All is Fair in Love and War

The Pit and the Pendulum

GREGORY LESTRADE

The detective inspector was not getting impatient. "Impatient" had been around 2:00, when the compound was crawling with guardsmen, John and Sherlock were long since prisoners, and the situation was looking hopeless. By 4:00, he'd called in every favor he had, had sweet-talked every official listed under his contacts and a few that weren't, and had as much reinforcement at his back as Britain was capable of providing. He was willing to bet that Mycroft, who had called him looking for updates every half hour, had also brought in members of the CIA to rescue his brother.

Rainham Marshes was on lockdown, and there was no conceivable way that anyone was getting out of the base without Greg knowing it, but having the marsh ringed in did not mean that he was in a position to use any of his support. All the DI had to do was make a move that Moriarty noticed, and then the doctor and detective would be worse than dead, if they weren't already.

By 8:00, Philip was actively trying to be helpful, and Sally hadn't made a single rude comment all afternoon. As the evening dragged on and dusk deepened into true nighttime, Greg devolved to the point of sitting in their bivouac and plucking despondently at the marsh grass. With no news, and little change except for the settling down of some of Moriarty's gunmen, the detective inspector was left mostly to himself, sipping cold coffee and trying not to let his imagination run away with itself. Of course, the more he attempted to suppress his anxious inner monologue, the more graphic the pictures he swatted away became.

It should come as no surprise, therefore, that Greg nearly jumped out of his skin when Sally tapped him on the shoulder.

"Christ!" he exclaimed softly. "Give me a little warning, huh?"

"I've had a thought," the sergeant said. "We should try signaling them, you know, with a mirror or something. Maybe John just... lost his phone."

Greg spread his hands. "What about the blokes up on the roof? Won't they get suspicious?"

Sally shook her head in exasperation. "I can't just sit here any longer. If we don't do something soon, I am going to lose it."

The DI sighed. "Yeah, I know what you mean. Do it, then, but nothing fancy. And keep an eye on those guys on the roof - if any of them look even a little over-interested in this direction, stop."

Sergeant Donovan retrieved a hand mirror from her purse and a torch from the bag of miscellaneous equipment. Then she very earnestly began blinking the torch on and off, letting the mirror bounce the light across the marsh. She tried a quick succession of blinks and then stopped, waiting for a reply. When none came, the morale of the group collective dropped another notch.

"Well, it was always a long shot," Greg said at last. "They're probably just... tied up or something. Try again in a half hour."

So she did. And then again at 9:00. It had surpassed 9:30 when there was a flicker of light from the tower.

"Lestrade!" Sally hissed, sitting up straighter. "Did you see that?"

And then there was a definite series of flashes; the detective inspector counted them quietly aloud.

"Dot, dot, dot, dash, dash, dash, dot, dot, dot... That's 'SOS', isn't it?"

"I think so," the sergeant said, trying to better position her mirror.

"Yeah, it is," Philip piped up. When they both turned to him in surprise, he just shrugged. "I do have this job for a reason, you know. I'm not Sherlock, but I'm not a complete idiot."

By this time, Sally had fixed the mirror and pulled up an IMC chart. She blinked her light, and drew breath sharply at the reply.

"It's John," she said. "What do I tell him?"