Danger Nights

Chapter Thirteen

John bolted after Mycroft, cursing under his breath.

If he’d had any doubts before that  the other man was off his game, this erased them. Sherlock was supposed to be the hyperreactive one, rushing into known disaster but unable to resist. Until a few days ago, Mycroft would never have responded so chaotically; he’d have agonised over the knowledge that his son was being held prisoner only minutes away, but he’d have handled the matter methodically, with planning and strategies and agents in bulletproof vests. The loss of control would only come when he had Mayberry alone in one of those soundproof interrogation rooms where everything was metal so that the blood could be washed away easily afterward.

The ECT had temporarily shattered Mycroft’s steel-lined resolve, something Mayberry had certainly been counting on. Until time recalibrated him, he was a liability on this mission.

John was nearly close enough to grab him when the air exploded to their left, followed by bullets thudding into the earth. Mycroft dove into the bushes lining the lane, and John followed. One bullet grazed his calf, the white-hot pain making him cry out, but he kept going. Belly to the earth, he scrambled through the undergrowth, wincing as sharp branches tore at his hands and face, until he and Mycroft were out of estimated firing range.

“The shot patterns indicate that there’s only one sniper,” the elder Holmes whispered. Blood trickled from a narrow scratch on his cheek. “I heard you shout- were you hit?”

“Just grazed.” John reached out and gripped the other man’s wrist. “Mycroft, you shouldn’t lead the retrieval when you’re in this state, and you know it. Don’t tell me you-”

He was cut off when a bullet hit the ground inches from where they lay, spraying their faces with dirt. Mycroft slithered back on his stomach and John followed. He prayed that Lestrade had Sherlock in some unbreakable wrestling grip, keeping him from rushing toward certain death.

A man’s voice broke out from somewhere across the lane and above their heads.

“What the fuck?”

Branches rustled noisily, followed by more curses, a thud and a groan. Then Sherlock called, “You can both come out now.”

John and Mycroft emerged slowly and carefully from their shelter. They were both disheveled and filthy, a state John had gotten used to thanks to his and Sherlock’s adventures. But mud, scratches, and ripped clothing looked so alien on Mycroft that the doctor would have laughed if the situation weren’t so dire.

A stocky man wearing combat fatigues was lying face down on the lane. Sherlock, who had leaves stuck to his hair and coat, crouched over him, holding both wrists pinned behind his back. A high-powered rifle lay in the grass a few feet away, its scope broken off.

Lestrade ran up. “Everyone all right?”

“Comparatively.” Sherlock surveyed Mycroft and John before returning his attention to his prisoner. “Out with it, then. Where’s Mayberry keeping the boy?”

“Go fuck yourselves.” Spittle ran down the man’s dirty chin, but he was unable to wipe it away. “You can all -OWW!” He broke into a yell when Sherlock applied a crushing pressure to his wrists. “Goddamn it!”

Mycroft approached. He was still breathing in rapid and erratic bursts, but otherwise he appeared to have regained control. “Where was he hiding, Sherlock?”

“That tree.” His brother nodded toward it. “I climbed it and ambushed him while his attention was on you.”

Mycroft frowned. “It’s very close to the lane. I don’t see how he missed John and I. Unless....” His eyes widened and he bent toward the sniper. “You weren’t trying to hit us, were you? Your orders were to hold us back long enough for an evacuation to commence.”