»»──────　SH　──────««

Lestrade arrived at Baker Street in less than fifteen minutes. Hughes voluntarily held out his hands, allowing himself to be handcuffed and arrested. Maybe he wasn't such a bastard after all. Or perhaps he preferred the prison to the death the murderer had threatened him with.

The rest of the afternoon passed in a serene atmosphere. John sat down in his armchair and turned on the TV. Sherlock couldn't understand what John could possibly like about the movie he was currently watching, with its excessive amount of violence, vulgarism and a more agile and action-oriented version of his brother in the title role (that meant the Bond movie...).

Sherlock settled on the couch, keeping a vigilant distance from the television so John wouldn't think of forcing him to watch along, and disappeared into his Mind Palace.

He dared to claim that he had figured out who murdered Luke Williams, but he'd solve nothing today, as it was well past office hours. Not to mention that he would only attract attention to himself.

Never mind, Hughes is "hidden" in custody, so practically nothing can happen to him, except for the accusation of negligent homicide. The very next day, Sherlock will inform Lestrade, and tell him to make a trip to Mayfair...

Sherlock closed his eyes and paused in thought for a while. However, the irregular sleeping routine and quite a fruitful day had taken a toll on his energy, and soon he fell into an exceptionally dreamless, peaceful sleep.

Unfortunately, he didn't enjoy it for very long.

It was an intrusive ringing of his phone that woke him from his well-deserved rest. Groaning into the pillow, Sherlock rubbed his sleepy face, then rolled on his back and propped himself up on his elbows.

He tucked up the sleeve of his blue silk dressing gown with a slight shake of his wrist and took a look at his watch.

The clock dial was showing a quarter to seven.

Who could it possibly be at this hour?

Sherlock leaned towards the coffee table with a sigh. Still a bit drowsy, he scrabbled around the wooden board, looking for the annoying jingling device. Oh, there it was...

He looked at the name of the caller and answered the call.

"John?" he mumbled as he put the phone to his ear and let his head fall back into the pillows.

"Good evening, Mr Holmes..."

"Oh, it is you, then," he said instead of greeting in a neutral, almost bored voice, but nearly dropped the phone with a start as straightened up in his seat, suddenly wide awake.

Oh God, John!

Sherlock vaguely remembered John saying something about going shopping.

He cursed his body for betraying him and letting him fall asleep! Because of his stupid transport, he didn't know when his friend had left or for how long he'd been gone.

But he could be sure about one thing. John wouldn't just surrender his phone to a perfect stranger. If he didn't have his phone with him, then it meant that it was taken from him by force...

"Yes, you're clever. Very clever indeed. So clever you surely know what I want from you..."

Sherlock continued in the same neutral tone. Panic will solve nothing. It might even put John in more danger. Why do they always use John as a mediator? Was their imagination so limited that they had to repeat such hackneyed methods over and over?

"Ah, child's play. You want Hughes... And why would I bring him to you? What's in it for me?"

"Fine. I'll give you a tiny clue..."

A familiar sound of releasing the safety catch and his best friend's quivering breath reached his ears.

Sherlock's stomach clenched in dread. "That won't be necessary, will it?" he said into the phone with forced casualness, kicking his legs wildly to untangle himself from the blanket. "If I send you Hughes, can you give me your word that you'll let John go?" he asked, awaiting her decision with his heart throbbing in his throat.

"Excellent! You're asking the right questions... I give you half an hour to fetch me Hughes. I'll meet him on Binney Street in Mayfair. If he doesn't come or tries to escape, I'll have to settle for murdering someone else. How timely that I've got your companion in here, isn't it? Oh, one more thing. If I hear a single police siren, you may as well say your goodbyes to him right away!"

The call ended, and the phone went silent.

Sherlock stared at the shining screen. A splitting headache raged in his temples as the thoughts swirled in his brain.

What was he going to do? He had to save John! But how?

He couldn't just go and fetch somebody who sat in a guarded cell...

Suddenly, his gaze fell on the hat Hughes had forgotten here by accident. An idea formed in his head.

Who says he couldn't?

