The Inevitable Dusk (1/2)

[biswholocked]

Title: The Inevitable Dusk
Author: biswholocked
Rating: Teen
Warnings: Major Character Death
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Mycroft Holmes & Sherlock Holmes
Word Count: 19,836 (total)
Summary: When a case connects back to Mycroft, Sherlock is determined to find out what's going on. Mycroft, up against an invisible enemy, is determined to keep his brother safe. Nothing turns out like either of them expected.
(also on AO3)
Beginning Notes: Loosely based upon a prompt on the kink meme (contains spoilers for plot). I didn't feel like discussing Mary this time around, so this exists in some AU where Sherlock comes back and Mary isn't there. I imagine that the events in TEH still happened, just sans Mary, and that this story takes place about five months after Sherlock's return (so no HLV). Title from this quote:“ Our brothers and sisters are there with us from the dawn of our personal stories to the inevitable dusk.” - Susan Scarf Merrell

Chapter One: Before

“Bored!"

John looked up at the kitchen ceiling - now charred in one area thanks to another one of Sherlock’s experiments - and prayed to whatever deities may exist for patience. And a case. It was going on three weeks without one, and Sherlock was constantly in a sulk, flouncing about in his pyjamas and dressing gown; John wasn’t certain how long it’d been since Sherlock had slept or ate, but it had to have been a while, judging by the bruise-coloured bags underneath his friend’s eyes.

Sherlock made a sound of irritation from where he was sprawled out on the sofa, and hauled himself up, sauntering towards the kitchen with a malicious glint in his eye; John forced himself to stay calm and take another bite of his risotto, waiting for the inevitable deductions that Sherlock would make.

“You were supposed to go on a date tonight,” Sherlock began, running his gaze over John. “Outfit, shaved, cologne, shoes.” After each observation, Sherlock pointed, and John stared back, face blank; the first few times this had happened, spiteful deductions at the height of Sherlock’s boredom, he’d been insulted, hurt. But eventually he’d learned that it was just another facet of Sherlock’s personality, an attempt to find some kind of stimulation when the world was screaming and Sherlock’s mind was dying for a case.

“But you didn’t go out,” Sherlock continued. “It’s half past nine and you’re sitting here, eating the leftover risotto from two nights ago because you decided it wasn’t worth cooking something new-- you wouldn’t stand a girl up, oh no. You’re too much of a gentleman for that, so she must have called, cancelled. But you didn’t reschedule, either, because your lips were pursed in that way you only ever do that when something disappoints you. So, she broke up with you, marking her as yet another girlfriend deciding you weren’t worth it.”

John blinked and took a breath. “Do you want some of this?” he asked, gesturing to his plate with his fork. “There’s another plate of it in the fridge.”

“I do not want to eat!” Sherlock snapped, gesturing wildly with his hand. “I want a case, I need to work!” With a sound of frustration, Sherlock dropped into the chair opposite John, burying his hands in his hair and tugging on the strands.

John reached over and lightly gripped Sherlock’s fingers, gently pulling them away from Sherlock’s hair and setting them on the table. “I know you’re getting….restless. Far past that, actually. But you need to eat, and sleep, too, Sherlock. At least a nap. You look like hell.” Without waiting for an answer, John stood from the table and walked to the fridge, pulling out the extra plate of food and popping it in the microwave.

Three Weeks Earlier
Someone was in his flat.

Mycroft closed his front door with a soft click and turned to face the living room, the space faintly illuminated by the streetlamps outside the windows. The furniture was unoccupied, and Mycroft moved purposefully through the flat, determined to find the source of the sense of violation and disturbance that hung in the air.

When he came upon the kitchen, Mycroft stopped; he could just make out the figure of a man, slouched in one of the tall chairs that were placed around the center island. A bright flame glowed in the darkness, and the scent of cigarette smoke permeated the room.

Mycroft flicked on the light, revealing the man to be tall, blond, and relatively muscular, dressed in street clothes. Messenger, Mycroft decided, but amended his opinion when he saw the glint in the stranger’s eyes. Unassuming, but scheming. The two men regarded each other silently, taking stock of strengths, weaknesses, trying to puzzle each other out.

