by Janina Woods
Watson couldn’t even concentrate on the reading material he had chosen to occupy himself with, but stared out of the window for most of the time. He observed the figurine when I examined it and eyed me nervously when he thought I couldn’t see it. I noticed every time. Finally, after almost a day of battling with himself, Watson drew in a big breath and cleared his throat noisily to catch my attention.
“You can refrain from acting so dramatic, Dr. Watson,” I said quietly, without looking up from my book, and before he even started to speak out. “I could see you squirming in your seat for the last three hours and working up the courage to address the issue. Incidentally, I have betted against myself how long it would take and have to express my disappointment, as I had expected you to speak up about an hour ago.”
“Are you quite finished?” he asked and pronounced his consonants harshly.
“Yes. And before you ask: I can see your point of view, and while I don’t agree, I admit that I acted on instinct. This isn’t only my battle, but also yours, and I will consider your opinion should it come to another confrontation. I apologise should I have offended you earlier.”
This statement was only partially true. Mostly untrue, in fact. It most certainly didn’t excuse the death of six men, at least in in his eyes. But if this little, white lie enabled me to find my brother without any more complications on the doctor’s side, so be it. Watson responded with stunned silence and a thoughtful nod as acknowledgement. While it hadn’t been a satisfactory apology, we both knew this wasn’t the time to fight. Neither of us uttered another word until the train rolled into Rome’s main station.
Our progress in Rome was much quicker than in Milan, as we already knew our destination. It was early in the evening as we stowed our luggage at the station, but due to the short winter days, the sun had sunken below the horizon a while ago and the dark brought forth a biting cold. We agreed not to waste any time on finding accommodations, but rather to seek out the location of the church Santa Maria della Quercia immediately, which had turned out to be the X on the notebook’s map. After sitting still for almost a day, I desperately needed to move.
In a big city like Rome, there are always people about. Even a cold winter evening did nothing to the hustle and bustle of the city, as opposed to the quiet we had left behind in Milan. As a city dweller, I vastly preferred the noise, as it gave me the comfortable feeling of a big machine running smoothly.
“I suggest we acquire transportation to take us across town,” I pointed at the street, where a number of small, rickety cabs were ready to accept customers. Watson agreed without hesitation. Neither of us wanted to walk far through the cold winter night.
The carriage we ended up in was narrow and badly isolated. The driver whipped the horses through the city at a breakneck speed, as I had promised him extra payment should he get us to the church in under half an hour. The passenger cabin rattled over cobblestones and swerved precariously from side to side every time we drove around a corner or circled slower drivers. Our ride was accompanied by loud, colourful exclamations from our driver. You can say what you want about the Italians - they know how to curse beautifully.
We made good time, but the persistent draft made me feel chilled to my core and my body was constantly shivering. I almost convinced myself that the cold was the only reason I was shaking and once again pushed the worst thoughts out of my head to keep my motivation untainted by fear. The last thing we needed was for me to lose my nerve.
This simply wouldn’t do.
After I had clung to the seat for just long enough to induce a mild headache, the driver stopped and knocked on the roof of the cabin. We had arrived. I exchanged a few quick words with the man and handed him enough money to make him grin widely. He tipped his head and disappeared into a dark alley. I took a cautious look around. We were standing in the middle of a small square, which featured a large tree in the centre that I recognised to be an oak. It spread leafless, gnarled branches over our heads like twisted fingers. Deserted benches crowded around the trunk, barely visible under mountains of piled up snow, which had been pushed towards them in order to keep the street clear. There were lights in the windows of most houses surrounding us, but only a few people about the street.
The church was barely recognisable as such, jammed between the regular three story houses, with the same yellowish coat of paint. The only thing, which made us realise we were indeed in the right place were the high iron fences put up around the entrance, which kept any unauthorised person from entering the building during the apparent construction work. Snow was also piled in front of the entrance, showing no signs of anyone entering or leaving the premises recently, not even footsteps on top of the white mountains. A sign had been put up a while ago, now barely legible. The renovation had already begun in 1892 - so they had been at it for almost four years!
“There must be another way into the church,” I mused. “It’s being restored, so maybe other doors are open. In any case, we can’t just walk in through the front door.”
“Wouldn’t they already know we are here?” Watson asked.
“Maybe,” I shrugged. “There is a chance that the shooter might’ve reached this place before us, but it’s slim. And if she has, we’ve all the more reason to hurry. I will go around the houses on the left side to reach the back of the church. You will go the other way, and we’ll meet up again on the other side. We need to find another way in.”
Watson agreed and we both started our inspection. With every step I crushed ice crystals beneath my feet and the resulting noise seemed to be much louder to my ears than it could physically be. The streets out here, far from the city centre, were narrow and close to deserted. And while I tried to walk as inconspicuously as possible, I still stood out like a sore thumb. The houses around were lined up neatly, without even a narrow alleyway between them, and even on detailed inspection, I couldn’t make out a possibility to approach the church from another angle than the front. After turning around the corner two times, I ended up on a rather large square with two fountains in front of an important looking building. I couldn’t immediately place it, but it was probably related to a government function, which was obvious from the flags it was flying.
