10. One Tin Soldier

The weekend proved to be a source of enormous frustration for Sherlock. He had done witness interviews before, but he suspected that the junior prosecutor had not. In his irritation, he made sure to inform her of his suspicions, including the ones that touched upon the provenance of her law degree. After she showed him out, tears of anger glittering in her eyes, he went to the luthier's, only to learn that there had been a further delay, and his violin would not be returned until Monday. And, exactly as if the God that Sherlock did not believe in had designed the day to be as irritating as possible, Sally Donovan called him in to work on an absurdly simple homicide over the weekend.

"It was the daughter," Sherlock snarled at her on Sunday afternoon. "For goodness' sake, Sally, you're meant to be a homicide squad. How is it that you can't solve a simple homicide? Even if things are closed for the weekend."

Donovan shifted so that she could poke Sherlock in the ankle with one of her crutches. "In case you hadn't noticed, Freak, we're a man and half a woman down. Lestrade won't be back on duty for another week, and I'm still crutching along from dragging him out of that building. We needed a warm body, I thought I'd make you earn your keep for once."

A chime from Sherlock's mobile cut off his retort. He glanced at the incoming text.

Any progress on arsonist? - Dimmock.

Sherlock tossed a murderous glare in Sally's general direction as he texted back.

Diverted by homicide. Communicate better with your colleagues. – SH

He waved the texts at Donovan, who simply raised her eyebrows at him. "You want to teach us about communication? Great. Next up, we'll have some Americans tell us how to make tea."

She turned and crutched away. Sherlock could only hope that she was going to arrest the daughter, as he had instructed her to do.

Between witness interview and family homicides, Sherlock did not get a chance to return his attention to the arsonist until Monday. The morning proved difficult, as John insisted that he eat toast and tea for breakfast. Just as he finished, Lestrade rang the bell downstairs. Sherlock's heart sank at the thought that there might be another idiotic crime requiring his attention, but John smiled at him.

"Don't worry," he said. "He's not on duty yet, remember? He volunteered to take Mrs. Hudson to her appointment at the surgery today. It was very kind of him, and it made Mrs. Hudson happy. I think she likes him."

That thought was so horrifying that Sherlock did not trust himself to respond. He turned on his laptop and began to hack into the personnel files of Cocknell and Coague and did his best to put other images out of his mind. John ruffled his hair and walked away, and soon Sherlock heard the comfortably slow clicking of keys as John worked at his blog. The sound faded into the background, along with the whizz of traffic and an occasional banging from the pipes, the comforting sounds of home, easily catalogued and then ignored.

Some time later, Sherlock was startled from his files by a distinct "whump." His first thought was that John's leg had seized up and he had fallen, but when he glanced over, he saw that John was still in his chair, a puzzled look on his face.

"Did you hear that?" he asked Sherlock.

Sherlock nodded. "Yes."

"Sounded familiar," John said. "Sounded almost like – oh, Jesus, no." Sherlock had heard the phrase "the life drained out of his face" before, but he had never seen such a dramatic demonstration of its meaning until he saw John's expression.

"John? What is it?"

"Sounded like an IED."

"In London? Are you sure?"

"You don't forget that kind of sound, Sherlock." John pushed himself to his feet and peered out the window. "Damn. I wish I knew where it was so I could call it in."

Sherlock's mind was already buzzing with variables as he reached for his mobile. How big, how far away might the device have been, for them to have heard the explosion but not felt much of the shockwave? Which direction had it come from? Sherlock rapidly paced from kitchen table to living room and back again, trying to recall exactly what he had heard. He could not hear any car alarms in the immediate vicinity.

He did hear sirens. John opened the window and leaned out, almost dangerously far, craning his neck to see. "They're heading up Park Road."

Sherlock listened more closely. He picked out the sirens of at least three distinct vehicles. "One ambulance," he said. "Two fire engines."

John pulled his head back inside and turned to stare at Sherlock. "Christ," he breathed. "The arsonist?"

That thought was enough to send Sherlock running for his coat. He clattered down the stairs, with John hot on his heels, having paused only long enough to grab the first aid kit that they kept in the kitchen. Sherlock was determined to find the scene of the fire, even if he had to chase the ambulance on foot. Behind him, he heard John's mobile ring.