After a long moment, Mycroft moved further into the kitchen and walked past the man to the liquor cabinet, selecting a bottle of scotch and two tumblers. He set them both down on the counter and poured a liberal amount into each glass, then gestured to the other man to choose a drink.

“Not interested,” the man growled, and Mycroft shrugged gracefully before taking a sip from his own glass.

“That begs the question what, exactly, you are interested in.”

“What, you can’t deduce it from me?”

Mycroft’s blood ran cold. They only ever say that to Sherlock. So this is deliberate, then. The words that he could say, the words that Sherlock would say, piled up on his tongue:

You’re military, ex, probably started hiring yourself out as a mercenary during your tours and after you were dishonorably discharged you continued to stay in the business. You’re sneaky, as evidenced by your ability to move around my security, but not intelligent, because you came here to begin with. You’re driven by emotion, a horrible disadvantage, I’m afraid, and are most likely here to exact some kind of revenge.

Outwardly, Mycroft took another sip of his drink and regarded the man impassively. “I am not blessed with such talents, I’m afraid. You’ll simply have to tell me what you want.”

The man narrowed his eyes and sneered as he took another drag from his cigarette. “I want blood, Mister Holmes,” he said lowly. “You took something from me, so I’m going to take something from you.” With that, the man reached over and plucked Mycroft’s glass from his fingers; he tossed back the scotch, then stubbed out his cigarette in the bottom of the tumbler. With a cold smile, the man turned and walked out of the kitchen.

Mycroft watched him go, and listened for the sound of the man’s exit. He then pulled out his mobile, pressing the first number on his speed dial and listening to the ring tone until his assistant picked up.

“Sir?”

“There was a man who just left my flat. Find out where he went.”

“Yes sir,” she replied, and Mycroft waited impatiently (but not fidgeting, never that. Gave too much away) as she networked with the security details.

“I’m sorry sir, there have been no unauthorized personnel in the vicinity of your flat in days. The last one was just a mixup of addresses.”

That’s not possible. He was sitting in my kitchen not two minutes ago, Mycroft wanted to say, but instead he answered politely, “Thank you. Please do keep an eye out for any...incidents.”

“Certainly sir.”

Sherlock strode into the bedsit, sharp gaze already running over the debris and taking in data. “This wasn’t his flat,” he stated, nodding towards the body as he examined the mattress in the corner, covered in stains.

“No,” Lestrade confirmed from the doorway, looking down at his notes. “The tenant is a Michele Fox- she came home this morning after spending the night at a friend's and found the victim just lying there. No idea who he is or how he got inside.”

Sherlock made a small sound of acknowledgement, but his mind was already spinning away as he turned to the corpse in the corner, Lestrade’s words melting into the background. Early twenties, he figured from the young man’s appearance, though it would’ve been a rough life, judging by the tough skin and apparently permanent layer of dirt under the fingernails. At least three years on the streets. Drug use? Possibly- must tell Molly to run some tests.

“Cause of death is most likely the gunshot to the head,” John remarked from the other side of the body, gently cradling the man’s skull in his hands as he examined the wound.

“I concur,” Sherlock said distractedly as he snapped a picture on his mobile, then pulled out his magnifier and moved down to analyse the shoes. “There’s no visible signs of poison or strangulation. Though the choice of shooting him in the head is quite interesting. He was in the mud recently, sometime within the last twelve hours most likely, there was quite the downpour at about one this morning. Wouldn’t be surprised if it was from some other section of the East End. If I can break down the contents I’ll be able to pinpoint where exactly. Do you know his name?”

“No,” Lestrade admitted. “Part of the reason we called you in, actually. Not a bleedin idea who he is, and yet…”

“And yet, still important enough to dispose of in a manner similar to hits; that, in combination with the fact that a gun was used at all...” Sherlock caught John’s eyes over the dead man and smiled a bit, eyes bright with excitement. “Yes, Lestrade,” he continued, jumping up and clicking his magnifier closed, then pulling a small plastic bag and some tweezers out of his coat pocket, bending down to collect a sample of the mud, “This one does show promise. Come along, John. I’ll text when I have the mud results, Lestrade, and oh, do make yourself useful for once and tell Molly to be very thorough in her toxicology tests-- I wouldn’t be surprised if he was a long-term user. Keep searching for a name to attach to him; I’ll get in contact with my Network, they may be able to tell me who he is.” With that, Sherlock swept out, sticking the bag of caked mud into his pocket, and walked to the kerb, raising an arm for a cab.