»»──────　JW　──────««

John came to his senses in a small, dark room, illuminated only by a plain table lamp. The effects of the unknown drug circulating in his blood subsided, and John gradually regained his consciousness and concentration.

A dark-haired woman around his age greeted him. At first glance, John would say she wouldn't hurt a fly. The opposite was true; she was the one who had surprised him and injected a narcotic substance into his body. It was a prominent bump on her forehead that revealed her identity—the one she developed thanks to the large glass bottle of sweet ketchup, which had collided with her head when John hit her with his shopping bag in defence.

She squatted down in front of him and frisked him entirely, taking his gun and cell phone.

Without the slightest remorse, she scrolled down through his contacts until she found the desired number, and clicked the dial button.

The phone took a long time to dial, and John feared the call would fall into voicemail.

It didn't; he heard a familiar, deep, and strangely husky voice, amplified by the speakerphone mode, coming from the other side of the call. Of course, as if this could be about someone else...

The detective sounded somewhat confused at first, because of the afternoon nap he had slipped into shortly before John left to go shopping. Once he realised he was talking to someone else than he had initially thought, he immediately shook off all signs of fatigue and gave the woman on the phone his undivided attention.

Then, after the foul blackmail with which she forced Sherlock to agree to her demands, she walked off to the agreed place, leaving John sitting on the ground... which probably wouldn't bother him so much if she hadn't tied his hands to his torso so tightly he couldn't breathe.

John let out a heavy exhale and rested his head against the cold wall.

He should have been more careful. In the months without Sherlock's presence, he had forgotten to be careful around every corner, even when doing the most common things.

It hadn't occurred to him that such a mundane activity as shopping at Tesco, just a few blocks from Baker Street, could result in someone waylaying him and sticking a syringe needle in his neck.

'I'm lucky we had such an empty fridge,' he had thought when he'd been raising the plastic bag with quite heavy shopping and knocked the enemy over the head with all his might. This manoeuvre has earned him some time to snatch the gun behind the waistband of his jeans before the stranger collects themselves. Suddenly, his legs turned into two pieces of jelly. He staggered, which allowed the kidnapper to wrap their arm around John's waist and steer him in the opposite direction way than he wanted to go.

John wanted to scream for help, but his tongue lay on his lower palate so heavily that he couldn't make a sound. He couldn't defend himself, either. The drug spread throughout his body and dampened his muscle activity, leaving him feeling no stronger than a few days-old kitten.

He hoped that at least some passersby would notice that something didn't seem right. To his bad luck, he could have been easily mistaken for a drunk unable to perform a fluent, straightforward walk; it could have looked like someone was leading him out of the pub.

The person dragged him towards the car and shoved him onto the back seat. He groaned as he landed on his scarred shoulder, face-first in the tough leather. The last thing he heard before he lost the notion of the world, had been the loud start of the engine.

Oh God, the silence was maddening!

How many minutes have passed? Ten? Fifteen?

The latter, probably.

He hesitated no more and flexed his muscles in an attempt to wriggle out of the ropes that tied him once again. With no success. His efforts achieved nothing but pain as the rough rope dug deeper into his skin.

John glanced around.

It wasn't just any room; it looked like a reception. The opposite wall consisted mostly of a large rectangular window. The windowsill was elongated into a worktop that held a few mugs with cheap pencils and pens, a desk phone, a densely written calendar, and a framed photo and drawing. John couldn't see much from that distance, but the picture seemed to capture two women. Two visually similar women.

A mother with her daughter.

Jesus Christ...

The woman who kidnapped him was no doubt the same woman from Hughes' story, the one that had run away from the car after that nasty car crash.

That was why she asked Sherlock to bring her Alan Hughes. So she could kill him the same way she killed Luke Williams, in revenge for the death of the young girl, Mandy. Her daughter...

John closed his eyes and leaned against the wall with a deep exhale.

The minutes passed, and his concern multiplied.

Sherlock couldn't simply bring Hughes here; Scotland Yard would not release the prisoner, even if he was used as bait.

But maybe there was still hope for them...

