The Inevitable Dusk (2/2)

[biswholocked]

Chapter One, One cont.



Chapter Two: After
No. No. Sherlock put more pressure down on Mycroft’s wound, and his fingers readjusted their grip on his brother’s wrist, desperately searching for a pulse. The ambulance was coming, sirens wailing in the background of Sherlock’s mind; John was trying to help him up (“C’mon Sherlock, you can’t….you can’t do anything for him, not now”) but Sherlock shook him off, tried to find a heartbeat. Hang on. Come back. Breathe.

Mycroft’s chest didn’t expand or contract underneath Sherlock’s hands. His pulse remained nonexistent; his eyes didn’t change from their hollow, empty gaze. John’s hand took hold of his shoulder again, and Sherlock let himself be pulled up onto his feet, and somehow managed to stay standing despite having no control over his legs. John led him away from Mycroft’s body (corpse), made him sit on the kerb; Sherlock settled his elbows onto his knees and shoved his fingers into his hair. The sticky feeling made him pull them back out, and Sherlock stared at his hands, shiny with red. Mycroft’s blood. No. Stop. You need to think, need to-

“Lestrade’s on his way,” John said from beside him, and Sherlock tilted his head up to look at him.

“Doesn’t matter,” he replied simply, and let his gaze drop back down to his hands. “The killer will be long gone by now, and Lestrade will be informed that this is above his security clearance within minutes of arriving. It would be more useful to leave now, get to Mycroft’s office before his minions have a chance to clear everything out. He said something about a man named Moran, part of Moriarty’s old syndicate. Mycroft seemed certain Moran was responsible for this, and if we can find Mycroft’s file on him-”

“You’re not going anywhere until you’ve been checked out, Sherlock,” John said, determined, and Sherlock made a sound of derision, then stood.

“I’m fine!” he insisted, and held his arms out to his sides. “Look. I’m not the one who just got shot and.” Died. Mycroft’s dead, it’s not. How could he, how am I. No. Sherlock took a breath, steadied himself. “I don’t need to be ‘checked out’, John. Particularly not by an idiot paramedic. I need to work, need to figure out….this.” Need to find Moran and deal with him. “You can examine me later, at Baker Street.”

“You are not fine,” John said stubbornly, crossing his arms. “And how exactly are you going to explain that?” he asked, gesturing to Sherlock’s hands.

Sherlock forced himself to shrug nonchalantly, don’t think about it. Don’t think about Mycroft’s blood, his DNA, his last moments covering your fingers, and shoved his hands into the pockets of his coat. “Problem solved,” he bit out, and turned to walk away.

“Wait, Sherlock,” John said entreatingly, and Sherlock reluctantly stopped in his tracks; John came to stand in front of him and dug a few tissues from his coat pocket, offering them to Sherlock.

Sherlock reached out and took one, then used it to gently wipe the blood off of his fingers. The tissue became more and more red as he dipped it between his fingers, and Sherlock took the time to collect the wild dust bunnies of his feelings (despair, helplessness, confusion, his mind supplied readily) and shove them away, far into the bowels of his Mind Palace. (It was the room, with the padded walls and chains, the room with him, where all the things Sherlock never wanted to feel were tucked into corners and locked away, because you never felt pain, did you?)

“Better?” John inquired, and Sherlock nodded shortly.

“So. Mycroft’s office, then?”

“Yes,” Sherlock confirmed, and swept off with John by his side, curling his coat around himself like the shield of a suit of armour.

Thirty Two Years Earlier

Sherlock held his breath as the door opened, and watched quietly as Mycroft’s shoes came in and walked around, undoubtedly looking for him. Well I don’t want to be found, he thought rebelliously, and resolved that he wouldn’t reveal himself.

Mycroft stopped moving, and sudden, Mycroft’s face was peering under the bed, looking exasperated and affectionate at the same time. “Sherlock, really,” he chastised. “You know it’s time for Christmas dinner.”

“I don’t want to go,” Sherlock said firmly, and curled in on himself further.

“Why?”

“Because there are too many people and they’re all loud and stupid and big,” Sherlock said petulantly. “I hate it.”

“It’s only for a few hours.”

“No.”

Mycroft sighed and hung his head down for a moment. “Alright, then. But will you at least come out from under the bed? You’re going to get all dusty.”

Sherlock thought about it, then nodded slightly. “But only if I don’t have to go to dinner.”

Mycroft raised a hand, palm out. “I solemnly swear,” he said, and so Sherlock slid out from under the bed and sat up, while Mycroft settled down next to him, leaning back against the bed.

“You know,” Mycroft said after a long minute had passed. “You do give Mummy quite a lot of trouble.”

