Chapter 4
"Serbia?!" Sherlock had exclaimed, throwing his head back and groaning in frustration.
Three hours later, they were getting off a four-seater plane in Belgrade. Mycroft had helped out in the matter of getting them tickets, on the grounds that Sherlock now owed him a favor. Sherlock had, subsequently, spent the entire flight brooding.
When he stepped off the plane in front of Irene, his head still buzzed from the constant bickering of the double engines, and he thought there was a constant ringing going on somewhere in the back. Hopefully that would go away. Getting out of the airport was the easy part- now they had to figure out a way to get to the "medical" base just south of the city. Irene managed to talk her way into getting them a taxi ride the entire way there- apparently it was considered a damn near suicide mission. That meant that there wouldn't be much negotiation, Sherlock was willing to bet, in getting John back. All of him, still fully assembled and with all of his essential organs still functioning. Preferably not paralyzed.
The drive lasted a solid forty-five minutes through scenic, but intimidating streets, with historic architecture overshadowing strangers conversing under their breath, murmuring and glancing at their taxi as it rolled by. Once out of the city and into the rolling countryside, they began making good time. The driver pulled over probably half a mile down the road from where the little base was, built on a flat ledge on one of the hillsides. The stranger passionately refused to go any farther, stating sternly in basic English, "They will kill me. I will not go closer, no."
Irene thanked the man before Sherlock got the chance to sneer at his lack of adventurousness, so instead he just turned on his heel and began the march up the hill, sticking to the trees.
Mycroft had offered him an entire platoon for the mission, but Sherlock had stubbornly insisted on secrecy. The fewer gunshots fired in the presence of John, the better his mental state would be coming out. If he were still alive, of course. Sherlock broke into a run, Irene hissing with annoyance as she followed.
The compound was designed simply- the road wound up the side of the cliff, and entered a patchy lot. In a full circle, there were three identical, two-story buildings, and one huge warehouse wedged in at the back. The whole thing was surrounded with barbwire fence, and all doors faced the open. So the question was, how did they get in?
No doubt they're allies with at least the English medical system, but probably not branched out to the rest of Europe yet.
Sherlock came out of the trees confidently and dusted himself off before striding confidently towards the front gate, Irene staying hidden in case they needed backup. He popped his collar up and shoved away a smirk because John secretly loved it when he did things to make himself look "cool".
Sherlock stopped abruptly as a gun barred his way and prodded him back.
"Ko si ti?" the man asked him, bobbing his head assertively.
Clearly trying too hard to be intimidating- older siblings, demanding father, or demanding environment. He grew up to be an organ smuggler and his jacket is ancient, too old for a brother, so definitely a father. Fingers under stress, he's been on this shift a long time, but he's holding up well, so he probably does this every day. Demanding family, hard worker, determined... he wants a promotion.
"Govorite li engleski?" The man insisted, and Sherlock squinted at him. He probably should have put more effort into learning Serbian before he came, but he knew the important basics. Enough, at least, to tell this man he didn't speak a lick of Serbian.
"Da," Sherlock said, and gave the man a very impressed nod of approval. "Impressive sense of duty, my good man," he said, patting the stranger on the shoulder. Was he doing this right? "Doctor Hamish Holmes, I'm here to speak to Martin."
"Martin who?"
"I don't know. Doctor Lee said I was just supposed to ask for Martin."
The gate guard looked annoyed, but proud of the compliment, and turned around to unlock the gate. "Follow me," he said gruffly, and led the way in.
They slithered precariously through the sparse crowd of busybodies, pushing carts stacked with coolers or boxes, or toting cases of medical supplies with big red crosses painted on the lids. They came to the entrance of the first building. It was around the corner, just barely out of sight of the workers. The military door creaked as it opened and Sherlock slipped in as the guard held it for him.
The narrow walkway to the door ended only a few feet in and opened into a tiny lobby, dimly lit by a window in a hall at the opposite end. There was a card table in the middle, but it was flipped on its side and splattered with blood.
There was a struggle here. That blood splatter is from a gunshot. John's? Maybe. One blood splatter, three sets of footprints. The change in gait of that set indicates that he was the one shot- big shoes, shaped like steel-toes, doubtfully a woman, approximately the same size as John's shoes, but John doesn't wear steel-toed boots. A chair propped against the door of the closet off to the side, so somebody's probably locked in it. Five or so guns tossed haphazardly at the far side of the room. If the staff had won that gun fight, they would have taken their weapons, and they wouldn't have left the room unguarded.
John was here, but he left this room unharmed. There are no footprints of his, but...
If anyone could escape a heavily guarded compound with nothing but wit and will, it was John Watson.
Sherlock hurtled the table and barrel rolled to the other side of the room, snatching a gun and unloading all eight rounds at the guard that led him here. The kid fell to the ground, a bullet in his leg and his shoulder. Sherlock congratulated himself on the accuracy of his random-firing and stood up, pistol in his hand as he gagged the guard and threw the chair off of the broom closet. There were three men, all older than the gate guard, but dressed similarly, already gagged and tied up. One of them had a tourniquet around his waist.
Sherlock stopped abruptly, not sure what to think. He giggled, turned away, looked back at the men, then broke out in a fit of laughter.
Johnathan Hamish Watson, ladies and gentlemen! Who else shoots a man and then stores him in a closet with decent medical care?
He wiped a tear out of his eye before adding one more man to the closet party and propping the chair back up. His smile wore off quickly as he went back to business, staring around the room. No escape routes except the front door. The window didn't open, and if there were a secret escape, how would John have known about it? The vents were too small for anything fatter than a cat. No escape. John was still here, and if he hadn't been found yet, then he was hiding. Somewhere here, he was hiding.
The closet is a stupid place to hide, he'd be sold out. Down the hall would also be stupid, then he's back to square one. Maybe he knew I would be coming for him. In that case, he had to have a good vantage point to see me, nothing in the open, nothing too easy to find-
The roof.
Sherlock whirled on his heel and ran back out of the front door where he came, slamming himself to the wall to stay out of sight. Sure enough, there was a fire escape ladder running up the side of the building, even further out of sight than the door. It was untouched except for one scuff on the third rung. Sherlock jumped onto the fourth and began climbing. The roof was flat, and the building only two stories. He pulled himself over the side of the roof, where a motionless John Watson laid, limply adjusted into the fetal position, back to Sherlock.