Sherlock must have figured it out in the afternoon when Hughes told them about the accident. And not only that, they had already had the honour of meeting, Sherlock and the woman, John understood as much from their conversation. Sherlock hadn't seemed all too surprised by her voice. Aside from the fact that she was calling him from his best friend's phone, he knew very well who she was talking to.

This knowledge could turn out to be useful. Sherlock was known to always have an ace up his sleeve. All John had to do was wait and pray that his brilliant mind would come up with something.

And apparently, it had come up with something...

In the distance, he heard the clatter of soles on the ground. It grew stronger, sounding closer and closer with each subsequent stride, which meant the woman was coming back. And according to the second pair of ponderous treads, she brought someone along.

The uncertainty of not knowing what was happening kicked in John's defences and sent a strange mixture of adrenaline, fear, and hope coursing through his veins. If it wasn't for the tightly tied limbs, he would be instinctively reaching for his weapon.

If—and that was a big if—he had it with him. His gun, a remnant from his military service in Afghanistan, lay nonchalantly on the table only a few metres away.

Did the brunette forget it here? Or was there more to it than carelessness? Maybe she put it there on purpose so John would have a clear view of it, but every glance at the table reminded him that he had no chance of getting to it.

Clap.

Clap.

Clap.

The footsteps stopped, and suddenly the door flew open.

And John had to do his best to keep a stony face and not drop his jaw to the ground.

There, on the doorsill, stood his kidnapper and...

It's well known that posture is one of the most telling signs of identification—you can recognise someone by their walk from several tens of metres away.

Alan Hughes presented a model example of an unhealthy posture. He was asking for unpleasant spinal problems and backaches with his stooping back and head permanently leaned forward.

Standing a step or two behind the brunette (they might not even fit in the doorway together, given the space Hughes' colossal figure took up), he kept fidgeting nervously just as he had been in their flat, crumpling the hem of his black parka in his fat fingers.

He must have been sweating under it, judging by the fact that he kept it unbuttoned. Not that John would be surprised when he wore a brown V-neck sweater underneath, along with a blue shirt whose collar peeked out at his neck. Everything looked worn and almost a size smaller than might feel comfortable.

A black hat sat on his head, the inseparable part of his image, though it fell so low in his eyes that it shadowed most of his face so that they could see only his lips and chin.

"You're lucky," the woman said into the heavy silence, taking a long, hard look at John. Then she pulled a knife from her belt and walked towards him.

John involuntarily clenched his hands into fists, instinct screaming at him to duck.

The woman who stabbed a man several times and threw him off a bridge is approaching you! With a knife in her hand! A disgraced mother, avenging the death of her only daughter!

John forced himself to remain calm and not arouse suspicion. He had no reason to panic, he kept telling himself. After all, Sherlock fulfilled his part of the deal.

She squatted in front of him and began to cut the hemp ropes.

It was tough going as the rope was particularly thick in diameter and the blade kept slipping on individual fibres. John hoped she would hurry and finally drop the knife.

He didn't want to look at her hand and the knife in it, so he raised his head instead and fixed his eyes on Hughes. He couldn't meet John's eyes, but John immediately knew that he had been trying to get his attention for a while. When Hughes noticed John looking at him, he jerked his head slightly to the left. John's gaze wandered to the places where the man pointed.

Was he indicating to him that—oh! Yes, of course...

Slowly, almost imperceptibly, John nodded in a sign of understanding.

The last rope finally fell to the floor.

"Get out, before I change my mind..." she hissed, pointing the tip of the knife to the ceiling, motioning for him to stand up.

John obeyed; he'd be a fool not to, but it wasn't easy for him—and not only because his legs seemed to turn into two oak logs.

He passed around Hughes when the man pressed something into his palm behind his back.

A folded piece of paper.

Neither slow nor fast, as not to attract attention, John slipped out of the office, making sure they both caught a good look at him through the reception window. Once he was out of their sight, he opened his clammy palm and quietly, without making a single rustle, unfolded a piece of paper, written in familiar, tiny writing.

Distract her attention; we have to surprise her. She can't escape. My people surround the building.