“I don’t mean to,” Sherlock said quietly, feeling small. “I just…”

“I know,” Mycroft said gently. “Don’t worry. She won’t be too upset, I don’t think. Besides,” he looked down at Sherlock, a small smile on his face. “I’m afraid I have to agree with you. Our extended family is dreadfully dull.”

“How do you stand it?”

Mycroft shrugged. “It is a misfortune of growing up, brother mine. You must learn to interact with people you don’t like.”

Sherlock scoffed. “Then I shan’t ever grow up. It sounds horrible.”

“Everyone has to grow up eventually, Sherlock.”

“Nu-uh,” Sherlock denied, shaking his head. “I’ll run away and become a pirate, and my ship won’t have any grown ups on it at all. It’ll be grand.”

Mycroft chuckled. “Am I allowed to visit?”

Sherlock pondered. “Only if you promise not to be boring.

“I promise.”

Mycroft’s office was tucked away in one of the government buildings that made up Whitehall. The corridors were silent except for the sound of footsteps, but John could feel a sense of unease settling on his shoulders-- something about these kinds of buildings, where everyone’s voices were hushed and so very many secrets were kept, made his skin crawl.

Sherlock seemed to know where he was going; he wound through the halls with purpose and certainty, and John kept a close eye on his as they walked. John wasn’t stupid. He knew that Sherlock had shoved away his emotions and focused on the case, but that didn’t stop him from being concerned. He and Mycroft might not have been close, but they’re still brothers.

They turned another corner and at the end of the short hallway there was a plain door, identical to the hundreds of other doors they’d passed; in front of this one, though, Anthea (because she never gave me another name to call her) was standing and typing on her mobile. How did she get here before us? John wondered, but then berated himself. Who knew what kind of resources she had at her fingertips, but Anthea obviously hadn’t had to take a cab across the city.

At the sound of their approach Anthea glanced up from her phone and pinned Sherlock with a reproachful look.

“You’re not supposed to be here.”

“Get out of my way,” Sherlock commanded.

Anthea raised a calm eyebrow and looked at him. “I’m not allowed to. Technically, this office belongs to the government -- the people who will be investigating into Mister Holmes’ death.”

John watched as Sherlock narrowed his eyes and ran his gaze over Anthea’s form. “They certainly moved quickly,” he said cryptically, after a long moment.

Anthea shrugged. “The circumstances are rather dire.”

“But this was the plan, regardless of how it happened.”

John saw a flicker of some emotion (sadness?) cross her face. “Yes,” she admitted quietly.

“Sorry, but what exactly is going on?” John finally asked; Sherlock glanced over at him, then held an arm out to gesture at Anthea.

“May I introduce you to the new British Government,” Sherlock said with a faux bow.

But Mycroft is the Brit-- oh. “You’re the one who’s taking his place?”

Anthea gave another artful shrug, but this time, John could see the tension in her shoulders as she answered. “Someone has to, and as his assistant I am, at the moment, the most prepared to fill Mister Holmes’ shoes.”

“Yes, yes, wonderful,” Sherlock butted in. “Now, if you would be so kind as to step. Aside.”

Anthea raised one eyebrow, a gesture that John took to mean why should I?

“Oh, don’t be ridiculous!” Sherlock snapped. “I’m leagues better than whoever they’ll put on the investigation, and you know it. And I can guarantee that this Moran - whoever he is - doesn’t live long enough to weasel his way into prison.”

“Why should that matter to me?” Anthea asked coolly, but John could read between the lines to hear what she was really saying: Why should I trust you to do as you say?

“Because you pride yourself on efficiency.” Because I give you my word.

After a long, pregnant pause, Anthea nodded slightly. “Very well then,” she said, and tilted her head, contemplating them. “What do you want to know?"

“Where is his file on Moran, and what can you tell me about him?”

John flicked his attention back to Anthea, watching her tranquility in comparison to Sherlock’s crackling energy.

“Mister Holmes didn’t tell me much, but I was put in charge of assigning you extra security, as well as relaying instructions to Walker-- our computer tech. The case, as you know by now, was a ruse of sorts, designed to both distract you and ensure your interest in what Mister Holmes had to say.”

“What was the trigger? Mycroft wouldn’t have gone to such lengths for no reason.”

“There was a security breach.”

“He was in our flat?” John interrupted, stepping closer. He was in our flat and I didn’t notice? Sherlock didn’t notice?

“You were both...vulnerable. We were unable to apprehend Moran afterwards. It was at that point Mister Holmes decided it would be prudent to provide some kind of stimulation that would also involve you leaving your flat,” she continued.

“And the file?” Sherlock reminded.

“In his home. I’m not sure where. He didn’t want to keep the file somewhere as accessible as his office.”

“Where could we find this Walker bloke?” John interjected, ignoring Sherlock’s look of surprise at the question.

“I can text you his address,” Anthea offered.

“Good enough.”

A moment later his phone vibrated with a new message, and Sherlock took it as a cue to leave.

