If ever two were one,
then surely we…
Well, this is just typical, isn’t it?
Whatever ‘this’ actually is, of course.
//Think, John, try to reconstruct events.//
Thank you, Sherlock, for that advice.
I was at the clinic, first day back after the fortnight’s holiday.
No, not an ordinary holiday.
Which still makes me giggle a bit.
Still not a sentimentalist, are you?
//Is this really the proper time to debate the failings of my nature?//
Possibly not. All right, all right. But taking a moment to indulge in a pleasant memory is not a crime, is it? You’ll find me, right?
But first the clinic. A parade of patients with flu. And two STDs.
Any detail might be important, Sherlock. You taught me that.
//I did, John, yes. Well, done.//
End of my shift. Say goodnight to Diane, the receptionist. Sarah pops her head out to say goodbye.
Just a friend, Sherlock.
//You’re so naïve, John. She’d have you back in an instant if I were out of the picture.//
Sherlock, if you were ‘out of the picture’ no one would want what was left of me.
Now if you don’t mind?
//My apologies. Continue.//
Are you looking for me? No, never mind; that was a stupid thing to say.
Of course you are.
//Of course I am.//
Next I head for the tube station.
//If only you would use cabs.//
Not made of money, even if I am now married to a man with a sizable trust fund.
I called to let you know I was on my way. So you wouldn’t worry. Not that you ever would.
//Thank you for calling. //
Thank you for telling me exactly what you intended to do to me as soon as I walked through the door.
//Which I am still waiting for, by the way.//
Sorry about that. Not my fault.
Short cut through the alley. Maybe not the best idea, but I knew what was waiting for me at home.
That’s when I stumbled across the murder.
//A murder, John? Just now you mention a murder?//
Well, excuse me. Being bound and gagged and shoved into this car boot…
//What the hell???//
Oh, didn’t I say? Sorry. Yes, I am rather trussed up like a…well, whatever it is that gets trussed up, and crammed into the filthy boot of a speeding car.
Which, lately, seems to be mostly just me, doesn’t it?
Back to the murder.
//I could care less.//
Might help you find me. Clues and all, you know.
//Yes. Sorry. I am under some stress at the moment. So, clues. Tell me.//
Short, fat, pompous looking git in an expensive suit. Had his throat cut by two men in black. Messy. They didn’t know I was there until it was too late.
//Why didn’t you run?//
I was so stunned and then when I tried it was too late. Guess I’m lucky they didn’t just slice my jugular as well.
Sorry, love. Not an image you wanted, I’m sure.
One of them grabbed me and something hit the back of my head. Everything went black. Then I woke up here. Waiting for you.
That’s the story. Need a hero about now. And don’t tell me there’s no such thing or that you’re not one. Because that is pretty much my only hope.
The car has stopped. Wonder what that means. Probably nothing good
S’okay. You’ll find me.
I can hear voices, raised, like they’re fighting, but can’t make out the words.
Also, just as a point of interest, I now realise that there is blood seeping into the boot. Theory: the fat guy with the sliced throat must be in the back seat. Guess I should be glad they didn’t put us in here together.
//I’ll find you.//
Oh, I know. You just want to be dramatic about it. Last minute rescues are your speciality.
Sorry, Sherlock. Guess I should have taken a cab. Don’t know how long I’ve been here, but I expect you’ve started to panic. Expect you already have Mycroft’s people looking at the CCTV records. He has his uses, your brother.
Hard to believe that only a few days ago we were in that wonderful hotel in Venice. Biggest bed I ever saw. I loved that bed.
//I did as well.//
Yes. Well, that is a good memory, isn’t it? Hold onto that, won’t you? Don’t delete it.
I’m sorry…you never would delete that. I’ll hold onto it as long as I can, Sherlock.
//You promised not to leave me.//
I didn’t mean to. I don’t want to.
Oh, christ. I can hear chains and machinery.
I remember once when I was about ten my grandfather took me to an auto junkyard. They were putting cars into a giant crusher.
Don’t know why that came to my mind right now.
Forget I mentioned it.
Shhh. It’s all right. I know you’re trying.
Damn. The car is being lifted.
Was that a gunshot? Sounded close.
The car is being lowered now. Sherlock, if this is it, don’t blame yourself. I love you.
Sherlock watched as the car was slowly brought back to the ground. One of the workmen peered into the back seat. “Body in here,” he called. “Lots of blood.”
“Move, move!” Shouting as he went, Sherlock ran towards the car, brutally shoving people out of his way. Once there, he dismissed the body with a glance. “Open the boot,” he ordered in a gravelly voice.
Someone took a crowbar and pried until the boot popped open.
John Watson blinked up at them.
Sherlock pulled the gag away.
“Knew you’d turn up,” John said faintly.
Sherlock closed his eyes for just a moment and then reached inside the boot to untie the knots. “John,” he said quietly.
John tried to smile as Sherlock helped him out of the boot. His legs didn’t really want to work properly and if not for the two strong arms holding him up, he would have collapsed.
They leaned into one another, not talking, not paying any attention to the noise and activity surrounding them. After a few moments their breathing fell into the same pattern and their hearts beat in a matching tempo.
Lestrade stood to the side and waited.