The Angel And The Devil

21

The journey to 221b is silent and tense. Uncle John keeps folding and unfolding his hands, brow set in a furrow and beads for perspiration form on his head.
"I'm sure she'll be fine, Uncle." Uncle John shakes his head.
"She's dying, Claudette, love. " He says, his voice breaking more than it already has. He is trying hard to be strong but his eyes are far away and face pale.

Something is wrong. Really really wrong. I don't know if it might be my panic but it doesn't seem real. Dad once half killed a man for touching Mrs Hudson. If it was real surely he would be here. Right now. I try and remember that moment.

Dad knew the call was coming. He was far too laid back. His phone was to his right, ringer off. His text alert is always on. So he must of been talking to someone he doesn't want us to know about. Not Lestrade, he would have called. Uncle Mycroft is avoiding Dad and Dad wouldn't turn to him anyway. Could have been Molly but I don't think Dad has her number and anyway, he wouldn't have the text alert off.
Someone he doesn't want me or Uncle to know about.
And Dad tells Uncle everything. Unless it is some secret girlfriend. As if. It has to be someone important. Something secret. Something that Dad would want to go along with.

"Claudette." We pull up outside 221b. Uncle John holds my hand. Now I know it's definitely not real. There are no ambulances. No helicopters. No police. No barriers. Just Speedy's and the tourists which it attracts. Serves the best Baps in London apparently.

"Uncle?" I ask.
"They must have already taken her to hospital." He replies and opens his phone. "Private number." We open the door. Knocker is straight. No one has been here since Dad. There was no shooting. The voice in my head yells.

Hurrying inside, we see a tatooed bald man kneeling down drilling a hole. Mrs Hudson watches him and jumps when we approach.
"Oh, God, John! You made jump!" "But ..." He says confused.
"Is everything okay now with the police? Has, um, Sherlock sorted it all out?"
Suddenly Uncle John relises something is terribly wrong. It's like a penny drops and it hits him.
"Oh my God." He whispers, voice full of leaden fear.

Suddenly it makew sense: Falling's just like flying, except there's a more permanent
destination. Because I owe you a fall, Sherlock. I ... owe...you.