“We’re off. Please do inform me if you hear from Moran. Or if something pops up in relation to your new...position,” he concluded crisply, then turned with a swirl of his coat to start back down the hall the way they’d come.

“Thank you,” John said sincerely - because regardless of how imperious Sherlock could be, she wasn’t obligated to help them - then hurried after.

Twenty Nine Years Earlier

“Sherlock, if you want to say goodbye to your brother….” Mummy hovered in the door, looking uncertain; Sherlock ignored her and kept his eyes on his book of poisons, though he wasn’t actually reading it.

“Sherlock, we only have a few minutes,” Mummy tried again, then sighed when Sherlock didn’t respond. “Alright, fine. I’ll just send him up.”

The click of her heels echoed as she went down the stairs, and Sherlock sat up on his bed and turned away from the door. He didn’t want to talk to Mycroft. Stupid Mycroft, who’s leaving me behind. I don’t want to see him ever again.

Mycroft knocked on Sherlock’s bedroom door, then entered, standing at the other side of the bed.

“You’re supposed to wait until I say ‘come in’,” Sherlock grumbled.

Mycroft sighed and sat down next to him, the mattress dipping under his weight; Sherlock stubbornly looked away and shifted so that he couldn’t see his brother.

“Sherlock-”

“I don’t want to talk to you.”

“I know you’re upset-”

“I’m not upset,” Sherlock contradicted. “I’m fine.”

“I’ll be home at the end of term for the holidays. It’s only for a few months.”

“That’s what you said last year!” Sherlock argued. “And then you said you had ‘important studies that you were - regretfully - unable to get away from’.” He frowned. “I don’t care anyway. I’m fine.”

There was a long moment where no one said anything, and then Mycroft moved closer and hesitantly put his arm around Sherlock, pulling until he was resting against Mycroft’s side. They sat there together until the sound of a car horn broke the calm.

Mycroft squeezed him closer for a second, then stood and began to leave; when he reached the door, he paused, and said quietly. “Goodbye, Sherlock.”

Sherlock didn’t look as Mycroft walked away .

“I imagined something more….posh,” John admitted from behind Sherlock as they walked up the pavement to Mycroft’s townhouse. “Same with the office, actually. No secret lair?”

Oh he certainly has - had- that, Sherlock thought, recalling the facility Mycroft had holed him up  in after he’d returned. “Officially, he was only a minor government man. Additionally, Mycroft had very...simplistic tastes,” Sherlock replied out loud as they came upon the front door. “I’ll need to pick the locks.”

“You don’t have a key?”

“Well it’s not exactly something I carry around with me everywhere I go, now is it?” Sherlock snapped. “I certainly wasn’t expecting to be here today.”

John raised his hands in surrender. “Okay, fine. I’ll just...watch the road, shall I?”

Sherlock didn’t bother to respond and crouched in front of the door, pulling out his lockpick set from his coat pocket. The quiet sounds of metal on metal reminded him of the other times he’d broken into Mycroft’s house, mostly in his younger years, craving cocaine, bored out of his mind, and pondering all the different ways to sneak past his brother’s security. I never imagined it would be for this reason though, he thought, then swept the idea away with a mental shake. Focus.

After a few minutes of coaxing he was rewarded by the click of the door unlocking, and he stood gracefully before twisting the knob and pushing it open. John followed, unabashedly staring at the interior and taking in the furniture and design, but Sherlock spared himself the distraction of a household tour and went straight for the back of the house to Mycroft’s office.

It was as he remembered it, with its large wooden desk and comfortable chair, surrounded by bookcases with titles ranging from London A-Z to expansive texts on prime ministers and foreign governments. Sherlock strode towards the desk and sat in the chair, glancing over the drawers; he started from the top left, flipping through the dozens of folders - apparently Mycroft had very little faith in the security of his office - and scanning them for any mention of Moran. He became absorbed in the simple task, only pausing when John came in some time later to give him a stack, accompanied with a short “here,” before diving back into the papers.

“Sherlock.”

John’s voice pulled him out of the haze he’d been operating in, and he looked up from his file blinking to see John holding out a folder.

“Is that the one?”

“It looks like it,” John said, as Sherlock took the file.

John was right, Sherlock could tell from the first page, which was some kind of incident report. He flipped to the next page, then stopped abruptly with a startled inhale.

“What?” John asked, cluing into Sherlock’s surprise.

“I recognise him,” Sherlock said, pointing at the 3D rendering of a face.

“From where?”

Sherlock took in all the major markers: eye sockets, nose, ears, mouth, searching through his mind palace, and tried to match the face to a place, but couldn’t. “I don’t know,” he growled in frustration. It could’ve been anywhere, the streets, telly, even from his years away, but he couldn’t keep everything, and his mind took control sometimes, deleting things he didn’t specifically decide to get rid of.

