Sherlock - The Game Is On!

The Final Problem- Five

Chapter Five

Third POV

A radio broadcast was being transmitted:

- - And now the shipping forecast, issued by the Met Office on behalf of the Maritime Coastguard Agency at 05:05. Thames, Dover... - -

As the broadcast continues a young man, Ben, wearing a yellow oilskin coat and matching hat, opens the door to the wheelhouse and stumbles inside wiping his mouth and breathing heavily.

An older man, Vince, looks round to him. "Go on, son, get it up." He smiles cheerfully at him. "Better out than in."

"Is it always like this?" Ben gestures to the fog. "Nah."

"Thank God."

"Usually it's much worse!"

"Might go and work in a bank!" Still breathing heavily, he looks up at the sound of rotors. "Is that an helicopter?"

"Nah, not in this weather."

The radio broadcast is still continuing:

- - Lundy, Fastnet, Irish Sea, Shannon, Malin, Sherrinford. Sherrinford. Sherrinford. - -

"You hear that?" Vince glances round to him.

- - Sherrinford. - -

"I never heard that one before." The radio continues its normal shipping forecast. "Sherrinford?" He questions. "Forget you ever heard it."

"What?"

"Sometimes when we're out in these waters, we get that message. Just forget about it. "Yeah, but we've never..." Vince raises a warning finger to him. "Just..." He raises a hand and mimes zipping his lips shut, then points warningly at the young man.

He starts to turn back to the wheel when there's a loud thump on the roof of the wheelhouse, followed by a couple of less loud thumps.

The men look up, then Vince goes to the door and heads outside, stepping a few paces away from the wheelhouse and then turning to look up. Ben comes out beside him. Sherlock stands on the roof holding onto the ship's antennae with one hand, his coat whipping dramatically around him. "Who the hell are you?"

"My name's Sherlock Holmes."

"The detective!" Ben chimed. "The pirate." John steps into view at the other side of the antennae and points a pistol at the men below. Ben raises his hands, his mouth wide in fear, and Sherlock dramatically leaps off the roof towards them.

Sherrinford Island

A distant shot of the island shows a large storm front close by it. Rain pours from the clouds and lightning flashes inside them. The rain hasn't yet reached the island.

Above the island, over the top of the castle-like structure, shows several guards, all dressed warmly against the weather and with blue beanie hats on their heads, patrolling the rooftops and carrying rifles.

In the Control Room of the facility, on the lower level and on the stairs to either side more rifle-carrying guards, without the coats or hats and all wearing white shirts, stand in various places around the area. Yellow-jumpsuited auxiliary staff walk around, going about their daily business. Above the area is a small glass-walled room with many computer screens.

Across the area outside, a natural-looking opening in the rock looks out towards the ocean. Inside the glass room, a technician speaks into a radio: "Golf Whiskey X-ray, this is a restricted area, repeat, restricted area. You are off course."

As he speaks, he reaches across to a rotary fan on the desk beside him and switches it off. Perhaps he has had a gut feeling about what's soon going to hit it.

"Are you receiving?" There's no immediate reply and he activates his radio again. "Golf Whiskey X-ray, you are off course. Are you receiving?" The radio from the other end activates. "Yeah, receiving you. This is a distress call, repeat, distress call. We're in trouble here." John speaks.

A radar image on the screen in front of the technician shows a bright red dot close to the centre of the screen. "Golf Whiskey X-ray, what is your situation?" There's no response. "Golf Whiskey X-ray? Where are you now?"

"We're headed for the rocks. We're going to hit." John answers. The technician sits back in his chair, then types rapidly on a keypad on his desk. A message comes up on his screen reading:

SYSTEM LOCKDOWN
RED 5 PROCESS INITIATED

A stream of numbers and letters scrolls underneath. The technician moves his headset microphone closer to his mouth. "Governor to the Control Room." A Red warning light starts to flash around the facility, a siren begins to blare and an automated voice starts making announcements from loudspeakers:

- - Lockdown in progress. Lockdown in progress. - -

All around the complex the external guards, the ones with the coats and hats run along the corridors and head outside.

- - Please proceed to designated Red stations. Please proceed to designated Red stations. - -

Two of the guards run round a headland and see Vince and Ben sitting on the sand back to back. Rope is lashed around them, tying them together, and their wrists are bound. Vince looks towards the approaching men and rolls his eyes, sinking his head back.

On a metal bridge above them, more guards run into position and aim their rifles down at the seamen. As more men run onto the sand and aim their rifles at the two of them, Ben raises his bound hands in front of him. "No, hold it! Wait, wait, wait, wait!"

One of the guards on the bridge calls out to those below him: "Oi! In the sand!" One of the guards on the beach looks up at him as he gestures beyond the bound sailors. "In the sand!"

The guards turn to look and we see what the men on the bridge can see. A small inflatable boat has been dragged up and left nearer the water. In between the boat and the men, drawn in the sand in large letters are the words:

TELL MY
SISTER
I'M HERE

Inside the facility the governor of the place hurries out of a lift and into the Control Room, a phone raised to his ear. Around him the auxiliary staff are rushing around the room while the siren continues to blare. "I need to speak to Mycroft." He speaks into his phone.

In London, Sir Edwin, now sporting a full beard, is in the back seat of a car. "He's in hospital. There was an explosion."

"Put me through to the hospital."

"He's not conscious. He's severely injured. No one is even confident he's going to pull through."

"Where's his brother? Where's Sherlock Holmes?"

"Missing."

"No, he's not. He's here." He terminates the call and tucks his phone into the inside breast pocket of his jacket as he walks over to the technician, who points at live footage from the beach on one of the screens. "Sir, we found two more from the boat."

The governor looks at the screen. John, who is being filmed by a body camera attached to the jacket of one of the guards, is standing with his hands raised while guards aim their rifles at him. Beside him, also with his hands raised, is an elderly man wearing oilskin overalls. He has a large white bushy beard and matching eyebrows and a woolly hat. The camera-wearing guard moves closer and the man speaks in an indignant south-west England accent: "He stole our boat! Him an' another fella, with guns!"

"Where'd you find them?"

"North side of the island, sir." The guard answers. The governor peers at the shaky footage, then smiles. "Holding cell, now."

"Right, sir."

John and the fisherman are ushered away as the automated announcement pitches in again:

- - Lockdown in progress. - -