MUDDY WATERS

Vatican Cameos

Last time:
'Okay. I can see you. You stay put. Understand? I'm coming to you.' The black bonnet caught the golden rays of sun dripping over the shabby roof tops. So, this was what Billy had meant by 'privileged'.

'Yes sir,' he mumbled, lowering the mobile, when the front door opened.
Now:

A tall uniformed man got out of his car. His posture was pristine. Three stripes adorned his sleeve. Underneath the grey uniform jacket, a slither of silver glistened warningly. His expression, aloof, noble, was fit to be set in stone; his movements oozed with the spirit of a soldier; his glare pierced Sherlock to the ground. It was the man from the makeshift posters.

Sherlock's feet arrived at the conclusion before his brain did. They jerked into a sprint, as he rattled along the chain of deductions. A raised eyebrow cut through the man's face, his lips thinning. 'Sherlock, I said—'

'Get into the car,' Sherlock gasped, sliding to a halt at his side, feebly guarding him from The District's front. 'Packages. I was slow. You have to get back into the car and drive away.'

The Captain's eyes narrowed. 'Now let me make this clear,' he growled, 'you won't order me around, no matter what's—'

'Vatican Cameos! It's a trap!' Sherlock said loudly, his voice cords protesting at the sudden assault, his mind lazily sticking to the odd piece of vocabulary. He stood his ground to the glare he received, returning it feverishly. 'They sent me to distract—you're the Captain. The one who shot 58—there's a big bounty on your head. I didn't know it was you. He has a rifle—'

A painfully hard grip appeared on his neck, which silenced his rambling. He stumbled along the Captain's pace, his broad form shadowing him like a human armour. Suddenly, something hot and glazing grazed them, sucking them into a permeating rumble. As they broke free from it, he glimpsed the same glare emitting from them, accompanied by a rataplan of bangs. And then, they were in the car. The seatbelt's scales unfolded on him in V shape. The doors locked with an ominous click.

Another convulsion of light hurtled towards them. 'Shields,' the Captain ordered calmly, starting the motor. They were growling for their escape, when it struck them. A cloud of thunder swallowed them up greedily. Sherlock felt his bones vibrating. The car rocketed into a skid at the impact, which the Captain used to turn them around.

'Shields at 82 percent,' the driving assistant blared.

'50 percent energy on impulse,' said the Captain. 'Autopilot on standby. Set destination home—'

BOOM!

Sherlock gasped, when the seatbelt bit  into his shoulder. The windows went opaque with something that looked like a conglomerate of miniature lightning bolts. It was so bright that it pained his eyes, even though he had squeezed them shut. The air was like fire, when he opened them. A dark blur welcomed him, yellow spots dancing in his field of vision.

They were fish tailing along the dreary asphalt, the towering apartment houses unsympathetic props to their catastrophe.

'Shields at 26 percent.'

The Captain adjusted their course, his gaze darting from street to rear mirror constantly. A crater had been ripped into his uniform sleeve, revealing three inches of red wasteland just below his shoulder, littered with charred hills and valleys of swelling. Sherlock's guts plummeted. He fought the urge to gag, but the Captain didn't even seem to feel it. He set gear and repositioned them on the left side of the road.

'Prepare impulse.'

'Impulse available.'

'A quarter power. Now.'

They gilded into speed, inspiring a tingling in the pit of Sherlock's stomach. The buildings, doors, net curtains blurred into one. They slid across the corner, just as it exploded. The stone coughed dust and debris, a fiery tongue billowing from the open wound. The black hot cloud licked at them menacingly.

'Shields on 19 percent.'

'On impulse,' returned the Captain, accelerating by a quarter more mechanically, faster, faster, pressing Sherlock into his seat. The tyres wheezed. A frown squeezed between the Captain's brows as he navigated them through narrow labyrinth of roads.

He brought them into the fifth sector and with it the sun returned. The houses on either side reached up for the cotton candy in the sky, their white facades cleansing the autumn rays from above.

They slowed down and filtered into the morning traffic. The soft yawn of the late commuters streaming into City Centre sounded odd against the scram they had just lived through.

'Are you alright?' asked the Captain, dealing him a swift ones over, before his eyes locked with the windscreen once more.

'I—I think so,' Sherlock said dumbly. Only now he realised that the tears were back again or here still, it was all a blur now. He lifted his hand to banish the floods and sucked in a long numb breath. 'You're injured. Full thickness burning.'
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Constructive criticism is always welcomed. Long life and prosperity! 🖖❤️
Many thanks to MartyCameron for discussing the car chase for me.