“This was made on a computer,” he said after a moment, taking another track.

“Yeah, probably,” John agreed. “What’re you thinking?”

“I’m thinking it’s time we pay a visit to Walker the computer tech.”

“Because you think he made this?”

“Yes, obviously,” Sherlock said, haphazardly shoving files back into the drawers, then stood and hurried back through the house. The street outside was quiet, but when Sherlock reached the main road he was able to flag down a cab.

“Read out the address,” Sherlock told John brusquely as he slid into the back seat.

“Right, yeah.” John fumbled to get his mobile out and read the address to the cabbie, some place in Islington, then took a seat beside him.

Being out of Mycroft’s home made Sherlock’s chest feel less tight, like he could breathe easier. Which is ridiculous, he admonished himself, and looked out the window. A place can’t have an affect on one’s respiratory system. He dipped back into his mind and kept trying to recall where he’d seen Moran before.

He was interrupted a few minutes later by John clearing his throat tentatively. Something he always does when he wants to talk about emotions, he remembered distastefully. A moment passed, then John took an audible breath and spoke.

“How are you holding up?”

Oh for God’s sakes, Sherlock sighed to himself, but pulled his gaze from the cars outside to pin John with a glare. “What, John.”

“You’re going to have to talk about it sometime, Sherlock,” John insisted, crossing his arms in a show of stubbornness.

“No, I won’t,” Sherlock disagreed.

John glanced forward to the cabbie, then slid closer on the seat. “Your brother is dead, Sherlock,” he hissed.

Sherlock couldn’t hide his flinch, and tried to cover it up with an acerbic, “Yes, thank you John for stating the obvious,” but something about it sounded off.

John’s face fell and he sighed. “Shit, I’m sorry. It’s just. I’m worried.”

“I’m fine, John,” Sherlock said, forcing it to come out even, then turned back to the window. It’s better this way. He knew what happened, when he allowed emotions fueled his work. John got strapped to a bomb, or Sherlock was forced to jump off a building, or he nearly bled to death in a small, disgusting alley in Chicago. Emotions make you messy, unreliable, they make you hurt.

Mycroft had been the one to teach him that.

Two Years, Five Months Earlier

Sherlock ran his fingers through his newly-shorn hair and inspected himself in the mirror, trying to determine whether the short cut and blond hair dye had been enough to sufficiently disguise himself, at least for the short term.

“I think I’ll go to Munich, first,” he said, giving his hair one last look before turning to where Mycroft stood in the doorway. “I’ve been told there’s a rather large drug ring there that Moriarty has been financing.”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. “You shouldn’t have gone, Sherlock. It was a risky move.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Sherlock retorted, and stepped around Mycroft into the hall, walking to the safe house’s bedroom to grab the one bag he planned to take with him.

“I know you went to the cemetery,” Mycroft continued, disapproval leaking through his level tone. Sherlock froze where he was, back to his brother as he reached for the bag.

“What does it matter? No one saw.” Except me. I needed….to see him. In case this dead man’s mission goes awry and I never get the chance again.

“I did. Someone else could have done the same.” Mycroft was quiet for a moment, then: “What I’ve said before, it is particularly true in this case. Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock. If you fail to be discreet, you know the consequences.”

Sherlock curled his fingers around the strap and turned stiffly.

“You can’t afford to let your emotions take over. You can’t afford to slip up,” Mycroft continued. “There is too much at stake.”

“I’m not a child!” Sherlock snapped. “I am well aware what will happen if I fail; you needn’t worry about me throwing kinks in your precious plans.”

Mycroft blinked, looked down at his shoes. “I’ll see to it that the plane is ready in half an hour,” he said, after a long beat.

Sherlock looked away as his brother left the room, and focused on steadying his breaths.

John could feel the guilt crawling under his skin, filling his mouth and making his tongue heavy with the need to apologise more. Christ, the look on Sherlock’s face; it had been only a flash, but the plain, heart-breaking pain it had contained had made John want to wrap Sherlock in a hug and take back the words.

Instead, he had let the topic drop after Sherlock had barely managed to say he was fine, and kept quiet for the rest of the cab ride, kicking himself for his lack of tact. He’d paid the fare without a word, and now, as they stood outside the tiny, unassuming flat that was apparently Walker’s, John ran a worried eye over Sherlock, but found no trace of the emotion that was there before.

Sherlock stalked up to the door and rang the bell, and John waited patiently beside him until the door was hesitantly opened enough for someone to peer through the gap while still leaving the chain on.

“Whataya want?” the man asked nervously.

“I’m Sherlock Holmes. You’re Walker, I presume?”

“Holmes? As in…”

“Mycroft Holmes, yes, we’re related,” Sherlock confirmed succinctly. “I need you to tell me about this digital sketch.” Sherlock held out the picture, positioning it so that Walker could see. The door shut, then reopened a second later, this time without the chain.

