Welcome to Baker Street

22. Like the old days

~ Five minutes after the explosion ~

John stands still in the same spot where the explosion flung him. He hasn't moved; he hasn't taken a single step forward. He cannot take his eyes off the dreadful hell of flames in front of him. He stares at the burning rubble, still unable to process what happened. He simply stands there without moving a muscle or uttering a sound.

Suddenly, his phone rings. He pulls it out mechanically and glances at the screen: unknown number. It must be someone at Scotland Yard, maybe Greg with a colleague's phone, he thinks distractedly.

He presses the answer button and talks to the receiver without giving the caller time to speak.

"It blew up. The bloody building blew up." His voice breaks.

After a moment of silence, the person on the other end of the line finally talks.

"I know. My ears are still ringing," a familiar baritone voice replies.

John almost drops the phone. His veins pump blood at a frantic rate, threatening to explode.

"Sh-Sherlock?"

"Yes, John, it's me. Were you expecting another call?" Holmes asks, annoyed. "Anyhow, could you come pick us up? We are two blocks away. And John, call an ambulance, would you?"

Sherlock hears him hold his breath, so he promptly adds, "Before you ask, I'm fine, but Cathy needs medical assistance."

John grips his phone tightly as his knuckles turn white. Among all the possible questions he could ask, he simply breathes out, "How did you end up there?"

"We took the Tube," he replies enigmatically and ends the call.

John and Giulia hurry to the telephone booth from which Sherlock phoned him. Watson runs towards the two figures seated on the kerb and clinically scrutinises their injuries. Cathy is clearly worse off than Sherlock, but nothing life-threatening. He kneels to examine her wound, then looks up at his friend in shock.

"How did you survive the blast?"

"I simply thought that if London could withstand German air strikes during the Battle of Britain, we could trust the old English survival skills as well." Sherlock shrugs as if he was talking about a peaceful walk, while the sound of approaching sirens pierces the peaceful silence of the night.

John frowns. "I don't understand."

"Because you never observe," the detective grunts, exasperated. "When the cab got there in the first place, did you notice how sunken and low the building looked? The stark contrast with the neighbouring high-rises was evident. It should have been obvious, but I have been slow. So, I needed to see the ticket barrier inside to finally understand: the construction site was meant to be a new underground station."

Giulia's face lights up at his words.

"Apparently, history has saved your life for the second time today."

"Exactly. I presumed that if a station was being built above the ground, there had to be platforms and tracks below. That's how our grandfathers escaped the air raids: they sought shelter inside the Tube stations. Cathy is a war lover, and I certainly didn't want to disappoint her; so, we got out vintage-style. We went downstairs and tried to run as far as possible along the under-construction tracks. We re-emerged down there." He gestures to a fully-functioning underground station at the corner of the street.

"You made it. Everything is fine." John exhales, relieved.

Sherlock's face clouds over. "No. The terrorist leader escaped."

"No, he didn't," a hoarse voice says behind him. Sherlock turns around, startled.

"We caught him when they all stormed out of the building before it exploded. He is in our custody now," Lestrade asserts, closing the door of a police car that has just pulled over next to them.

Holmes looks at him in disbelief while John bursts out, "How did you do that? I texted you only a few instants before the explosion, and the terrorista were already out at the time. You were on the other side of the city."

"I had already been informed. Before getting your distress message, Mycroft Holmes had personally contacted me, notifying your position. He practically commanded me to come to your aid. I think he said he was speaking on behalf of the British government," he recalls, furrowing his brow. He doesn't quite like being bossed around, especially not by someone whose last name is Holmes.

John is even more bewildered.

"Mycroft? Hang on, how did he know our coordinates—" he stops and sighs. "Oh, I see. He deciphered the crossword, too. Of course. The deduction thing of the Holmeses."

Sherlock gives him a death stare, making Giulia chuckles.

"What about the bomb, instead?" Sherlock changes the subject.

"We found it inside the building of the Palestinian mission, exactly as you had indicated in your text. Bomb techs took care of it: the area is clear now," Lestrade reports.

"Did you catch some other terrorists, too?" Sherlock inquires in a disinterested tone. He solved his case, after all. His main goal was to track down and save Cathy Baaral. Mission accomplished, somehow. He couldn't care less about side results.

"All of them, actually. It's strange; most of them are British citizens. I wasn't expecting it." The D.I. scratches his head, visibly stressed and worn out.

Giulia turns to Sherlock with a satisfied grin, and he stares back at her, trying to hide his admiration. It doesn't happen often that someone can provide the right answer before him. To be precise, it never happens.

As Lestrade steps away, she walks up to the detective and breaks the ice. "So, how did I do?"

"Very well, indeed. You survived a day on the field with us: an unprecedented success."

She rolls her eyes. "I solved the case, no? I found the second message in the puzzle and warned you about the bomb. I told you why the terrorists were targeting the Palestinian mission, and I was correct about their nationality."

"Nothing exceptional," he replies disdainfully, even if he has admit to be rather surprised. "Nothing personal, but you are far too average, in my opinion."

She sighs and gives him a side glance. "You undoubtedly have unusual standards. Most people do their best to be just average."

"Yet you agree with me, don't you?" he points out suggestively.

"Why should I disagree with them?"

He fixes his eyes on hers, and she notices his amused look.

"Because you keep referring to everyone else as them, as someone different from you."

"I am different," she rebuts proudly, staring back at him.

"We'll see about that," he concludes dismissively. Being an exception isn't necessarily a good thing, and he knows that all too well. To the rest of the world, 'different' isn't a synonym for unique but an omen of threat.