. At any other time and place, he would have thought her uncommonly beautiful, with her silver blond hair, startling blue eyes and aristocratic features. It was the expression in her eyes that spoiled his estimate. Those eyes had no business being present on a living face. Somehow, it wasn’t surprising that his flat-mate’s…ex-girlfriend?... was a homicidal maniac. It did explain the whole ‘married to my work’ bit.
Sherlock’s answering voice was matter-of-fact,” I knew it was you, with the first word you spoke; and may I add that I had absolutely no wish of being reminded of our painful last encounter, during which, I had tried my level best, to NOT kiss you.”
“No? Her incredulous voice was like melted butter. “But you did say you loved me, so you can hardly fault me for my attempt.” Her voice morphed suddenly and she was spitting venom like a serpent, "Of course, that was before I knew you were using me to prove my brother’s guilt.”
John felt uncharacteristically relieved at her words. That made a lot more sense.
“Both of your guilt”, Sherlock’s voice was mild. “You don’t have to be modest, dear. You were the grand architect, after all. Your brother was just the executioner.”
“Shut up!” Her voice was feral, no trace of the lady left in its syllables. ”Don’t you dare mention my brother?”
Sherlock’s voice drove on, oblivious to John’s unspoken plea to listen to the unhinged woman with the gun, just for once. He was ignored as usual.
“Hard to imagine, YOU feeling guilty… you left him to rot in prison after all. Your insanity plea was a stroke of genius. Although, I cannot see how a high security psychiatric institute is that much different from jail. Out of curiosity, how did you escape?”
John had held his tongue while following the conversation, because he understood that Sherlock was speaking mainly for his benefit, giving him ‘data’. So he remained quiet even now, as he watched the woman cross to Sherlock (probably to snog him again). As long as the gun remained in her pocket, he was fine. Six minutes more…he prayed.
She crouched once more near Sherlock, causing him to visibly squirm backwards into the sofa. Her hand resumed its soft stroking of his hair. Her voice was dangerously low. “Wouldn't you like to know my secret? After all, you will be ending up in there when I am through with you.” Her eyes flicked from Sherlock’s face, to the skull on the mantelpiece, to the fresh track marks on his hand as she fingered them almost lovingly.
John saw the involuntary tremor that passed through Sherlock’s frame at her touch, and he suddenly realised that he wasn’t fine anymore. “DON’T touch him!” he yelled. She swivelled her head to look at him, just as Sherlock clamped his eyes tight shut, and John instinctively knew that he had made things worse.
“Well, well…jealous, aren’t we? How about suffering in silence?” He had almost forgotten the goon standing behind him, who stepped forward and gagged him. Her eyes were still on him, cataloguing his reactions, as her hand now travelled downwards over Sherlock’s body, feather-light, flicking aside the fold of his dressing gown; and now it was John’s turn to look away in revulsion. Where the fucking hell was Lestrade?
Suddenly, an incongruous buzzing filled the room. Catherine gave an annoyed sigh at the interruption, before retrieving the phone from her trouser pocket, the other hand still on Sherlock. She didn’t seem to recognise the number. “Hello”, her answering voice was sharp.
On hearing the voice on the other end of the line, John saw her face crumple; the kind of expression he had seen on the faces of plenty of young soldiers, who knew they were about to die. It was pure unadulterated fear.
“YOU!” Her voice shook in answer. Even Sherlock opened his eyes on hearing the change.
“Yes, he is alive.” She stood up abruptly, her free hand now clenched at her side. John could see that her face looked like she very much wanted to smash her phone against the wall. Her voice had told him that she wouldn’t dare.
“But Professor!” she interrupted petulantly. Whoever it was at the other end didn’t let her continue.
She deflated visibly, closing her eyes, “Yes… I know I can trust you.”
Sherlock’s eyes were huge. He looked as stumped as John felt, which was definitely a first. She ended the call and ordered the goons to go and get the transport ready. She gazed ruefully at Sherlock, ”Talk about having friends in low places. Looks like I wont be able to have my share of fun.” Noting the relief in John’s face, she smirked, “I don’t know what you did to tick off the devil; but I can promise you, that by the time he is done with you, you will wish it was me." The grotesque smile was back. "And who knows? If I am very very lucky, I might get to watch!”
“As for you”, she continued, pinning John with the gaze of a hungry predator that had been denied its meal. ”He said nothing about not hurting you. Don’t worry, Sherry, I will make it quick and painless…for old times sake.” She got up, her hand moving to the gun at her hip.
“NO!” Sherlock roared, as he flung himself off the sofa violently, landing squarely on the shattered remains of the glass table. She calmly walked up to John, but stopped and watched in wicked delight, as he dragged himself across the broken glass. He however had eyes only for John, who was staring at him mutely horrified. Even as he struggled, Sherlock knew it was futile. Yet he crawled, uncaring how the glass was cutting him open; knowing that watching him in pain was giving her pause. There was blood everywhere but the gun was still at her hip and not in her hand, so he pushed himself ahead, ignoring the silent plea mixed with wonder, in his friend’s eyes, at Sherlock’s actions; so different from his words uttered in this very room barely an hour ago.
In the next frozen instant, all hell broke loose. Both the windows to the living room burst inwards simultaneously in a shower of glass, followed by a whistling sound as two furiously smoking projectiles sailed into the room. The first whiff made Sherlock dizzy; conclusion-some sort of chemical agent, not just tear-gas. He tried to hold his breath, but the depleted blood in his body was not allowing him to do so. His head swam as he tried to see through the real and chemical smoke obscuring his vision, fighting unconsciousness, hoping desperately for the tell-tale sound of a body dropping to the floor…
BANG
I killed John… was the final reverberating thought in his head as he was mercifully dragged under…
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