Walker was, John noted, the embodiment of a computer geek-- loose fitting t-shirt and jeans, tousled hair, big glasses. It was hard to believe Walker was the man Mycroft had decided to trust with information about Moran.

His disbelief must have showed, because Walker halfway smiled. “Don’t really look the government employee, do I?”

“That’s because you’re obviously not a government employee, but a hacker that Mycroft - probably due to some debt you owe him - was sure wouldn’t rat him out.”

Walker blinked and opened his mouth to say something, but after a long moment shut it again and just nodded.

“Now, this rendering,” Sherlock said, and shook the paper.

“Uh, yeah,” Walker stuttered. “Mister ‘Olmes asked me if I could do a digital portrait if he gave a description. I was game, ‘n that’s what we ended up with. Then he asked me if I could try and find anything about some guy named Seb, who might’a worked with a James Moriarty.” Walker gave them a look. “I ain’t stupid. Everyone knows who Moriarty ‘as, an’ every hacker worth their salt knew more ‘an that. I dug through everything I coul’ find, but I only found a full name: Sebastian Moran. Supposedly he was Moriarty’s right-’and man-- his muscle, you could say. A few days la’er, some lady came by, asked if I could ‘elp ‘er track down a old incident file an’ where the gun that was used was bein’ stored.”

“But you don’t know why Mycroft asked you to track down Moran and the gun?” John asked.

Walker shook his head. “Nah. Mister ‘Olmes is a mysterious sort, never says th’ whole story. ‘Sides, I don’ wanna know. Less I know, the better.” Walker paused, the glanced between him and Sherlock. “Why you askin’ all these questions anyway?”

“Because Moran is….” John trailed off, looking to Sherlock for support, but the detective’s gaze was empty, his attention undoubtedly in his own mind, taking apart the information that Walker had given them.“Moran has,” John tried again, then sighed. “Mycroft Holmes is dead, and we think this Sebastian Moran was the one who killed him.”

Walker blanched. “Bloody ‘ell,” he breathed out, and looked at John frantically. “Moran-- he don’ know nothin’ about me, does ‘e?”

“It’s highly unlikely,” Sherlock said, coming out of his daze. “Mycroft used you for a reason; you’re unknown to anyone else other than his assistant, and Moran, so far as we know, is not a hacker. If he knows that Mycroft had research done on him, and even that is debateable, he undoubtedly thinks it was done by a suit in some office, not you. But tell me: Mycroft must have had you check CCTV footage and records once you had Moran’s face and name. Why didn’t you come up with anything?”

Walker grimaced. “There’s a number of ways ya could do it, but best I could figure it, s’meone set up a code so’s whenever Moran’s face appears on surveillance, it’s wiped clean, or replaced wit’ another person’s face. Same someone also erased Moran’s records, pu’lic an’ classified. An’ he’s not used ‘is real name to take nothin’ out, which ain’t surprising. Would you?”

“Does the code act in real time, or only affect footage that has been backlogged?”

“Nowadays, backin’ up whatever’s taped happens in real time,” Walker said, ruffling his hair. “So’s it’s hard to say. S’pose it’s possible you mi’ have a minute or so b’fore the virus found the footage but af’er that, there ain’t no way to prove it’s changed.”

Sherlock hummed in acknowledgement, then nodded sharply. “Well then. We shan’t bother you any longer, Walker. I’ll be in touch.”

John fell in beside Sherlock as they walked away from the house, but they paused when Walker yelled to them.

“Why woul’ ya need t’ get in touch wit’ me?”

Sherlock bared his teeth in something approaching a smile. “Having a hacker to call upon is never a bad thing, Walker. And your skills are quite adequate,” he replied, then turned to John. “We need to get back to the flat so that I can go through the rest of the file and find a way to locate Moran.”

John nodded, a bit relieved; the sky had darkened , and by the time they caught a cab back and John made something to eat, he would need some rest before Sherlock dragged them back out to chase down a lead. “Sounds good,” he said.

In the cab, he made certain not to bring up Mycroft, still worried about the situation but unwilling to cause Sherlock any more pain.

Nine Years Earlier

Sherlock woke up feeling battered and bruised, like he’d been whacked with a cricket bat and then tossed down a flight of stairs. He tried to take a breath around the nasal cannula, and let out a low groan when his ribs protested.

“Ah, you’re awake. The drugs took longer to wear off than I anticipated, but I ensured that they didn’t give you morphine.”

Sherlock turned his head to the right, just enough to see Mycroft sitting stiffly in one of the chairs, looking out of place in the sterile hospital room.

“What happened?” he croaked, loathe to ask Mycroft but wanting to know.

Mycroft raised his eyebrows in a show of slight surprise. “You don’t remember. Interesting.”

