Welcome to Baker Street

21. To hell and back

~ A few minutes before the explosion ~

Sherlock walks around the unfinished building and cautiously steps in through a side entrance.

Cathy was alone before we arrived, but she knew her chasers would find her, eventually. She must have prepared a backup plan, but what is it? And why hasn't she resorted to it yet? These questions swirl in his mind as he turns around a corner stepping into a large corridor.

The ruction and gunfire have ceased. A dead silence has fallen on the building. The terrorists have given up on chasing the three of them and have chosen to pursue Cathy instead.

Yet they don't know that their very prey is now hunting them, he thinks, smiling to himself. He stands still as he hears footsteps wandering around the room next door. He pricks up his ears. Four men, maybe five, judging by the gait and the walking paces, he deduces listening to their movements. They're gathering and discussing: a new course of action is probably necessary, which is why they will have to meet with their leader. And where is the leader, there will be Cathy, too. His thoughts come in quick succession until the most logical assumption. She knows she could never survive a head-on fight against four or more gunmen, so she's probably hiding somewhere near their rally point, waiting for the right moment to strike.

He doesn't waste a second and silently slides down the walls, his eyes piercing through the darkness. He catches a movement out of the corner of his eye and finds Cathy crouched down next to the glass doors connected to the main room where the terrorists have assembled. She is positioning a rifle near the doorjamb, taking advantage of the ajar door. She didn't hear him approach; she is completely focused on her target.

"That's a bit cowardly, backstabbing your former boss," Sherlock says, faking indignation.

His unexpected appearance startles her, but she immediately recognises his voice and tries to hide her astonishment while her wide grin shines in the dark.

"Technically, it's back-shooting, and he was never truly my boss."

He steps forward, coming within her visual range, and she half-turns towards him.

"I thought you were on the safe side."

"I was. A bit boring for my taste."

"You are certainly going to enjoy this entertaining execution, then." A flicker of cruelty sparkles in her eyes while she looks through the crosshairs.

"I didn't come to be a spectator." He takes one more step forward.

She sighs are replies without looking at him, glowering at the terrorists.

"My sister was forced to commit suicide because of these people and the crazy plan of their leader. I hold him responsible for my twin's death, and if you think I'm going to spare his life, you're sorely mistaken."

"There's always an alternative. We can work it out together," Sherlock proposes softly, walking closer. "Let me help you."

"There's nothing to be done, not now, not anymore." She leans forward to take aim.

He leaps towards her, shouting, "Cathy, don't!"

The terrorists hear his muffled scream and spin around, guns blazing, and open fire against their position. The wall next to Sherlock and Cathy is riddled with bullets, while the glass doors shatter in a rainstorm of noise. Flying splinters of glass fall everywhere; Sherlock instinctively protects his head with his arms, ending up with a few scratches on his pale skin. Cathy, instead, gets a nasty gash on her leg from a ricocheting bullet. He crawls towards her to examine the wound: it is deep and bleeds fast. He quickly tears an edge from his shirt and carefully wraps it around her leg.

She props up on her elbows and growls.

"Mr Holmes, you've made a mistake: you should have never come back."

"Why?" He takes care of her injury without losing sight of the approaching shooters.

"Because you won't make it out of here alive," she breathes out between groans.

He stops for an instant to look up at her, determination glimmering in his fiery eyes.

"I won't let them kill me."

"I'm not talking about them." She winces in pain and suppresses a screech when he applies pressure to the wound to stop the blood flow. "You figured it all out, didn't you? My personal war, my bunker, my plot. You're brilliant, indeed. You haven't considered what lies beneath every conflict, though. Collateral damages, detective, human lives. I regret that your name will be among the casualties, too."

He cocks a brow at her and rebuts boastfully, "I may not be bulletproof, but I can assure you—"

"That you're bomb-proof?" she cuts him off.

At that precise moment, the terrorists quit shooting as another man of the squad breaks into the room, panting heavily.

"Stop it, you idiots," he yells. He takes some deep breaths before being able to articulate, "We need to get out of here now. This place is stuffed with explosives."

Sherlock freezes as they run away. "Did you plan to—" he doesn't finish his question; he already knows the answer. He merely points out the obvious consequence: "This place is about to blow up."

She nods. "It's a matter of minutes, maybe seconds. I lost track of time in the shooting."

His mind sets in motion, examining the entire building. "What's the shortest way out?"

She shakes her head with a resigned expression.

"Nothing would be quick enough. We're going to be within the blast radius, anyway. There's no escaping an explosion."

Sherlock looks around the hall and narrows his eyes in concentration as a sudden idea strikes him. He quickly stands up, grabs her arm, and slides it over his shoulders, holding her up at the waist as they trudge, one foot after the other until they reach the back of the room and the top of a staircase plunging into darkness.

"We'll stick to the vintage methods," he states as they rush downstairs together as fast as possible.