Watson appeared at the corner just on the other side of the block of houses. We exchanged a quick glance, during which I shook my head slightly, and much to my dismay the doctor mirrored my gesture. We slowly walked towards each other, until we met in front of a moderately sized restaurant with well lit, big windows, which let warm light shine out onto the street. Two small tables outside held a few empty wine bottles, some candles and a menu, with which we busied ourselves while we discussed our findings - or lack thereof.
“The church seems to be completely surrounded by all these buildings. Which means that the front door is the only entrance,” the doctor sighed. “Seems like this is our only option.”
“Nonsense, Dr. Watson,” I smiled. “Look ahead!”
“It’s... a restaurant?” he suggested cautiously.
“That is what you see. Now, what can you observe?”
Watson strained his eyes and looked around in a way that was anything but inconspicuous. The restaurant front was large and very well maintained. The decoration could be called classic Italian, if all you knew was the romanticised version of the country. There was a fair number of customers inside, as far as one could make out from a look through the windows. Most of them were still occupied by their dinner. On the whole, it seemed like a respectable establishment. I listened to Watson recounting these facts and nodded my assent, as they weren’t wrong, but the one I was looking for wasn’t among them.
“All very well. But what’s always situated in the back of restaurants?” I tried to coax the answer out of him.
“Usually a service entry for the staff and deliveries.”
“Precisely. And judging by the size of the restaur
ant, I expect them to receive large deliveries. So there must be a way to reach the storage in the back without going through the front door...” I then pointed to the right of the building. “And I believe it’s right there.”
A few minutes later we had cracked open the lock on the big doors, which covered the entrance to a tunnel in the building. It lead into the backyard of the restaurant, which doubled as a small garden, and conveniently bordered Santa Maria della Quercia. As the temperature was still below zero, none of the staff could be found outside, which meant we could devote our time to examining a sizeable hole in the back wall of the church, only barely covered by several wooden boards.
We cautiously pushed forward into the dark interior of the building. It was even more quiet than a church had any right to be. It didn’t look deserted, it looked dead, desolate and abandoned. Dust was everywhere and not even a small sign of activity within the last days... or weeks for that matter. The air was stale, uneasy to breathe in, and my frustration grew by the minute.
Parts of the church had been simply left to decay, whereas others were still wrapped in scaffolding and cloth, as if the workers could return at any second. But there were no tools and the workbenches were empty save for a few small pieces of stonework. One larger statue had been taken down from the wall and stood in the centre of the space. The pews had been pushed to the side and covered with a tarp. Cautious rays of moonlight pierced the darkness and illuminated a few floating dust motes with the silver light. This place hadn’t been visited by people in a long time. So why had it been marked?
I turned away from Watson so as not to let my nervousness show. Our logical course of action was to search for a hidden place, in which the woman and her henchmen could’ve kept Sherlock. There was only one such place in a church like this: The crypt. I turned back toward the altar, as the way below was very likely in the back of the church and closely observed my surroundings as I moved.
Then something small caught my eye: On the scaffolding around the altar, almost invisible against the wood in the twilight of the church, there was a little clay figurine, same as the one in my pocket. A little out of place, yes, but no one else would have given it any further consideration and subsequently ignored it. I picked it up and held it next to mine. They were identical. I called Watson over immediately.
“What’s that?” he pointed at a small ceramic plate, lying just where the figurine had been standing. It was painted white and featured a golden ankh symbol in the middle. I made the mistake of moving it.
A sudden rush of wind swept us off our feet. I couldn’t hold onto the small objects as I rolled on the ground and tried to protect my head from the impact. Watson landed next to me and released a strained grunt. As I turned my head upwards, a sight that was utterly incomprehensible offered itself to me: A whirlwind of sand, which glowed from the inside out, was quickly building up and tore at the left-over evidence of the restoration effort. Piece by piece, cloth got ripped apart and drawn into the vortex. As even the wood creaked and rattled, I acted. But for once Watson had reacted even faster than I, who had been stunned by the view for entirely too long. He had already dragged me to my feet and backwards, away from the localized storm.
“We can’t go through it. The only exit is the front door!” I shouted.
Both of us turned and ran, the path now illuminated in a strange, orange glow. The light cast a false security with its warmth, almost like the setting sun, as the sand cut through air and stone alike, growing ever larger. Then the world exploded. A flash of light, accompanied by an ear-piercing, monstrous sound arrived half a second earlier than the barrage of sand. It hit my back like a wall and I felt like it would rip me apart. As everything faded to black my last thought was dedicated to Sherlock.
I have failed you, brother.
I Have Faith in Your Judgment
“Mycroft Holmes, gracing my city with his presence. That I should live to see the day...” a female voice roused me from an unconsciousness that had definitely not been sleep, as I was feeling anything but rested.
