Danger Nights

Chapter Fourteen

Uncle?

John bristled at the cruel reminder that Sherlock was indeed an uncle- to a teenaged boy for whom time was running out, fast.

When he worked in Sarah's clinic, John had encountered several teenaged girls who'd been classified as troublemakers. They sat there in the waiting rooms, scowling and muttering at their parents or guardians while they waited to see the child psychiatrist who came in twice a week. Astrid was different. Beneath her coy and mocking veneer was a genuine malignancy. She may not have been pointing a gun at Sherlock and John right now, but that didn't mean she wouldn't kill them if she had to.

Or wanted to.

Sherlock strode over to her, waving his gloved hand in irritation at the rifle barrels that swerved toward him. If he was, like John, unsettled by the disparity between her youth and her aura of pure malice, he didn't let on.

"I am an uncle to only one person, and it certainly isn't you, despite our unusual physical similarities. I'll also have you know that we didn't come here alone. Reinforcements will arrive any minute now."

Astrid's grin uncannily resembled Sherlock's trademark victory smirk. "You really think we never prepared for such an invasion?"

"It's obvious that our eventual arrival was anticipated. I must congratulate Mayberry: the bloody shirt and the sniper in the trees achieved their intended effect. He's shown himself to be quite resourceful throughout this entire affair. Which, incidentally, is now over."

Astrid arched her eyebrow. "Oh really?"

She was so nonchalant that John decided she had to either be a sociopath or have an escape plan in motion. Maybe both.

Sherlock scanned her from head to toe. "You're planning to escape by boat, aren't you?" To John, he added, "Given her rapid arrival from London, she could only have come here by air. She clearly doesn't tolerate that method of travel very well: her skin is light green beyond the makeup line, and her eyes are bloodshot, which is a common side effect of repeated vomiting. She won't be airborne any time soon unless she's knocked unconscious first."

Nausea is also a common side effect of most cancer therapies, John thought. But all he said was, "What are you doing out here anyway, Astrid? Why aren't you scarpering off with the rest?"

Her grin widened into a smile that made her look like a baby piranha.

"I thought you'd be the one to ask that question," she chided Sherlock. "You're slipping." Turning her attention to John, she said, "I'm merely out here to engage your attention with some meaningless conversation until Mr. Mayberry and Alexei have safely reached the departure point."

"Then what?" John demanded. "You'll kill us and leave a mess to keep the rescue team busy?"

"Killing you is not part of the plan, Dr. Watson. But don't push your luck."

"And what about Alexei?" Forgetting that he hadn't yet told anyone about the boy's intended fate, he blurted, "You're the one Mayberry is sacrificing him for, aren't you?"

Astrid's grin disappeared.

Sherlock swerved to face him. "John? What are you talking about?"

John knew that there'd be a reckoning later for holding back information, but right now he hurtled onward, trying to buy enough time for Mycroft's team to reach them.

"What's your diagnosis? Pituitary carcinoma? Pineoblastoma?" As part of his residency, John had worked in the cancer treatment unit at London's Royal Free Hospital. Recalling the various intracranial tumours and their devastating symptoms, he said, "Whatever it is, I'm sorry. But it doesn't justify what Mayberry's planning to do."