“Oh, this is going to be so much fun, John,” Sherlock said with relish as a cab pulled up and he opened the door. “It’s been ages since a nice, interesting murder.” He’d been far past the point of shooting the walls when Lestrade had called about the case, and even a case like this (a six at the most) was a welcome relief from the crowding thoughts that had been shouting at him over the past weeks.

“Nice to know someone’s happy about a man dying,” John grumbled, sliding in next to Sherlock, but there wasn’t any heat to the words.

“Oh hush,” Sherlock said, waving John’s complaint away with a swish of his hand. “We’re catching a killer, pursuing justice, all that nonsense. Now really, shut up. I’m thinking.” John huffed in response, but Sherlock wasn’t paying attention, already turning to look out the window, then unfocusing his gaze and delving into his Mind Palace.

Two Weeks, Five Days Earlier

Mycroft loosened his tie with a sigh and rubbed his temples, carefully taking his building frustration and storing it away. After taking a moment to close his eyes and recenter himself, he picked up the files again and looked over them for what felt like the hundredth time.

He’d asked his assistant (Martha, today) for a list of dishonorably discharged military men from five years ago, and had been pouring over lists of names and faces, trying to find the man that had managed to enter and exit his flat without alerting the security detail that was constantly vigilant. Nothing. He’d looked at personal enemies, as well as Sherlock’s, but again, the mysterious intruder appeared to be a ghost in the system.

So. Mycroft set the file down and tapped his fingers on the desk, searching for his next move. If he’s a ghost, he thought, it would be beneficial to look at those who can make someone disappear. Erasing a person completely from databases took effort, resources, connections. There were only a few men - or women - who had that kind of organisation.

A short set of knocks came from the other side of his office door, and Martha opened the door slightly, poking her head into the room.

“You should leave now, if you want to arrive on time for your meeting with the Prime Minister, sir.”

Mycroft pasted on a polite smile. “Thank you--  I’ll be there in a moment.”

Martha nodded in reply, focus already back on the mobile in her hand, and closed the door behind her. Mycroft took one last glance at the file in front of him before closing it and tucking it away in one of the desk drawers. Standing, he retightened his tie and smoothed his jacket before leaving the office, being sure to grab his umbrella on the way out.

Sherlock pulled back from the microscope and growled in frustration, fingers coming up to tug at his hair.

“How’s it coming along?” John asked conversationally from the counter, where he was refilling the kettle for another brew of tea.

“Oh shut up,” Sherlock snapped, and glared mutinously at the plate that John had set on the table, a simple ham and cheese sandwich sitting on it. Bothering him. “I’m not hungry.”

“Don’t care,” John replied easily as he left the kitchen and settled into his armchair. “Eat anyway. You’re no use to anyone if you collapse from lack of nutrition.”

“I can’t narrow it down!” Sherlock ranted, ignoring John’s insistence that he eat and stalking into the living room, pacing the strip of floor that ran between the sofa and the coffee table. “I’ve only been able to determine that it’s from somewhere in Whitechapel.”

“I’m surprised you’ve gotten that far,” John said honestly.

That far? Two years ago, I could have told you the specific street it came from, whether it was part of a landscape project or just natural dirt. It’s wreaked havoc on my samples, don’t you understand? I was gone, and London has mutated, new streets I haven’t yet catalogued, buildings that have transferred hands, mud that’s changed in composition, Sherlock opened his mouth to say, but his mouth clicked shut as he caught a glimpse out the window; he groaned when he saw the plain black car that had just pulled up in front of 221B. “Insufferable prying bastard,” he muttered, and flopped onto the couch so that he was on his stomach, face pressed into the seat cushions. A few moments later, the ground floor door opened, and he could hear Mycroft speaking to Mrs Hudson at the bottom of the stairs. Probably trying to bribe her into keeping an (even closer) eye on me.

“Hello, Mycroft,” John greeted after Mycroft had come up the stairs. Stupid John. Why is he always so damn polite?