“What. Happened?” Sherlock repeated, gritting his teeth.

“You took cocaine. And then in the middle of your high, you stumbled onto one of Detective Inspector Lestrade’s crime scenes and attempted to solve it, but only managing to fall out of a first storey window and break your ribs. And, somewhere along the way, you stopped breathing; the Inspector had to revive you on scene.”

So he’d overdosed. Wonderful. Lestrade would never let him forget this, and Donovan would likely try to use it against him. “You’ll be putting me in rehab, I suppose.”

“You started taking drugs to avail your boredom,” Mycroft began, looking at Sherlock, “and because they were something that you could control. At what point, little brother, did the drugs start taking control over you? One month ago? Six?” Mycroft shook his head. “You think cocaine stimulates your deductive skills, when in reality it is quite the opposite. Additionally, I do not relish receiving a call that informs me of your death, Sherlock.”

Uncertain of how to respond, Sherlock sneered and fell into old habits. “Then it’s a good thing you aren’t my emergency contact, isn’t it?”

Mycroft looked at him, a brief expression of sadness flickering across his features. After a long moment he glanced away and stood, looking at his umbrella as he pulled a folded sheet of paper out of his jacket pocket. “A list of facilities,” he said simply, setting the page down on the bedside table. “Should you desire it. You may contact me if you have questions, of course,” he continued, then with a small nod to himself, turned and left, door shutting softly behind him.

Sherlock stared at the piece of paper, then up at the ceiling with a sigh; he winced when the ache in his ribs flared, and tried to ignore the craving in his veins for something (cocaine) to dull the pain.

Need you at Baker St. -SH

When?

Now. -SH

On my way.

“We’ll be having a guest,” Sherlock said, looking at Wiggins’ reply, voice raised so that John could hear him from the kitchen.

“What? Who?”

“Member of the Network. I want to get Moran’s picture out there; it’s possible that he’s on the streets. If the Network can work out what areas he frequents, I may be able to discover where I know him from, or where he can be found.”

“Alright. Tea?”

“Yes, fine. I need you to sort through these papers,” Sherlock replied, opening the file.

John appeared in the kitchen doorway with two mugs and a tired expression. “Why can’t you do it yourself?”

Sherlock looked up and ran his eyes over John. Ah. “You were hoping to eat, maybe catch some sleep.”

“You should sleep too. It’s been almost three days since I made you take that short nap.”

“I’m fine.”

John contemplated him, then sighed. “Look, if you really need the help, of course I will,” the said, and held his hand out. “Gimme.”

Sherlock shook his head resolutely. “Nonsense. I’ll manage. Just,” he waved a hand, “be ready. If we need to leave.”

A look he couldn’t read flashed over John’s face, and the doctor nodded slightly. “Of course,” he said simply, then turned back to the kitchen.

Sherlock turned back to the file, tuning out the sounds of John rummaging through the cupboards as he began to examine reports and private notes written in Mycroft’s familiar precise script. Certain phrases stood out, and Sherlock searched in the stacks of paper until he found a highlighter. Ex-military. Mercenary. Undetected breach in security. Out for blood.

He paused, pen hovering over the page. “So that’s the end game,” he said quietly to himself, and stood up from the couch and turned to face the wall. Moran’s face was indelicately pinned in the middle, and Sherlock considered the man again as he began to tack the reports up as well.

“‘Overrun by your emotions’, according to Mycroft. You want blood. My blood, most likely,” he murmured to the picture as he worked. “But you murdered Mycroft instead. Why?” He studied the paper he was holding and recalled what Anthea had said outside Mycroft’s office. “You were in the flat, but you didn’t kill me. You called Mycroft, to prove how good you were, how clever. He sent his security after you. You got away, but by then…it wasn’t just about revenge, or blood. It was about destroying us, and proving how much better you are.” With a black pen from the desk, Sherlock jotted down his thoughts on the wall: Destroy. Death. Superiority. “The only way to get to you is to insinuate I’m above you.” And the only way to beat you is prove it to be true.

The sound of the doorbell pulled Sherlock out of his reverie, and he realised with a start that the flat was almost dark, barely illuminated by a soft light coming from the kitchen and through the windows. John must be in bed, then, he decided, and took the stairs two at a time on the way down to the door.

It was Wiggins, and Sherlock beckoned him in impatiently, shutting the door behind him.

“Got here as quick as I could, but I was a while away.”

“You’re here now, so what does it matter?” Sherlock asked as he strode back up the stairs. “I have a face for you-- I need you to take a picture, circulate it around as much as possible. I want to know if you’ve ever seen him before, and if so, where. Details, Wiggins.”

“You got it, Mister Holmes,” Wiggins agreed as they entered the sitting room; Sherlock pointed at the picture of Moran on the wall. There was a pause as Wiggins got a good shot, and when he was finished, he shuffled slightly.