John shoved the note in his pocket and took normal, loud steps to the automatic front door, giving the brunette the false assurance that he had left. But he only took off his shoes and threw them through the sliding glass doors.

"Not you, Mr Hughes... It ends here for you, I'm afraid..." John heard as he tiptoed back, wearing only white socks to cushion his already silent footsteps.

On the outside, his movements may have looked confident and calm, but inside, John felt like a trembling bundle of nerves. A single louder step or (God forbid!) a slip could ruin everything and cost both of their lives.

How loud was his breathing? God, he thought he must be heard metres away!

How much time has passed since he stepped out of her office? Thirty seconds? Five minutes?

And what if he doesn't get there in time?!

"And now it's only me and you... I'm sure you understand why you're here..."

Her sweet, falsely innocent voice made John's stomach churn. She had killed a man and was now about to take the life of another. And she teased him about it on top of all of that!

He knew he had to hurry before things turned out badly. With his heart beating wildly somewhere in his throat, he got down on all fours and crawled under the reception desk. A seed of hope germinated in his chest, but John stopped it sharply. Yes, he made it, but he was still far from victory.

Now the more troublesome part awaited him...

»»──────　★　──────««

The corners of her mouth rose, but instead of a smile, she bared her teeth at him. "And now it's only me and you... I'm sure you know why you're here..."

"Of course, Mrs Rodgers..." he said with icy composure, then paused dramatically. His eyes clung to her face as he waited for her to realise he wasn't who she had initially thought.

This "Hughes" would not raise the slightest suspicion in a person who did not know the real one more intimately.

But he was a double.

The smug smile froze on her lips, and the muscles of her cheeks twitched. The malicious spark of satisfaction in her eyes faded, replaced by a flash of panic.

For a while, he just rocked silently on the balls of his feet, consciously stretching out the heavy silence. It was worth the wait; he could feel her growing nervousness, uncomfortable and binding, and he knew he was on the right track to confession.

And then he pressed.

"Or should I say Mrs Mullins?" he pondered mockingly.

Only Sherlock Holmes could voluntarily walk directly into the arms of the murderer, serving his own life on a silver platter, while pretending that everything was just fine.

She stared in utter silence as he pulled his hat off his head, tossed it aside, and ruffled his matted hair. For a long moment, she just blinked in surprise, her head all but rattling like gears in an old clock.

"H-how did you...?" she stuttered.

Sherlock shrugged, rejoicing internally. His plan seemed to go very well. "Quite easily, thanks to your inattention. One would say that you'd be more careful when planning someone's murder," he objected with a hint of mockery.

"You'll probably want to know where the real Hughes is," he continued without giving her a chance to speak up. "Save your breath. You'll need it for the interrogation at the police station... Alan Hughes is in custody. The police arrested him this afternoon, for the murder of your daughter," he said, taking another pause, not as long this time.

"Your table told me, Mrs Mullins. Or, more precisely, the photograph and the drawing. And also the scar on your hairline. What a nasty car crush it must have been... You've lost the most precious person in your life," Sherlock said with a hint of compassion.

He understood her reasons, but there were other ways to deal with grief than committing murder, threatening, and kidnapping an innocent man. Not to mention she intended to kill someone else.

"So... You wanted to punish them both. That's why you started working as a receptionist at the clinic where Williams used to attend... Hmm, pretty clever... You had quite easy access to Dr Bennett's office, where you found the notes regarding Luke. You read through them so you could get to him better and kill him. Then you stole a page from Bennett's notes to write a threatening message to Alan Hughes.

You also deduced that Hughes wouldn't want to deal with the message all alone and would come to consult with me. But you didn't think I would ever reveal the whole truth, did you? The police arrested him, therefore I couldn't bring him here even if I wanted to. The police wouldn't allow us to stick him as bait..."

The mood in the room thickened faster than semolina, and so did her anger.

Each of Sherlock's sentences added gasoline to the flames. With every subsequent deduction, she radiated a stronger and stronger aura of uneasiness. Her facial muscles tightened into a stern mask, her lips curled into a hateful grin, and her teeth bared in a clear threat.