"Hello?" John said, and Sherlock cursed quietly at the delay. "What? Where are you?" John reached out and snagged Sherlock's coat sleeve in his fingers. "It's Mrs. Hudson."

Sherlock stared at John and watched as his eyes bulged from his head in shock. Then his mouth set in a grim line, and he gave a crisp nod, although Mrs. Hudson wouldn't see it. "Don't move. Stay awake. We're coming to get you." He snapped the mobile closed.

"It's the surgery," he said. "Mrs. Hudson was in the waiting room. The building came down, and she's trapped."

All thought rushed from Sherlock's mind, leaving behind only the white noise of pure panic. The panic only lasted a moment, and then Sherlock and John raced for the door. A taxi was just passing, and Sherlock chased it down, his long legs straining to catch it before it sped away. John gave the address of the surgery and bundled himself and Sherlock into the cab.

Sherlock had visited the surgery before, and remembered the small, plain building, an uninspired 1960s square lump of red brick. Now, half of the building lay scattered across the street, and the remaining portion belched smoke. Small fires raged throughout the ruin. Sherlock unfolded himself from the taxi and looked around. Doctors and nurses raced through his field of vision. Some wore the orange jumpsuits of emergency personnel, while others wore the plain short sleeves that proclaimed them to be employees of the surgery. The air echoed with the cries of the sick and injured. Sherlock did not notice that John had come to his side until he saw Sarah hurrying over to them. Her hair was wild and grey with dust, and she was bleeding from a cut along her hairline.

"John!" she cried. "Thank God you're here."

"What happened?" he asked.

Sarah shook her head. "I don't know. A kid came in with her mum, Alice had taken the history, and I was going in to do the exam. There was a tremendous roar, and – the whole front half of the building was gone. We're trying to locate and evacuate all the patients."

"We got a call from our landlady, Mrs. Hudson," John said. "She said she was in the waiting room."

"Oh, God." Sarah pointed to a heap of brick, glass, and drywall. "That's the waiting room." She and John ran off, and Sherlock began to follow them, only to be stopped by a strong hand on his arm. He turned, and saw Lestrade.

"Don't," Lestrade said. "That part of the building isn't stable. John's done this sort of thing before; you haven't. Stay here."

"But it's Mrs. Hudson!" Sherlock snapped.

Lestrade's grip on Sherlock's arm tightened. "I know. Let John look for her. He knows what he's doing."

"She's got a hip," Sherlock said, a bit more quietly.

Lestrade nodded. "I know."

Over his shoulder, Sherlock spotted John and Sarah talking to – no, arguing with one of the fire crew. He pushed past Lestrade and strode over to them.

". . . can't do it. That pile could come down at any moment," the fireman said.

"So, what, you're just going to leave her there?" John said, in the tight, cold voice that he only used when he was very angry. "She's conscious and talking. Who knows how long that'll last?"

"You're going to leave Mrs. Hudson?" Sherlock asked.

Sarah laid a hand on his arm. "She's alive, Sherlock," she said. "We've talked to her. Her hip is hurting, and so is her head. She's trapped in a pocket beneath the waiting room, but there's only a small hole, and it's not big enough for a paramedic team to get through to her." Sarah pointed to a gap in the rubble.

Sherlock looked at the hole. Sarah was right. None of the paramedics on the scene could get through. "You can't leave her alone," he said, his voice cracking.

John glanced at Sherlock and then at Sarah. A light flared behind his eyes, and he straightened his spine. "Absolutely not, Sherlock. We will not leave her." He turned to the fireman, and was suddenly Captain John Watson of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. "Here's what we're going to do. We can't get a paramedic team in there, but we can get a doctor in. Sarah would fit through that gap."

Sarah turned to look. "I suppose . . . I'd have to crawl . . . be a bit of a squeeze, but you're right."

The fireman shook his head. "That just traps the doc as well. Won't do any good."

"Oh, yes it will," John said. "I'm a doctor, too. I'll liaise with Sarah from outside, pass equipment through. Sarah will stabilise Mrs. Hudson and start treatment while your crew works on how to cut through safely. Can you do that?"

The fireman shrugged. "We can try."

"You'll do it. We'll need helmets for Sarah and for me, portable lights, gauze, saline, splints, blankets, and a backboard standing by." The fireman rushed off to fetch the items John had requested. John turned to Sherlock. "You can't hang around here. It's dangerous, and you'd be in the way. You do your part. Find out why this happened."