I could place the person behind the voice immediately - a fact that bothered me even more than the pain that flooded my body as soon as I woke up properly. Still, I refrained from stirring and didn’t open my eyes. The situation had to be assessed first. I could feel that I was wearing only little clothing and was currently placed in a bed, underneath a soft blanket. My face was warmed by the rays of the sun, the strong light noticeable even through closed eyelids. So I had been unconscious for at least one night. My limbs hurt all over and my head wasn’t faring any better. The incident came back to me slowly and as I knew the woman, who was in the room with me, I could deduce everything that had happened afterwards. It was then when I heard someone else clear his throat, cough roughly and gulp down a large amount of water in response. So Watson was in the same room as I.
“We haven’t been introduced, have we?” I heard the woman say. “When we arrived at the church you were buried under the rubble together with my colleague, so we brought you in as well.”
Ah, there was the confirmation of my theory.
“Arrived at the church?” the doctor asked, voice croaking hoarsely. “How...?”
“Myc..., Mr. Holmes notified us as the pair of you had arrived in Rome,” there was a short break, and I didn’t even have to open my eyes to know she was looking at me. “Oh yes, I still haven’t introduced myself, now have I? How rude of me. The name is Victoria Trevor, agent in the service of Her Majesty, Queen Victoria. Same name, too, so you should have no trouble remembering it.”
“My name is Dr. John Watson,” he hesitated just a bit before he gave his name, though I was sure she already knew who he was. “I didn’t notice him notify anyone, though.”
“We have positioned agents at the main station, who relay information to us. Rome is important for the operation of the Secret Service in Italy. If you know how to signal our people, it can be done without anyone noticing, not even someone close by,” Victoria explained, the pride in her voice obvious. “But what we do not know is why you are here in the first place. We had been notified that Mycroft... uhh, Mr. Holmes would be in the country, but not that he would be visiting Rome.”
So they had been told of my unsanctioned leave after all. It was to be expected. It had been inevitable to run into Victoria - a fact that had been obvious to me since Rome had been fixed as our destination. The knowledge didn’t make it easier. I had to talk with the doctor alone, first.
“It doesn’t seem like Mycroft is waking up,” Watson said right on cue, effectively evading Victoria’s inquiry, as I had hoped he would.
“His wounds aren’t serious. Better to let him wake up in his own time, wouldn’t you say?”
“Definitely. Thank you.”
“I have to say you’re quite lucky. You’ve emerged relatively unscathed after letting yourselves be blown up in that church.”
“We walked right into that...” the doctor said sadly. “I guess we have you to thank for getting out alive?”
“Maybe. I think you’d have lived, even if my team hadn’t shown up and dug you out of the debris. It was only the wooden scaffolding that collapsed on top of you - not any of the stonework,” Victoria explained.
There was a thoughtful pause, in which we all contemplated how many times each of us had cheated death just by pure chance. I would’ve liked to have said it had always been due to my superior skills, but in reality a lot of it came down to dumb luck.
“You have to excuse me, Dr. Watson. My agents are eager to take care of the clean-up in the church,” she finally said. “And I want to have a proper look at the place myself.”
“Of course. I wouldn’t want to keep you. Thank you again.”
I head Victoria walk across the room, heavy boots audible despite the thick carpet, and expected her to leave. What I definitely didn’t expect was the kiss she pres
sed to my lips only moments later, and it took everything that I had in me not to react. Watson wasn’t so skillful in containing his surprise, as I heard a low gasp from his direction, which was quickly stifled. There was no further comment until she left the room. I waited for a little while, then opened my eyes and sat up.
“I would prefer if you could stop your thought process right now.”
“The only way for me to stop is for you to tell me how you know Victoria Trevor,” Watson grinned, clearly revelling in the fact that I looked very much out of my depth.
“Alright,” I conceded immediately. There was no use in avoiding the inevitable. “Just let me... Give me a minute.”
Watson graciously let me have a few seconds to compose a suitable narrative. It took us a while to get out of our beds anyway, as every movement stretched resting skin uncomfortably, brushed cloth against bruises and produced a plethora of different pain points. Watson was still first and foremost a doctor, not concerned about his own injuries, but mostly about mine and he insisted on thoroughly assessing the damage.
As he stumbled over, my eyes fell on the biggest wound the doctor had suffered: a nasty, large gash on his upper left thigh, which had been bandaged tightly to keep the wound closed, but was already bleeding through the cloth. His careful movements suggested a bruising of the ribs and the slowness pointed to what could have been a concussion. I watched him for a while, then I took a deep breath.
“As you probably gathered, Victoria Trevor is an agent in the same organisation as I. Actually, I am the reason she joined. Sherlock has told you a story about an old university friend. I remember reading the tale in the Strand Magazine. My brother then brought it to Victoria’s attention. She had a good laugh, from what I heard.”
“University friend? You mean the one from... ‘The Gloria Scott’? What was his name? Victor... oh...” the realisation seemed to hit Watson like a brick. “You mean Holmes lied to me? He told me a fabricated story?”
