John and Aceyla sat in the hospital waiting room. It was cold. It was lonely. And it was bleak. John turned to Aceyla and said quietly, “You know why Sherlock sent me here, right?”
“You have cancer. But it doesn’t increase this fast. I think he’s trying to protect you.”
“He needs to know he doesn’t need to.” John added an uncomfortable laugh. “I mean, he can’t save anyone, you know? I just wish he would stop being Sherlock Holmes and just be, normal.”
Aceyla laughed and propped her elbow on the arm rest. “We both know that’s impossible.”
“If only it wasn’t. I remember when I met him. He was standing in the lab looking through a microscope. I thought I was just getting a flatmate. But instead, I got the flatmate. The most arrogant man in the world with a mind so genius—well, I sometimes wonder if he’s real.”
“John,” Aceyla began, “how did you get cancer?”
“Radiation poison in the war.”
The girl stared at John, her brows crinkling in intense thought. She pulled back in her seat and rubbed the side of her index finger across her chin. “John—,”
“John Watson!” a nurse called out as she stood in front of the door leading to the back.
“That’s me.” John picked up his coat and made his way to the back. Aceyla followed.
“Ma’am, you’ll have to wait here,” the nurse suggested.
“Give me a minute,” Aceyla said as she pulled John aside. Standing so that John’s back faced the nurse, she said in a whisper, “Something is not right. This is all wrong.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re a doctor. You should know this is all wrong. It’s a trap. I’m sure of it.”
John studied Aceyla’s face and realized what she was saying was possibly true. The rate of the cancer was far too fast and he hadn’t had a proper diagnosis. He figured the loss of his wife and the abduction of daughter scrambled his sensibility. Blinking rapidly and taking Aceyla by the shoulders, he said, “You’re right. We need to phone Sherlock.”
“Mr. Watson?” the receptionist called out gently as she held the receiver in her hand. “There’s a phone call for you.”
The nurse glared at Aceyla and motioned for her to sit down while John took the phone call. Aceyla obeyed, as she didn’t want to make a scene. But she watched carefully from afar. John walked up to the desk and took the phone.
“Hello?”
“This is Andrew Brookly. You will walk into the hospital room as instructed. You will not mention this phone call ever taking place.”
“Where’s Sherlock?”
The phone clicked and a dial tone was his response. John slowly gave the phone back to the receptionist and walked to the nurse. The muscles in his jaw clenched and his fingers curled and stretched in his signature gesture of anxiety. He gave a final stare at Aceyla, telling her that he had no choice and that a commotion could result in someone’s death. Aceyla pressed her palms together and placed them on her lips. A tear made its way down her cheek as the doctor disappeared behind the white door.
Westminster, London, England
Simon and Charlie jumped out of the cab and made their way to London’s government center. As they were walking through the streets, acting as casual as possible, a phone booth a couple of yards ahead of them rang. The two men looked at each other and then at the red box. Simon shifted his mouth to one side and picked up his pace. He reached the booth first and slipped inside. Charlie waited outside in case something unexpected happen.
“Hello?” Simon answered.
“This is Mycroft Holmes, did my brother receive text?”
“How did you find us?” Simon declared, quite astonished and weirded out that the call was specified to him.
“I’m a Holmes and I’m part of the British government, Mr. Chesterfield. I know Sherlock’s men, so don’t be surprised if I tag-along, too. Now, did he get the message?”
“I haven’t heard from him,” Simon said. “Have you gotten eyes on him?”
“I can’t reach him. His phone must’ve lost signal.”
“He was in the Netherlands that last time—,”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake!” Mycroft whined, “Can’t he ever stay in one place? What about Watson?”
“He’s on his way to the hospital; you might be able to reach him there.”
“Thank you. If Sherlock somehow contacts you, tell him to call me.”
“I’ll try, thank you.” Simon hung up the phone and stepped out. He looked at Charlie who gave him a questioning nod. “Mycroft Holmes. He sent a message to Sherlock.”
“Did he tell you what the message was?”
“No. But I think the message has to do with the safe. Good thing Sherlock gave us the codes to the safe.”
Charlie stopped walking and stared at Simon. “What?”
“Didn’t he tell you?” Simon turned around and stared at his bewildered comrade. “It’s all a farce about him and Aceyla knowing the code. He gave it to us. You should have it on you.”
“He never gave me a code, Simon. Then what Aceyla doing if she doesn’t have the code?”
“Well, long story short. She had the code, but never looked at it. She gave it to Sherlock, Sherlock gave it to us. We’re the carriers. Andrew’s men are after Sherlock and Aceyla while we break in. But now it’s useless if you don’t have it with you.” Simon gave Charlie a very disappointed look.
“Let me check my phone. He might have sent it.” Charlie took out his mobile and looked through his emails. He found one with Sherlock’s business address. He opened the message and smirked. “This is the only message I got from him, and it’s a picture of the cat he saved from that old lady who thought the cat was kidnapped.”
“That’s the code.”
“Cat?”
“Something along that line. We’ll figure it out.” Before Simon would resume walking, a hand grabbed his shoulder and spun him around. Simon slipped loose from the hand, ducked under a swing and ran forward, ramming his shoulder into the attacker’s abdomen. The fire of gunshots filled the air and people’s voices rose in frantic screams.
“Stay down!” Charlie shouted to the pedestrians before slammed to the ground.
As the two fought two other men who seemed to have come out of nowhere from the crowd, the phone booth’s phone mysterious rang again.
In the Amsterdam airport
Sherlock Holmes walked briskly through the airport, looking over his shoulders periodically. At the moment, no one was following him. The detective held his phone to his ear, waiting for the other end to open. Looking at his watch, he whispered to himself, “Come on, Simon, pick up.” Not getting a reply, he hung up and dialed Mycroft.
“Mycroft Holmes.”
“Simon’s not picking up. I think they’ve been intercepted. Can you get John?”
“I’ll try,” Mycroft said in a dry voice.
“Text me.” Sherlock hung up and turned off his phone to reserve the power. He only had three out of four bars left.