Sherlock nodded. The fireman was on his way back, accompanied by paramedics bringing the gear that John had requested. There was time for only a quick question. "Sarah," he said. "Did anyone unexpected come to the surgery today?"

Sarah frowned as she thought. "No. Just the usual. Patients, staff. A few maintenance people. Oh!" She glanced up at Sherlock. "There was a delivery."

"A delivery of what?"

The paramedics arrived and began to distribute their gear. Sarah donned a helmet and clipped the chin strap. "Respiratory supplies. Flow regulators, masks, a new cart, a supply of oxygen tanks –"

"Oxygen." Sherlock glanced around. A milk jug full of petrol, set on fire in a storage room full of oxygen tanks . . . "Oh, that's diabolical," he breathed.

"Find out who did this," John said. He turned and offered his hand to Sarah to help her over the ruin to the hole. Sherlock watched as she slithered through the gap in the rubble. John positioned himself just outside, picked up a lamp, and handed it through.

Satisfied that Mrs. Hudson was in the best hands possible, Sherlock could now turn his attention to the scene of the explosion. This fire was different to the others. The surgery was no long-abandoned building, to be burnt at night to conceal a twenty-year-old murder. This had been a crime directed at someone in the building, an attempted murder using the murderer's current favourite tools. Sherlock closed his eyes and put his hands over his ears. He had to think. If he could determine who the intended victim was, it might lead him to the killer.

Lestrade pulled on his arms, shattering his concentration. "Sherlock, you can't stay here. You're in the way. Let the fire crews through."

Sherlock took a breath and opened his mouth to shout at Lestrade, but the words died on his lips. Over Lestrade's shoulder, he saw something that didn't fit, and that didn't fit in the most glorious way.

Anyone would have expected to see the man who had delivered the medical supplies to the surgery still hanging around at the scene of the fire; after all, there was a crowd of bystanders already. But Sherlock had seen the delivery man before, on Thursday evening, and he had not delivered medical supplies, but rather a plate of linguini with clam sauce. It was Angelo's new waiter, who had clearly not spent his time in prison repenting his previous crime.

In the instant before the waiter noticed Sherlock's gaze upon him, Sherlock realized what had really happened to the surgery. Their eyes met, and the waiter turned to flee, but Sherlock was already running, leaping over shards of the building to follow him. He dimly heard Lestrade shouting, and sirens whining to life, but none of that was important now. This man had hurt Mrs. Hudson, whose only offence had been to find evidence of his past crimes.

Sherlock chased the man down a residential street, dodging young mothers with pushchairs and old men taking constitutionals. The man turned briefly to see if Sherlock was still behind him, and that action slowed him just long enough for Sherlock to put on an extra burst of speed and catch up to him. He launched forward with a spurt that would have impressed the cross country masters at Harrow and slammed the waiter into the side of a bus shelter. The people waiting for the bus cried out in surprise, and attempted to scatter, but a panda car screeched to a stop in front of the shelter, its siren wailing.

Sherlock concentrated on pinning down the writhing body beneath him. The smell of petrol filled his nose and made him want to vomit, but he suppressed the urge ruthlessly. Then there were hands on him, pulling him away, and he struggled against them until he heard Dimmock's voice in his ear. "Sherlock! Sherlock, we've got him! Get off, let us cuff him."

It was only then that Sherlock allowed himself to be pulled away, and he did not relax fully until he heard the click of the handcuffs and the steady tone of Dimmock reciting the caution. Then Sherlock looked around and spotted a mobile on the ground. It must have fallen from the waiter's pocket when Sherlock had caught him. He picked it up and keyed through the stored numbers. There were only two. One was for "Mum and Dad," and another one was for "Cathy at work." Sherlock pulled out his own mobile and pulled up the list of Cocknell and Coague's employees while he rang "Cathy at work."

"Cocknell and Coague, Cathy Webb speaking, how may I help you?" came a bright voice over the phone.

Sherlock quickly scrolled through his list. Catherine Webb was listed as – of course, stupid of him to have missed it – the assistant to the managing director. She would have access to the firm's accounts, and know which buildings had recently been purchased, and which were due for inspection. And she had clearly recently acquired a dangerously thrilling new boyfriend.