“Word on the street says your brother ain’t alive no more.”

“The word on the street is accurate, as usual,” Sherlock said, avoiding Wiggins’ gaze and pretending to tidy the papers that cluttered the desk. It was easier if he pretended it wasn’t Mycroft’s killer he was trying to find, just a nebulous man who had murdered some man, somewhere.

“I’m...that is, we people who know you. We’re...sorry.”

“I expect results by morning, Wiggins,” Sherlock said tightly. “You’ll get your fee then.”

There was a long moment of silence, until Wiggins, with a quiet “Yessir”, left; his footsteps echoed, and while he didn’t slam the door, the sound of it closing seemed to vibrate through the flat.

Sherlock sunk onto the couch with a sigh, propping his elbows on his knees and rubbing his scratchy eyes. How did I miss such an important piece of Moriarty’s web? Two years of criss-crossing the globe, trying to dismantle his network of people, and I managed to let something like Sebastian Moran fall through the cracks and ruin it all. Had Moran began rebuilding the empire that Sherlock had so painstakingly torn down?

His thoughts were cut off by the sound of his mobile, and Sherlock answered without looking at the ID.

“Hello.”

“Sherlock,” Lestrade’s voice said, sounding exasperated and relieved. “What the hell is going on?”

“Lestrade, everything is-”

“I swear to god if you say ‘fine’, I am going to come over there and bloody strangle you. I just got out of six hours worth of paperwork and meetings, and I still have no answers as to why I was turned away from a crime scene where your brother was the victim, or who killed the junkie. ‘Above my security clearance’ my arse. Tell me what’s really going on."

“My brother ordered the death of the junkie in an attempt to get my attention and warn me of the threat that was being made against me by Sebastian Moran, who happens to be Moriarty’s ex-right-hand man and the one who shot Mycroft. I’m in the middle of trying to track him down. Does that satisfy your curiosity, Inspector?” Sherlock hissed.

“Sherlock…” Lestrade began after a long moment. “Why didn’t you call me?”

Sherlock barked out a bitter laugh. “What could you have done? You’re a lowly DI with the Met, Lestrade. This man is invisible, even with the resources Mycroft had available to him, how could you help?”

“Do you have a picture?” Lestrade continued doggedly.

“Yes.”

“Right then. I’ll come over, take a look.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. You’re already halfway home, it’ll take you almost an hour to get to Baker Street, even at this time of night.”

“Then I’ll be there in almost an hour,” Lestrade said firmly, and hung up before Sherlock could protest. With a growl Sherlock slammed his mobile onto the coffee table, then sighed and rubbed his eyes again. He leaned back into the cushions and stared up at the ceiling; his eyes started to close of their own volition, and he fought to keep them open. I don’t need sleep. I’m fine, I’ve gone longer than this without, he reminded himself, but his body (traitorous, horrible thing) ignored his insistences and forced him into unconsciousness with an unrelenting pull.

Eight Years Earlier

“I have a matter I would like you to look into.”

“Piss off,” Sherlock droned, keeping his gaze on the ceiling in a childish attempt to annoy Mycroft, who was standing in the middle of his small, cluttered flat with a mild look of disgust on his face.

“How has it been, working with Inspector Lestrade?”

“As if you don’t know.”

“I know things have been slow lately.”

“That doesn’t mean I want a boring, stuffy, diplomatic case from you. Go away.”

Sherlock heard Mycroft exhale through his nose in frustration and tap his umbrella against the beige carpet. “I heard you went to Florida last month.”

“Did your underlings enjoy the weather?”

“I don’t have you under constant surveillance, Sherlock. I hold, after all, a very minor position in our government.”

Sherlock snorted. “And Sally Donovan is secretly in love with me. Go. Away.”

Mycroft suppressed a sigh, but acquiesced; his footsteps paused by the door. “I’ll be in touch; please don’t hesitate to change your mind about assisting me with the incident.”

Sherlock snorted under his breath, and smiled in satisfaction when the front door opened and closed, signaling Mycroft’s departure.

Lestrade parked as haphazardly as he dared, then quickly got out of his car and jogged up to Sherlock and John’s door. He rang the bell, then waited impatiently, rocking slightly on his heels. He’d driven as fast as possible, determined to get to Baker Street as soon as he could. Something in Sherlock’s voice, in the sharp tone and crisp assurances that he was ‘fine’, had reminded him of days past when Sherlock was much more skinny and much less sober; it made Lestrade nervous, worried, and someone should’ve answered the door by now, right?

He pressed the button for the doorbell and held it longer this time. He could hear the slight sound of it ringing from the upstairs flat. There was silence, after he let go, then the muffled sounds of someone on the stairs. A moment later, the door opened, with a tired and confused John Watson on the other side of the threshold.

