The Only Thing Worth Fighting For

Chapter 7

3 years earlier

Sherlock climbed from the stifling heat of the bus which had taken him from the tiny international airport in Uzhhorod; his shirt stuck to his back from the heat of the bodies pressed against him as the bus trundled through endless seas of green fields. He was exhausted, the night flight from Berlin had not allowed him to sleep at all whilst he perused over the various folders of intelligence which he had gathered from the terror cell in Germany. He swayed slightly as the bus hit a pothole in the road and nudged against the person beside him, a scary looking man with a large bushy moustache and tattoos which showed he was an ex-prisoner from one of the many Siberian prisons.

"Forgive me," Sherlock apologised in perfect Russian, nodding his freshly shaved head in apology.

The man stared at Sherlock before looking away; an awkward silence permeated the air between them until the man turned back.

"You have an accent," he whispered to Sherlock. "English, if I'm not mistaken."

"You are," Sherlock replied tensely.

"I don't think I am, Mr Holmes," the man smiled before handing Sherlock a slip of paper. Mycroft's handwriting so familiar that it made Sherlock's heart skip slightly.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the man and lifted an eyebrow, "Do I know you?"

The man shook his head but held out his hand. "Maksym Tkach. You helped my brother in London."

Sherlock shook the offered hand and frowned. "A case or..."

"He was on the streets. He went by the name Gregor in London," Maksym explained with a sad smile. "Was offered a job and sneaked himself in illegally but the job was a fraud. He found himself on the streets without a friend, a knowledge of the language and then he got pneumonia. You and Dr Watson helped him without question."

Sherlock's heart beat once more at the mention of John's name but he trampled it down quickly and efficiently to concentrate on the man in front of him. "How is Gregor?"

Maksym smiled and nodded his head. "He's home now. As a trade for helping you, your brother returned him home with enough money to buy a small home for his wife and children."

The bus stopped at a small clearing on the dusty road, and Sherlock found himself being dragged up by Maksym who led him gently down the walkway towards the exit. With a thank you to the driver, the two men climbed from the bus and stood taking deep breaths of the cool and crisp air; Sherlock pulled on his backpack and followed behind Maksym who took them through a clump of bushes to a hidden away car.

"Let's get you settled, I imagine you're exhausted," the Ukrainian smiled, watching as Sherlock's eyes began to droop as soon as he settled down into the comfortable seat. Although the car was well past its quality days, it was still the most comfortable thing that Sherlock had experienced in months and his body ached with the need to sleep.

"You relax, pryyatel," Maksym said in heavily accented English. "We'll be there soon."

Sherlock dreamt that he was back at Baker Street; he was smoking a cigarette at his bedroom window to ensure John didn't catch him. Blowing circular rings from hisĺ mouth he watched as they got larger and larger before fizzling away to nothing.

"Wake up," a voice sounded from his left hand side, startling him awake, "we're here."

Sherlock blinked his eyes and looked out at what looked like a small shanty town; his gaze rested on the small children running alongside the car shirtless, wearing only tiny shorts and shoes as they shouted at the driver.