“Doctor Watson, Sherlock.” Mycroft’s voice was just as smug, intolerable as ever.

“Piss off,” Sherlock muttered.

“Really Sherlock,” Mycroft chastised. “The problems you’re having with your mud samples are hardly my fault.”

“Everything is your fault,” Sherlock grumbled darkly in reply. “Now get out. I’m not taking whatever boring government case you’ve brought.”

“No case,” his brother said nonchalantly. “Just a social call, this time. Thought I would check up on my little brother and see how he and his...friend are doing.”

Sherlock lifted his head up slightly and glared at Mycroft over his shoulder. “Social calls?” he scoffed. “You don’t do social calls. Don’t start now.”

Mycroft tapped his umbrella against the floor thoughtfully. “Well, I suppose I shall be off, then.”

“Are you sure? I could make up some tea,” John offered from his armchair, despite the scowl Sherlock shot his way.

“No, Doctor Watson, I think I’ll pass. Thank you all the same.” Mycroft looked over to Sherlock. “Good day, brother dear. Enjoy your case. The mud’s from the area around Whitechapel Mission, by the way: I hear there’s a homeless shelter around there.” With a quick smile, Mycroft turned and left the way he had came, the sound of his footsteps receding down the stairs.

Sherlock awkwardly rolled onto his back, managing not to fall off of the sofa, and stared balefully at the ceiling. “I despise him.”

John only hummed in response and flipped open the newspaper. “Eat your sandwich.”

One Week Earlier

Mycroft excused himself from his conference with a placid smile and a murmured apology, and stepped out into the marble-gilded corridor. After a glance confirmed that the hall was empty, he pulled out his mobile and checked the missed call list.

Blocked Number, read the screen, and with a sliver of apprehension, he dialed back. Someone picked up the line after precisely four rings.

“I wondered if you were going to call back,” the man said.

Mycroft forced a calm, composed note into his reply. “It would’ve been incredibly rude of me not to; breaking off acquaintanceships before you know one another’s names is poor taste.”

The man laughed, a scratchy, coarse sound that revealed his years as a smoker. “You want my name? You think I don’t know what you can find out about me with a name?”

“It doesn’t have to be your full name, but it would be refreshing to refer to you as something other than ‘stranger’,” Mycroft responded.

There was a long pause that was only filled with the sound of the man’s breathing, and then: “Seb.”

Mycroft allowed the barest twitch of his lips as an outward sign of his feeling of triumph, and mentally took a breath before his next move. “Well then, Seb, tell me: was it you who was able to drag Moriarty’s body off of the roof before my people came to collect it?”

Mycroft heard Seb inhale sharply. “How could you know that?” the other man growled savagely.

“Oh, so I was correct.”

“Shut up!”

“Why?” Mycroft asked, tone still perfectly neutral. “Surely being employed by Jim Moriarty was an honour, in your eyes.”

“And then your damn brother killed him,” Seb snarled. “And I’m going to wring that fucking detective’s neck, break every bone in his body, flay his skin with the sharpest knife I can find, and murder him.”

Mycroft wanted to say something, anything, but his brain had gone temporarily offline-- while part of him, somewhere, was memorising this conversation, dissecting Seb’s motives and game plan, the majority of his mind was instinctually rebelling against the words he was hearing, preparing to hunt Seb down, wherever he was, and prevent him from touching Sherlock.

“It would be so easy, too,” Seb was saying now. “Just a quick jog across the street, claim to be a client when that landlady answers the door-- the pet doctor might be a good shot, but not better than me. Your brother’s brains would be splattered against the walls in less than a minute, and there would be nothing to stop me.”

“Sherlock and Doctor Watson have a security team.”

“And look how well that worked for you, how safe you are inside your home. Do you think I couldn’t easily perform the same trick on the goons guarding Sherlock Holmes?”

Seb rang off before Mycroft could reply, and he was left standing alone in the hall, mobile still pressed to his ear, feeling (for the first time in years) something that might be fear.

The sound of his phone made Sherlock pull himself off the couch in a flash, snagging the mobile off the coffee table and barking into the receiver. “Molly. Tell me.”

“Oh, um, hi, Sherlock,” Molly replied, sounding as flustered and hopeful as she did in person. Sherlock sighed.

