SHERLOCK I, II, III & IV • #wattys2016

the attack

Simon and John raced down the hall, swerved around the corner, each keeping distance between them so not to collide, and joined Charlie at the front door. Pumping his automatic rifle, Simon peeked out the window and saw movement in the hedges. Giving eyes to Charlie, he said calmly, “How many, mate?”

“I saw two, but then again, there could be more.”

“Have any fired?”

“Once, yes,” Charlie replied, loading his gray and silver Heckler & Koch USP Match, a very attractive handgun excellently built for target shooters. He turned to John and gestured him to come closer. “Can you stand over by the east end? You’ll see the entire backyard.”

“What about the loft?” John asked as he loaded his handgun.

“Simon will be back and forth, no worries, soldier,” Charlie guaranteed.

Simon aimed his rifle out the window, his index finger slid up and around the trigger. He waited for one second before he popped the rifle. A figure in the bushes collapsed, bending the branches underneath him. John cradled his handgun between his hands, his eyes scanning the greenery. A rush from the inside expanded his lungs, reminding him that his true identity was found on the field and behind a weapon. He loved it. 

“Hold them down,” Simon commanded as he departed from the window to return to the loft.

Charlie peered out the window and saw at least six men in camouflage and gas masks running towards the cabin. The woods were far off from the front door, perhaps a mile and half. But danger always seemed closer when the opposing side was larger. Charlie reloaded and focused his aim on the figures in the center.  He fired three times, each shot successfully bringing down a body.

“We’ve got a problem,” John said, lowering his gun. He looked over at Charlie, “We can’t fight them off. Is there a way out?”

“Only down in the cellar, but if they torch this place, we’re toast. We’ll join Simon, no use barding the doors.” Charlie retreated from his post and bolted down the hallway. John tightened his jaw, questioning himself if he should stay behind. But he knew the reality and the extent of his strength—he couldn’t hold them down even if he was twelve years younger. He pushed himself unwillingly from the window sill and joined the others in the loft. Simon was picking off each intruder one by one, and quite efficiently, too. Not a bullet was wasted.

“You got any new notes from Sherlock?” Simon yelled over the sharp gunfire explosions.

John reached into his pocket and fetched the mobile. The second note was available. Clicking on the open bubble, John waited impatiently as the gunfire rapidly increased. Without warning, the floorboards beneath them exploded, sending the three men into the air and then cracking down on splintering planks. They crashed onto the floor below, each wondering if they had made it. Simon staggered to his feet, tossed his empty magazine and reloaded his handgun. He turned to his comrades and, once he saw they weren’t injured, began making his way through the smoke.

“You all right?” John asked Charlie. Charlie nodded his head and motioned John to walk forward. John took a step, only to feel a hard fist strike him to the ground. Two hands wrapped around his throat. John grabbed each arm, pulled his own elbows beside his ribs, bringing the attacker closer to him. And then, with strength in his upper body and quickness in the legs, he flung the attacker to the side and eventually had him underneath him. The attacker struggled beneath John, but John managed to release the hands around his neck by striking the attacker under the locked elbows. Once he was freed, John gave a final kick in his enemy’s face, sending him motionless.

Simon was tackled by three men. They brought him down easily, but had a hard time keeping him there. Simon defended and countered as fast as the enemy threw punches and kicks. Several times Simon was put in a headlock and beaten by the others, but each time, he hurled a body to the floor and struck with a powerful blow or kick. When he had defeated the three men, one man, at least eight inches taller than Simon, charged him with an iron rod. The man swung the rod horizontal at Simon’s ribs. Simon caught the arm in motion, guided one hand over the man’s forearm and then clasped that hand on the arm. When he found his grip, Simon yanked the man forward and, letting the momentum be to his advantage, Simon released the arm so that he could strike the man in the face. He did all of that in one motion. The man collapsed to the side, unconscious.

Charlie recovered from his dizziness and saddled up beside Simon. All things seemed to have settled. Looking down at the bodies, Charlie muttered out loud, “They were sent from Andrew.”

“How do you know that?” Simon questioned.

“Well, obviously they’re costumes are a dark, dark navy blue. That’s Andrew’s favorite color and signature time of day to murder people: midnight. That’s when the he killed Alana, your wife, and many other women. Did I mention he hates women? The insignia on all their uniforms are white ribbons with red splattered on it. A white ribbon stands for ‘ending violence against women’, and apparently he’s a bit anti over the whole idea. You think he’s out to kill women?”

Simon shook his head as he toed a body over. “No. But I wouldn’t be surprised seeing the pattern. I think there’s more, why else would he be involving Sherlock?”

“Got me there. Where’s John?” Charlie began looking around the smoked room, each glance at an empty corner made his heart palpitate.

“Did we lose the doctor?” Simon exclaimed in irritation as he ran a hand over his head. The two of them started off looking around the room before they heard the distinct click of a trigger’s hammer being pulled back. Charlie was the first to look over into a kitchen to see John knelt on the ground and black figure pointing a gun at the back of his head.

“Gun down, Simon,” Charlie commanded, dropping his weapon and opening his palms. “He’s got John.”

“Bollocks!” Simon shouted, stomping a foot. He stripped himself of his weapons and stared helplessly at the hostage. “Jog on, mate, he’s nothing to you!” The black figure looked up slightly before placing his finger on the small, but powerful, piece of steel. John closed his eyes, but made no expression of sadness, fear, or anger.

“No, don’t!” Charlie screamed as the horrible sound deafened the air. “God, no,” Charlie mumbled as he stared through the fog. He saw a body slumped over, but it didn’t look like John.

“I’ll be wanked,” Simon swore, pulling out his cigarette box. He thumbed out a white stick and poked it between his chapped lips. Shaking his head in amazement, he chuckled, “Where were you when we needed you, Mr. Sherlock Holmes?”

Indeed, standing behind the slumped figure that was not John, was Sherlock himself. He lowered his pistol and smirked. “I was always there, didn’t you get my note?”

John, who had fallen forward from the sound, opened the hand that had been holding the phone all along. In bold black letters, the screen read: I’m on my way. John laughed, coughed, and then pushed himself slowly off the ground. Turning around to face his friend, he said breathlessly, “How did you know they were coming?”

“Well, I told them I would lead them to Aceyla, but I lead them to the cabin because I knew that’s when Charlie, Simon, and you would arrive. I figured you’d hold them down until I had my last shot, literally.”

“But you were taken hostage, or, more likely you volunteered to be hostage, how did that get on?” John asked, standing up from the ground and gingerly patting the dust off his clothing.

“Andrew and I had a long chat, we’re not on good terms, and they’ll be after us again. By the way, how’s your cough?”

“It’s all right,” John said.

“Good, now, we’re going to dress up like these idiots and head back to the main base. Simple plan I’ve got going so far.”

“Wait, what base? Where?”

“Where it all started, John,” Sherlock said mysteriously with a raise eyebrow. “We’re going to the Netherlands.”