Mystrade - The Call - from The Personal Journal of Mycroft Holmes

Chapter 3

        "Don't open your front door," Greg said breathlessly before I could react. He was the source of the odour. That's what was dripping off him. The blood wasn't his own, but there was a great lot of it. Given the pattern on his arms and chest, he'd carried someone to safety - someone with multiple puncture wounds, who had lost a life-threatening amount of blood. Actually, the blood near his abdomen was his own. It was still flowing. There was another scent - floral - dancing on the wind with the lighter fluid.

        "Is she alive?"

        "Maybe you should sit down," he suggested. He thought my concern was of a personal nature. At least I knew my plan, underhanded though it may have been, had worked. 

        I was concerned, though - concerned about him. "I think that's a luxury that would better serve you right now," I said, opening the door completely and stepping aside as to invite him in. Without a word, he locked his eyes with mine before walking past me to sit in my kitchen. He tried desperately not to make a sound, but I could see his body cringe with pain as he folded onto the chair. "How long ago did that happen?" I asked, pointing my nose toward his left oblique.

        He stared at me for a moment, apparently surprised at my reasonably personable tone and genuine compassion. I took the opportunity to fetch a few tea towels from a cupboard. "A few hours ago," he finally stated.

        That's what I had expected. Greg needed proper medical attention. I walked toward him, handing off the tea towels. "You should move your shirt before it sticks to the wound."

        "She's alive, Mycroft, but she's critical," he explained as he unbuttoned his soaked shirt. "I'm sorry," he added, his neck dancing, trying to catch my gaze.

        Lady Elizabeth Smallwood had somehow encountered a minimum of 9 blades - no, iron stakes - and lost at least two liters of blood, enough to be on watch for exsanguination. That estimate didn't account for the likelihood of internal hemorrhage caused by the puncture that had reached her right kidney. Greg was apologizing with sympathy because he suspected I was romantically entangled with this woman. "She is a business contact, Greg," I clarified. My evening with Lady Smallwood was, of course, an absolute effort to create jealousy within my silver-haired ex-companion. The possible vindication of that seemed far less necessary in this moment.

        "Oh. Okay," Greg muttered as he began to apply pressure to his injury with a towel.
He had removed his shirt and had dropped it on the floor. His shoulders were quite broad for his smaller stature. Usually, they were a beacon of shelter and comfort in my eyes. At this moment, though, they seemed weak, despite their vast span. His demeanor and comportment both signaled a feeling of defeat.

        "My front door?" I was going to have to coax the information that couldn't be deduced, as he was wholly incapable of distinguishing between those categories for himself.

        "Tripwire," he began. "If that door opens from the inside, everything within a square kilometer blows."

        "How?"

        "Nitroglycerin sprayed onto the water lines. The tripwire ignites flares set up every 9 meters or so. We've got guys out there trying to get to it all."

        "And the lighter fluid?" I asked, remembering that his entire body was soaked in it.

        "Pumped into the sprinkler system in Lady Smallwood's office."  She had tried to escape the flames by climbing out the fifth-story window but had fallen on the wrought iron fencing. Greg continued, as he watched me pull together this remaining information, "We found a bomb at Downing Street. It's gotta be a terror cell."