"Cancel your dinner plans," he told her. "You'll have to reschedule at Her Majesty's pleasure."

After Dimmock put the waiter into the panda car and drove away, a constable took Sherlock's contact information so that he could make an appointment to give a statement, and then the constable left as well. Left to his own devices, Sherlock glanced around to get his bearings and then retraced his steps back to the surgery.

Lestrade was sitting on the bonnet of a nearby car, watching as the rescue crews worked on the ruins of the waiting room. When he spotted Sherlock, he patted the space next to him. Sherlock came to stand at his side, but did not sit. Neither man spoke for a while. They waited in silent companionship, watching as John passed objects back and forth through the gap and shouted conversation with Sarah over the noise of the rescue crew.

Half an hour later, Lestrade's mobile rang, and he moved away to take the call. When he returned, there was a small smile on his face. "You did it," he said quietly. "Frank Somerset was released from prison a few months ago, after doing eighteen years for armed robbery. Apparently, he's one of the best serial killers the Met has ever seen; we didn't even know he existed back when he was taking young girls off the street. Hid the bodies so well, they just vanished."

"Idiots," Sherlock said.

Lestrade shrugged. "Well, you were still in school then. Anyway, turns out that Somerset isn't nearly as good an arsonist as he was a serial killer. You got him, and we'll see him put away for life this time." He winced and rotated his shoulder. "Christ, my arm hurts. Listen, I'm not technically on duty, and I've got to get home and see to the kids. Can I take you anywhere?"

Sherlock shook his head. Lestrade patted him on the shoulder and left.

Twenty minutes after that, the rescue crews managed to stabilise the waiting room and enlarge the gap. John went in with two paramedics at his side, carrying a backboard. A few minutes later, they emerged. The two paramedics carried Mrs. Hudson, strapped to the backboard, her head bandaged, and an oxygen mask on her face. Sarah was at her side, holding an IV bag, and John brought up the rear, carrying the lights and a case that had held medical equipment. Sherlock hurried over to meet the small procession, and saw, to his embarrassingly great relief, that Mrs. Hudson was conscious. She smiled at him through the oxygen mask, and squeezed back when he clasped her hand.

John smiled and pulled Sherlock gently away as the paramedics loaded Mrs. Hudson into a waiting ambulance. "She'll be all right, Sherlock," he said. "We'll go to visit her later." The ambulance sped away.

There was a little sigh from John's other side, and Sarah sat down hard on the pavement. John crouched down next to her and unclipped her helmet. "Oh, bloody hell," he said, looking at her head wound. "I should have remembered this."

"'m all right," Sarah murmured. "I could help."

"Yeah," John said. "Only now you need to get to hospital, too, and all the ambulances have gone."

Sherlock dug in his pocket for his mobile. Sarah had been so good to Mrs. Hudson that Sherlock could justify summoning a car from Mycroft. But just as he began to scroll through his contacts, a man stepped forward. "You need a ride?" he asked.

It was the cabbie who had brought him and John to the surgery. "You waited?" Sherlock asked, unsure whether or not to trust a cabbie who appeared unsummoned.

The cabbie nodded, his eyes fixed on Sarah. "I watched the whole thing," he said. "My little girl, my Katie. She's in Afghanistan."

John looked up immediately upon hearing that.

"She drives ambulances," the cabbie said. "She's the bravest person I know. I thought, well, she'd want me to make sure I could be useful in an emergency, so I waited for a bit." He turned to Sarah. "You reminded me so much of her, going in there with only a helmet on. Wouldn't want you left behind. No charge."

He leaned down and helped Sarah to her feet. Sherlock and John stayed close at hand as they made their way to the waiting taxi. They did not speak during their ride to the nearest hospital. When they arrived, Sherlock helped Sarah out of the cab. John came to attention and gave the cabbie his crispest salute. The cabbie nodded soberly and drove away. John offered Sarah his arm, and the three of them walked toward the hospital door.

END

Afterword: Many thanks to everyone who has read and enjoyed this story! I've always thought that Sherlock Holmes would be a natural at investigating arson, especially because there are some interesting new advances being made in the field of arson investigation, and I'm sure he'd want in on that. I've had a lot of fun chatting with everyone who has commented on this story, and I'm always pleased at the opportunity to do that. See you next time!