One Yard Below

Chapter One

“What is the problem, Mycroft?” Sherlock Holmes couldn’t keep the irritability from his voice when speaking to his elder brother, nor did he particularly try.

“I’ve ordered the plane to return to the airstrip. There’s been an incident. England needs you,” Mycroft Holmes replied succinctly.

“Then ‘England’ should stop being so capricious and make up her mind. What’s happened?”

“Do be patient a moment and allow me speak to the flight attendant again,” The elder Holmes brother ordered in a tone that illustrated perfectly why a man only in his mid-forties was made director of MI6.

Sherlock handed the phone over to the bland young man hovering at his elbow. The flight attendant listened for several seconds before activating the large screen attached to the galley wall. With Jim Moriarty’s voice oozing from the speakers, Sherlock needed no further explanation.

Mycroft rung off as he exited his vehicle and joined the worried looking Watson’s by the second sedan. Dr. Watson straightened his spine in a fashion that blatantly broadcast his military background. Waiting for orders, as usual. “Mrs. Mary Watson” (Mycroft would always mentally add quotation marks, given what he knew) had one hand on her large belly and one hand hovering near the spot at her hip where a gun had been secreted only an hour before. She was a study in contrasts: one part concerned wife and mother,  one part hyper-vigilant former agent. With this new development, Mycroft was regretting the order to have the couple disarmed before being brought to the tarmac.

“Wait for Sherlock," Mycroft ordered, "The driver will take you directly to Baker Street. Inform him I will be along shortly. Make him stay there.”

Dr. Watson opened his mouth (to protest, Mycroft assumed), but was ignored as the gentleman returned to his own car and pulled out a mobile. Dialing a number he had memorized long ago, Mycroft waited with increasing impatience as the line rang and rang… and then went dead.

“Duncan,” Mycroft said smoothly to his driver, “St. Bartholomew’s Hospital, Pathology building, as quickly as possible.”

                                                                           ~*~*~*~*~*~

"Did you miss me? Did you miss me? Did you miss me? Did you miss me? Did you miss me? Did you miss me?"

With shaking hands, Molly Hooper quickly cleaned up glass fragments from the beaker she dropped. Thankfully, it had been empty, or there would be a much bigger mess to clean up. She giggled as she threw away the shards. Oh, there was a bigger mess to clean up, all right, just not one of her making. The giggling veered uncomfortably close to hysterical. Molly grit her teeth and forced herself to calm down and think.

Molly's first instinct was to call Sherlock, but she hesitated. She had neither seen nor spoken to him since just before he left to celebrate the holidays with his family. It was silly, Molly knew, feeling awkward when a national incident was unfolding around her, but it couldn’t helped. In the end, she decided the best course of action would be to get among people and away from the most isolated portion of the building. Surrounded by people, away from the empty lab preying on her active imagination, she could regroup and decide what to do. Decision made, Molly spun on her heel and started for the door. She barely got two feet away from her previous position when the lights went out.

Molly immediately froze, her heartbeat speeding up dramatically. She felt her nervous system kick into protective mode and began mentally reciting each physiological change. It was a trick she learned from her dad long ago. Reduce your reaction to its scientific terms and the physical effects would begin to disappear.