Find Me (BBC Sherlock Fan Fiction)

Chapter 2

Karachi

He gazed deep into her eyes (noting the eyelash tint shade No 3 'Smoky Black' faded by approximately three weeks and the smudge of liner clinging to the lower left lid, indicative of a hasty application in the dark no more than twenty-four hours ago). Her pupils dilated.

'When I say run, run,' he whispered, covered by the crunch of the third guard's footsteps across the gravel.

Second hand boots, laces frayed and pulled through repunched holes but tied tight enough to cut off circulation, trousers too long with an unwashed bloodstain on the left hand pocket, and an automatic weapon, oiled, loaded and fully operational. A new recruit then, low status within the group hierarchy but fervent, proud of small victories and keen to impress.

He turned, raising the sword threateningly above his head, and bellowed 'What is the meaning of this?' in deliberately broken Urdu heavily inflected with a Muscovite accent. It had been a difficult linguistic challenge and one that had taken several days to master but he was relatively pleased with the outcome, although next time he'd put more stress on the second syllable.

He swung the sword in a swift arc, coming to rest with the tip against guard three's nascent beard, watching him take a step back in response, a step further away from the woman still kneeling in the dirt. 'Who is in charge?' That was better, much more fluent.

He wheeled away from the boy, brandishing the weapon threateningly and headed towards the man he already knew was the head of the outfit, who was just exiting the armoured jeep. It wasn't even his jeep, it was borrowed, the seat set too close to the steering column for the portly man struggling to clamber out, clearly too scared of the actual owner to move the seat back.

This was the worst band of terrorists Sherlock had ever come across, bar none. He swore, using a current colloquial Russian term he was almost certain Mycroft wouldn't yet have heard of, and strolled over to the leader, projecting anger and barely controlled violence. 'Incompetent dog. You're a disgrace to the cause.' He gesticulated with the sword again. 'What do you mean by this? You're being paid to deliver her unharmed, not chop her head off.'

The other man frowned at him. Overweight, which was difficult to achieve in a desert, with a carefully groomed beard and nicotine stained fingers, this man had joined the cell most probably though family connections more devout that his own inclination, since he'd clearly spent much of his life watching football in a bar. Sherlock couldn't exactly determine which team he'd supported, but he'd narrowed it down to three.

'Waditun?' The man struggled over the unfamiliar code word.

It was an anagram of the Russian name of Vladimir Putin's last dog, translated into Urdu, which Sherlock thought his brother might have fun deciphering. 'Waditun.' He lowered the sword but frowned enough to indicate he wasn't mollified. 'Why did you call for an executioner – she's not to be harmed until I had her over to the buyer - or did you get so drunk you forgot that part?'

The other man shifted uncomfortably, then shouted in an overly loud voice. 'She is an infidel. She is a whore. She must die.'

There was a weak cheer from the rest of the group.

Sherlock didn't have a lot of patience for mock believers. Or actual believers, for that matter. 'She is certainly a whore. And she will die. Did she try to seduce your boy over there last night?' He waggled his sword in the direction of guard number three, who raised his head, eyes shining with righteous passion.

'She did. She held my hand. She asked me if I'd ever...' he shuddered. 'With anyone.'

Sherlock shot her a withering glance. 'I quite understand.'

'Your accent is appalling,' she commented, in English. 'I'm surprised they can understand a word you're saying.'

'Shut up, treacherous bitch,' yelled guard three, kicking her in the side with his shiny boots.

Sherlock dropped the sword and the gun was in his hand faster than blinking. 'You hurt her, you die,' he yelled.

Irene's lips were taut with pain but she still managed to raise an eyebrow at him.

He recovered quickly. 'I must deliver her alive. No one kills her but Yuri.'

There was a tense standoff, until the leader put his hand on the third guard's AK47 and pushed the muzzle down, 'She will die?'

Sherlock rolled a shoulder. 'Of course. But they want to hear her scream first.' He turned so that he could no longer see her expression.

'Then honour is restored. Let us discuss payment.'

Sherlock retrieved the suitcase he'd dropped by the jeep when he'd collected the executioner's sword. It was battered and old, entirely authentic and preloaded with some interesting DNA traces that would lead straight back to the Kremlin. It was also stuffed with US dollars, filtered through a range of already monitored accounts that could be linked to the same place. The only reason he was still wearing the ridiculous black disguise was so that he didn't contaminate the evidence he was leaving with any trace of himself. He popped the catches, displayed the money for counting, and, as expected, the rest of the least professional terror group in the world wandered over, drawn by the magnetic pull of capitalism.

He glanced towards Irene and he didn't even need to say 'run' because she was already on her feet. Listening, he understood she'd been an athlete at some point, hurdles most likely, because her acceleration was good, but it was a while since she'd done any strenuous exercise and she was going to need new shoes.

The leader of the cell picked up a bundle of notes, flicked through them with a finger, his back to the fleeing captive.

Alerted by the flap of departing flip flops guard three raised his eyes, and then his gun almost immediately afterwards. 'Whore!' he yelled. 'She's getting away.'

In one smooth, newly perfected motion, Sherlock drew his pistol and shot her in the chest.