She clenched the handle of the knife and –

BANG!

Mullins jumped, startled, and looked back after a loud gunshot that had come from behind the reception desk.

And that was exactly what Sherlock had been waiting for.

As Abbey looked around, she missed Sherlock sneaking up on her. Sherlock squeezed her upper arm with his left hand and delivered a blow to her radial bone with his right fist.

Mullins yelped in surprise, and her fingers, in which she had been clutching the handle, opened involuntarily. The knife landed on the floor with a dull thud, and before she could bend down to pick it up, Sherlock's foot stomped on it to kick it into the opposite corner.

"What do you think you're doing, fatso?!"

On a sudden impulse, provoked by Abbey's insult, the young genius resorted to immediate, spontaneous action.

With no warning, he lunged forward. He wrapped his arms around her petite shoulders and hung his entire weight on the surprised woman, whose slender figure stood no chance of resisting such a sudden thrust. She staggered and fell backwards. A wonder she didn't break her spine...

They both tumbled to the ground, with Sherlock landing a tad softer than the criminal. She fell on her back and grunted; a hundred and forty kilogrammes of live weight just slammed into her and pinned her to the floor. If she hadn't been who she was, Sherlock might have felt sorry for her.

"Just what you deserve..." he growled into her ear, crushing her wrist with his right hand. Fumbling with his other hand, he tried to reach the rope—or rather, what was left of it—she had used to tie his friend earlier. A little more and –

Even a slight moment of carelessness was enough for her to get luck on her side.

Tears welled up in the detective's eyes, and his otherwise flawless vision blurred. It felt like fireworks had gone off in his eye sockets, covering his world in a dazzling white mist.

'Stupid! STUPID!' he scolded himself and groaned. No, it can't end like this! After all, one blow won't bring him down...

Sherlock propped himself on his elbows, forcing himself out of his initial shock. Other colours, particularly red, have returned to the world. Blood gushed from his sore, throbbing nose, splattering his chin, his clothes, and the floor.

"Your left hook is flawless, I admit... But that's the only thing you deserve admiration for," he snapped coolly, but his bloody nose distorted his voice into a husky accent and significantly detracted from the effect.

He struggled to his feet, but Abbey was ahead of him, already heading for the door with a significant head start.

John blocked the doorway and braced himself against the wooden frame. "Do you think Mandy would be proud of you? For what her mummy did? That she's become a cruel, merciless murderer?"

Maybe it would be better not to poke a hornet's nest, Sherlock thought as he listened to what was pouring out of John's mouth. On the other hand, this distraction could come in handy. If he got hold of that rope lying on the floor and crept up to her, he could tie her up.

"I bet she would be so very disappointed in you," the doctor added.

She clenched her hands into fists, her body shaking in ill-repressed anger. Sherlock could not see her face, but he could imagine her expression quite vividly.

"She was everything to me. She was so young, she could have led a long, joyful life. And those two drunks robbed her of that chance! You don't understand; unlike you, I'm not lucky enough to have my loved one come back from the dead!" she screamed. The last words came a little hoarse. A toothy grin spread across her lips, and if she'd only looked half-crazy a moment ago, she seemed genuinely mad now.

"But you'll understand this time, doctor Watson..."

Suddenly, so much came to happen that it all merged into one big blur.

Sherlock felt a dull, searing pain in his ribcage, and it felt like he'd just been punched at first. The impact was so strong that Sherlock couldn't catch his breath. Black spots danced before his eyes, and he completely lost track of time, place, and himself for a moment.

"No!"

The nocturnal silence got torn by another shot and John's heartbreaking shriek.

AN:

Good morning!
I can't help but ask - did you expect this development? Was the revelation of the killer a surprise to you, or did you have some inkling?

Personally, this is one of my favourite parts.
Sherlock is so brave in this chapter. It wasn't easy for him to admit the similarity between himself and Hughes, but he accepted it and even found a way to use it to his advantage. I know it might sound weird but I'm so proud of him.

I am curious about what you think and I hope you will share your feelings with me.🙂

Yours,
PaulineHolmes02🖤