Staying Alive

Chapter 8 A Study in Toms

Sherlock had plunged into his mind palace. He had exactly two and a half seconds to figure out what he had to do to save Molly. From anyone else's point of view, the information he had to work with would appear minimal, but the consulting detective specialized in minimal information. Time stopped as he sped through the deductive process.

Whoever was hiding in the kitchen had to break into her flat somehow. No visible signs on the door or front window, so he's good... very good. Must be an expert. The kitchen is separate from this room, which means he could have cocked his gun without me hearing. Gun? No, no... stupid, not a gun, of course not. With the ability to break into a flat without a single trace, he doesn't need a gun. Plus, look at Molly, she's sticking out her stomach excessively, which means... knife. Serrated. Russian make.

He has no idea I'm here, else why would he be leading her in here? I've got to get her away from him before I make myself known, else we'll all be standing here in a murder triangle -- my gun pointed at him, his knife at her throat -- but I also must disarm him, even just temporarily, to give her time to run.

Engage gun butting and arm pull.

Snapping back into real time, Sherlock lunged forward and whacked Molly's attacker across the head with his handgun, just hard enough to send him to the floor in shock. The detective grabbed both of Molly's hands and swung her away from the door, immediately turning all of his attention back to the intruder. He had collapsed and his dagger flew backwards and clanked against the tile kitchen floor. Sherlock made a split-second decision to lean down and swing the gun at him one more time to knock him out, giving them considerably more time.

"Molly, run!" he shouted at her before sprinting out of the kitchen.

Molly had landed on the floor, against the sofa, and was rubbing her head. She was too relieved at Sherlock's quick interpretation of her distress signal to be angry at his means of tossing her across the room. She scrambled to her feet and started toward the front door, slightly disoriented from the blow.

Sherlock couldn't allow her to waste any more time by stumbling around like a drunkard, so he slipped his arm around hers and led her hurriedly out the door and toward her car.

"I forgot my purse," she whined as she realized where they were off to.

"Really, Molly," Sherlock remarked as he trotted faster, trying to be as gentle as reasonably possible considering the circumstances, "did you not recall leaving it in your car?"

She was too flustered and in too big of a hurry to make any sort of reply.

"Get in." He opened the passenger door and pushed down on her shoulder to encourage her to sit.

"Oi! I can drive my own car!"

"You can't even remember where you left your purse! I must have thrown you harder than I intended."

Somehow she ended up in the car, door closed, and her seatbelt on. She decided to take Sherlock's current remark as an apology and simply nodded as he started up the car.

Spotting the silhouette of the attacker emerging out of Molly's flat, Sherlock dropped his gun in her lap and sped off. The man was stocky, not at all tall, but was clearly an experienced killer. He couldn't make out anything else from the veil of darkness both inside and outside had offered, but he had deduced that he had just come face to face with the man that wanted his sister dead.

"If he starts running after us, shoot at him," Sherlock instructed.

Molly just blinked at him, then looked shyly at the gun lying in her lap.