Chapter Text
It was perhaps five hours later when a small contingent of policemen and policewomen had been rounded up from the area to go to the Bader farm with Sergeant Jones, Lestrade, Sherlock and Molly to apprehend the cousins. Sergeant Jones had tried his hardest to talk Sherlock and Molly into not going, but Lestrade had said that absolutely wasn’t going to work. In the meantime, Molly did the postmortem on Cess Simmons for Sergeant Jones and found nothing that gave them any clues to prove or disprove Miranda’s theory that it was Alfred Bader, so they were walking into the situation not entirely sure whether they were simply arresting two smugglers or a potential murderer, but they were treating it as the latter.
Sergeant Jones insisted that both Sherlock and Molly wear bulletproof vests. In the time since her kidnapping, Sherlock knew that DI Donovan had insisted Molly take training courses with her when she was able about how to enter situations like this, as Molly did occasionally accompany technicians to crime scenes, and her friend had been worried she would be caught unaware. Lestrade had pulled the strings to allow a civilian to attend the training, and he had been glad to see Molly had learned the lessons well, staying back where it was safe while the armed individuals infiltrated the property first, making sure it was safe. Sherlock himself was armed, though Sergeant Jones had raised an eyebrow at that and Lestrade had waved it off, and he was sticking close to her just in case.
However, it appeared it was for naught, as the property looked to be abandoned and they had arrived too late. It was frustrating because even without forensic evidence Sherlock was so sure that Alfred Bader was the murderer. He did not often listen to his gut feelings, having felt for years that it was unreliable, but thoughts of the conversation between Cess and his murderer insisted that he was sure the assailant was Alfred Bader with an impeccable English accent. If Miranda was right, and Alfred was not all he appeared, then he could be right and it wasn’t just a gut feeling. He had actually heard the evidence all on his own and his mind was trying to tell him he was right.
As the other officers and Sergeant Jones and Lestrade searched the premises, Molly and Sherlock concentrated on the main house on the property. He was sure they had not left; Sergeant Jones said that no vehicles had been observed leaving the property once they had been considered suspects, though there had been no surveillance since the evening before, but the vehicle known to be owned by the Baders were still on the property. Sherlock had been searching upstairs while Molly had concentrated on the study and sitting room downstairs, and they had both gone into the kitchen to reconvene. “No sign of them?” Molly asked, opening a door that led into a well-stocked pantry.
Sherlock shook his head. “I did find the account book in what appeared to be Alfred’s bedroom, as well as the profit itself, which leads me to believe they are still on the premises. They made quite a hefty profit on their end of the smuggling ring, even with the skimming being done. The last deposit was quite substantial.”
“How much is it?” Molly asked.
“Two million, six hundred thirty-one thousand, seven hundred eighty-four,” he said.
Molly’s eyes widened. “Pounds?” she asked.
He shook his head. “Euro. It was already converted to send to France. In pounds that would be roughly...” He thought for a moment. “Two million, two hundred and twenty-seven pounds.”
“And it’s just sitting here upstairs?” she asked, her voice nearly a hiss.
He nodded. “Which makes me think they’re still here. They wouldn’t be foolish enough to leave it where it could be found, even if it wasn’t easily.” There was a creaking sound, and both Molly and Sherlock turned as a hidden panel swung open in the wall behind a cupboard. The two men who had been under their window stepped out, and the one who Sherlock had spoken to, the one who had pretended that he had been the poor, innocent victim in all of this, brandished a gun with a silencer on it and pointed it at Sherlock. “You must be the mastermind behind all of this, Alfred. Or is is Alphonse?”
“Neither,” he said, his French accent very nearly gone. It was very hard to pin down what exactly his nationality was from his speaking voice. He shoved Stephen Bader in front of him towards Sherlock and Molly. “My real name is unimportant. This whole operation has been fouled up beyond repair, but I’ll be damned if I’ll leave the money behind.”
“So you’ll just kill the three of us, take the money and hide in your hidey-hole until the police presence has dispersed, and then vanish into the night?” Sherlock said.
The man nodded. “Yes. I have done it before, I can do it again. Your lives and the life of this...rustic farmer are inconsequential. And I will have done the criminal world a favour by getting rid of the insufferable Sherlock Holm--”
He didn’t finish his sentence before he began howling in pain as a cast iron skillet crashed down on the wrist holding the gun. Sherlock turned and saw Molly wielding it with both hands, and then after a moment when the man looked at her she hit him in the face with the skillet, though not quite as hard. He crumpled to the ground, as still as could be. Her eyes went wide. “Oh my God, did I kill him?” she asked.
Sherlock went for the gun before Stephen Bader got any ideas, and then went to the unnamed man and checked for a pulse. It was thready, but it wasn’t weak. “No, but he’ll need medical attention,” Sherlock said. Then he looked at Stephen. “You have some explaining to do.”
Stephen nodded. “Yes, I know,” he said, looking down.
Sherlock looked over at him. “Come with me. We need to get him medical attention and I’m not letting you out of my sight.” Then he looked over at Molly. “Will you be all right?”
She shifted her grip on the cast iron skillet. “I think so,” she said.
He stood up and then kissed her forehead. “You were quite brave,” he murmured. “You saved my life.”
“You would have done the same,” she said, looking up at him as the back door opened up and Lestrade came in with Sergeant Jones behind him.
“Sherlock, everything’s--” Lestrade began, and then stopped. “What in the bloody hell?”
“It appears we have the case wrapped up,” he said, taking the cast iron skillet from Molly’s grip. “But the murderer needs medical attention after a cast iron skillet to the wrist and face.”
“I see,” Lestrade said, moving closer. “I just came to tell you mobile service is finally back up. We can call in the big guns and get this all contained.”
“Good,” Sherlock said. He set the skillet on the table before nodding to Stephen. “This is Stephen Bader. You might want to have some words with him. And upstairs is two million, six hundred thirty-one thousand, seven hundred eighty-four in euro and proof of the smuggling ring. I have no idea who our unconscious murderer really is, but when and if he comes too, he may have answers for you.”
“I’m sure.” Sergeant Jones took Stephen and put handcuffs on him before leading him out of the house, and Lestrade got on his mobile and dialed a number. “Anthea? I need to talk to Mycroft. Tell him Inspector Greg Lestrade would really like to see him.” He gave Sherlock a look and then rolled his eyes before heading out after the sergeant.
Molly leaned into Sherlock. “You’ll be the death of me, you know?” she said.
“Ah, but what a way to go,” he said, pulling her close and putting an arm around her shoulders.
“Miranda’s prediction came true, you know,” she said quietly after a moment’s silence.
“It did,” he said. He turned his head and pressed a kiss into her hair. “I suppose she’ll be happy that for once someone listened and the outcome was good.”
“Maybe we should tell her,” she said.
“Later,” he said. “First I would like to lay down and rest for a long while. Then we can tell her and leave this village and go somewhere nice and warm and relax and have a proper vacation.”
She pulled away slightly and looked at him, fiddling with the collar of his shirt. “And maybe come back properly married?” she asked quietly.
He looked at her in surprise for a moment, and then a slow spreading grin formed on his face as he pulled her closer. “I don’t foresee any problems with that, as long as we agree to change our living situation when we return.”
“We can discuss the specifics on some nice tropical beach somewhere,” she said, looking up at him with a smile before raising herself up to kiss him. He kissed her back, keeping her as close as he could. He loved this woman more than he could ever imagine, and if he was lucky enough to spend the rest of his life with her, especially after everything they had been through this weekend, then he would grab the opportunity with both hands and never let go. After all, chagrin partagé, chagrin diminué; plaisir partagé, plaisir doublé.