“Greg?”

“John,” he greeted. “Sorry for waking you up. I told Sherlock I was coming over, to look at the picture you’ve got of this Moran fellow.”

“No, it’s fine,” John said, and stepped aside. “Come in, please,” he continued, mouth widening in a yawn at the end of his sentence. “What time is it?”

“Almost two,” Lestrade admitted with a grimace. Not looking forward to going into work tomorrow. Or today, I suppose.

“...must not have heard the bell,” John was saying as they climbed the stairs. “Not surprising, you know how he gets.”

Lestrade hummed in agreement, but stopped John on the landing with a light touch on the shoulder. “John. How is he? Really, I mean.”

John sighed and ran a hand down his face. “I don’t know. He’s...bottling it up, focusing on the case.”

Lestrade nodded, and they continued on.

“Sherlock,” John called as they entered the living room. “Lestrade’s…” he trailed off, and something seized up in Lestrade’s gut.

“What?” he asked, looking over John’s shoulder. Sherlock was sprawled out on the couch. Oh God. Please don’t let it be--

John looked back at him. “He’s asleep.”

Lestrade exhaled in relief, thankful that it wasn’t what he’d imagined. “I’ll wake him up. D’you have any tea? Or coffee?”

John nodded. “I’ll make us some,” he replied, and went into the kitchen; Lestrade went and stood in front of Sherlock, taking in the slight pinch to his features, even while he was sleeping.

Reaching out, Lestrade lightly shook Sherlock. “Sherlock. Wake up.”

The detective woke with a start, breathing heavy and eyes wide until his gaze fixed on Lestrade. “I fell asleep,” he said shakily, and Lestrade lost the hope that Sherlock had been able to sleep without nightmares.

Lestrade quirked his brow. “Good observation,” he said, knowing that the other man wouldn’t appreciate being mollycoddled.

Sherlock’s glare was only half-hearted, but he sat up straight and ran a hand through his hair. “I told you not to come.”

Lestrade shrugged. “And I told you I was going to anyway,” he replied as John came out from the kitchen holding three mugs. He accepted his own with a nod of thanks, and handed Sherlock another one as he inhaled the scent of the coffee greedily.

“So,” John said, settling in his chair as Lestrade perched on the coffee table. “Did your network member come by yet?”

“Yes,” Sherlock said, and Lestrade could see the man’s facade fall back in place as he spoke. “He’s showing the picture around. I should have his results in a couple hours.”

“Where is it?” Lestrade asked. “It is why I came, after all, to look.”

Sherlock shot him a glance that said I don’t believe you for a minute, but stood and turned to the wall, taking something off, then handing it to Lestrade. “Here.”

Lestrade blinked and took in the eyes that looked up at him from the piece of paper. Oh, hell. “This...is him?” he said unsteadily.

Sherlock stared at him, and John looked up from his mug at his tone of voice.

“You know him,” Sherlock finally stated.

“Yeah. He-- I,” Lestrade began, then cleared his throat. Oh bloody hell. “He worked at the Met, for a while, when you were….gone.”

Sherlock closed his eyes. “Oh of course,” he breathed. “That’s why I’d never heard of him. He spent his time after Moriarty’s death underground, hiding in plain sight.”

“And when you came back, he decided to take revenge,” John continued.

“Oh god-- that-” Lestrade realised. “He applied for a transfer about a month after. Said that his mother was sick, needed to be closer.”

“He needed time to drop off the grid again,” Sherlock said, words clipped. “He ensured his file from the Yard was completely erased, probably cut off any flats, credit cards, and cars in his name.” Sherlock paused and looked at Lestrade. “What did you know him as?”

“Collins. DS Ryan Collins,” Lestrade answered, still shocked. I knew him. He threw up when he saw his first mutilated body. How did I miss it?

“It isn’t your fault, Greg,” John said gently from behind him.

“Yeah, I-- I know,” Lestrade replied, and took a deep breath. Pull yourself together. Sherlock needs your help with this, and dithering on with self-blame isn’t going to do anything. “What do we do now?”

Sherlock flicked his fingers. “Nothing, for the moment, so you can scuttle off anytime, Lestrade.”

Lestrade fixed him with a hard look. “I’m not leaving, Sherlock. I’ll call in sick, if I have to. I’m not-- I’m here as a friend, as a person who knew your brother. Not as a detective inspector. ‘Kay?”

“We may need his help, Sherlock. You can’t deny we need more people on this,” John chimed in, and Lestrade shot him a grateful look.

“Fine,” Sherlock capitulated. “But we can’t do anything for a few hours, at least. I need to think, see if another sweep of the mind palace will provide any new information that can tell me where I’ve seen him before. And until Wiggins gets back, we have no way to know where--"

Sherlock was cut off by the sharp, trilling ring of his mobile.

( chapter two cont)