Sherlock Holmes & The Knights Templar

Heart Rescue

“I’ve trained long enough and I have had it. I’ve come to the end of my rope, time to face the Underworld, time to get the scepter for Irene, time to rescue….time to rescue John,” Sherlock’s words were slow, deliberate and full of determination and without another word he left the room smiling for it was time to get John

Later on that evening Sherlock donned Bedouin garb and as he was swirling the material around his head, Mycroft and Mary entered the room. “Brother, dear, what was that dramatic outburst about this afternoon?” Mycroft asked.

Sherlock ignored him as he swung a menacing looking staff over his shoulder, “This afternoon after a dip in the Nile I came to a realization when I listened to wind as it blew through the reeds. The Underworld is a puzzle, a puzzle that I have solved. You see Mycroft; the Underworld is full of archeological traps and pitfalls…”

Mycroft interrupted Sherlock, “Are you telling me that you believe the Underworld is real?”

Sherlock sighed, “No, not in the sense the ancient Egyptians do. The Underworld I speak of is a maze and the specter is a real object and if what I suspect is correct there is a scroll inside, which I will use to bargain for John. The masons long ago figured out the steps to insure safe passage and Mozart put the solution in an aria from The Magic Flute. You know the aria that I speak of don’t you, Mycroft?”

Mycroft nodded, “It’s the aria where Tamino and Pamino are led through the trials of hell, correct?”

Sherlock nodded affirmatively, “Yes, that’s it and…”

Mary threw up her hands and said, “Look you two, this isn’t PBS, quote opera lyrics some other time. Sherlock, Mycroft, let’s go I’m anxious to get back home. Oh and Sherlock I am so sorry about this afternoon, you do forgive me, don’t you?”

Sherlock pursed his lips, looked down at the ground and said, “I have no idea what you’re talking about, Mary and we’re wasting time and I sense that John…John is running out of time

So, in the dead of night Mycroft, Mary and Sherlock, went to a secret passage behind the Great Pyramid of Giza and as Sherlock hummed the melody from Mozart’s opera The Magic Flute, he stepped through the passages of time until he found his prize, the scepter. Sherlock’s hands shook as he unscrewed the head of the specter and pulled out an ancient looking scroll. He stuffed the scroll in his robe, threw the scepter on the ground, and from torchlight he read the magic words that allowed he and the rest of his party the where with all to transmute through time to John.

Moriarty was having John force fed and he was out of his mind with worry that he would lose his beloved Doctor. It was after a particularly unsuccessful feeding that Moriarty heard a noise and as he turned around he openly gaped for Sherlock stood in the doorway like an avenging angel, his eyes full of hate, his posture war like and as he pulled out a scroll from the folds of his robe, Mycroft and Mary came to stand behind him. “I have the scroll, now give me John,” Sherlock said his voice devoid of emotion.

Moriarty walked over and pulled John’s head up by his hair, then let go of it, and Sherlock watched in despair as John’s head hit the table he lay on with a dull thud. Moriarty shrugged, “You’re welcome to what’s left of him, now hand me the scroll like a good boy, Sherlock.”

In his haste to rush to John’s side, Sherlock broke the cardinal rule of warfare, he let his emotions take charge and as he ran past Moriarty, Moriarty grabbed the scroll from Sherlock’s hands and before he knew it, Moriarty double backed around the back of Sherlock to the other side of John. Moriarty drew a knife from his waistband and held it to John’s throat, “Sherlock, you’ve lost. Watch while I slit John’s throat, watch your heart bleed out and die.”

Sherlock reached forward in a pleading gesture and as Moriarty raised his knife in the air for a killing thrust, a thrust that would cut John’s carotid artery without getting stuck in the cartilage and the small bones in his neck, John opened his eyes and looked up at Moriarty and Moriarty paused, held captive by those dark, blue eyes. In that one moment, Moriarty knew he had lost for to kill John would not only burn out Sherlock’s heart, it would burn out his own heart out as well. “I love him, Sherlock, take him before I change my mind,” Moriarty said softly, and then he bent down, kissed John on the forehead as tears coursed down his face. “Good Night Sweet Prince,” Moriarty said and then he turned and fled without another word.

Sherlock paused for a second and then rushed forward to gather John in his arms, “John, John look at me, it’s time to go home, John?”

John didn’t answer he just looked at Sherlock in confusion. Mycroft let go of Mary’s hand and came to stand beside Sherlock, “Sherlock, we need to get John out of here for he’s in a cationic state. We can help him later, we mustn’t be late when we meet Isaac at the transfer point, or we may never make it home.”

Sherlock nodded wordlessly, then bent down and gently picked up John and held him close. He felt so light, as if he were just a child, Sherlock still didn’t speak as he settled John in his arms;he just nuzzled John’s neck.

John opened his eyes; he appeared to be in a tent, “Where am I now?” He mumbled.

A gentle hand caressed the back of his neck, “John, you’re home, here in my arms.”

John didn’t reply just buried his head in the crook of Sherlock’s arm, breathing the scent of him. A slight pungent odor, which consisted of sweat, desert sand and some sort of tobacco smoke, filled his nostrils. Thinking it was just another cruel trick of Moriarty’s John didn’t look up, for he didn’t have the strength to face yet another disappointment.

Sherlock turned John’s face to look up at him and John openly wept when he looked into Sherlock’s green eyes. His sobs filled the tent, causing Mycroft and Mary to discretely leave through the tent flat. Tears poured down Mary’s face as she gripped Mycroft’s hand, “Dear God, how are we going to fix this?” She whispered.

Mycroft looked down at the ground, as several curious Bedouins looked on and John’s horse Hope struggled against his tether to rush to his master’s side, for John’s sobs rose above the wind and the hairs on the back of Mycroft’s neck stood on end, for John’s moaning seemed inhuman.

 Mycroft struggled to regain his composure as he shakily replied, “They’ve made it through worse, I’m sure they will be…just…just fine.”