“Hello Molly. Now. Tell me.”

“Right, yes. I ran the tox screens, and you were right about the drug use. A couple years, at least.”

“I already knew I would be. What was he using, Molly?”

“Oh! Cocaine.”

“Hmm. Interesting. Good day, Molly,” Sherlock said distractedly, and hung up before tossing his mobile away, not paying attention to the clatter of it hitting the coffee table; he then curled himself up on the couch, knees coming up to his chest and his fingers in a steeple gently touching his lips. Cocaine. Not surprising, it is fairly easy to get ahold of, if you know the right people. Perhaps I’ll go down to Whitechapel, talk to the Network there. They would know who had that kind of power. It would also be beneficial to visit the mission. Not because Mycroft suggested it, certainly not, I just-

“Sherlock?”

“What?” Sherlock asked absentmindedly. Having the ballistics would help immensely. Stupid Scotland Yard, and their procedures.

“Was that Molly?”

“Yes. He was a cocaine addict.” Sherlock unfurled himself from the sofa, grabbed his phone, and quickly walked over to the door, donning his coat and wrapping his scarf around his neck. He plucked John’s jacket off and tossed it to him without looking, then turned and gestured hurriedly. “C’mon.”

John stood from his chair and held his jacket in one hand, looking at him. “Where are we going?”

“Whitechapel. Obviously,” Sherlock said crisply, then swept out the door.

John stared after Sherlock for a second (cocaine?), then shook himself mentally and followed, making sure the door clicked shut behind him before hurrying down the stairs. Sherlock had already made it outside, leaving the door wide open, and had just hailed a cab by the time John caught up.

“Whitechapel Mission,” Sherlock barked at the cabbie, then became absorbed in his mobile. John watched him, a slight frown on his face. It only took a few seconds for Sherlock to heave a put-upon sigh and glare at John from the corner of his eye.

“What? I can hear the cogs and gears turning.” He flicked his fingers in John’s direction with annoyance, “It’s immensely distractin

John cleared his throat and tried to relax, forcing himself to sit back against the seat. “Sorry, I just. Cocaine?”

Sherlock looked at him for a moment, eyebrows raised. “Yes. He took cocaine. Why is this-- ah.” Sherlock pointed at him. “You’re concerned that I am reacting emotionally to the victim’s drug abuse because of my own scandalous background with the same illegal substance.”

“Well, um. Yes, actually,” John admitted uncomfortably; Sherlock just looked back down at his mobile with a soft snort of derision.

“Don’t worry about me, John. I am perfectly secure in my sobriety. If I fell into old habits every time a case involved someone who took drugs, I’d have overdosed and died by now. Now kindly stop thinking, I need to plan.”

John looked out the window, watching Sherlock’s face in the reflection, and tried to ignore the pocket of worry that had taken up house in his chest, words stuck in the back of his throat. But I am worried. Not just about the case, either, though of course that’s troublesome, cocaine dealers don’t exactly spell for a good time. You’re...different. The same, you’re still an arse, but in a different way. And we’ve never really talked about it, but I know things happened to you, while you were gone. I just hope it doesn’t haunt you too much.

The cabbie’s curt, “We’re here,” cut through John’s thoughts, and with a start, he reached for the door and pushed it open, rolling his eyes when Sherlock sailed past. Sighing, John reached for his wallet and ducked down to the window.

“How much?”

“17.50.”

John pulled out a twenty pound note and held it out. “Keep the change,” he said, and nodded shortly before following Sherlock, who was standing outside the Whitechapel Mission-- or more accurately, pacing, coat flapping behind him from the strong breeze.

“So, what’s the plan, exactly?” John asked as he came closer.

Sherlock pulled out his phone and squinted at the screen. “You are going to go in there,” he began, gesturing to the mission behind him, “and talk to the staff. Find out if they know our victim. Just sent you the picture I snapped at the crime scene. I am going to go meet up with one of my Network.”

John’s phone buzzed, undoubtedly the photo Sherlock had been talking about. “And when we’re finished?”

Sherlock looked up from his mobile. “Meet up at Rinkoff’s Bakery. It’s east, on Jubilee.” Without waiting for an answer, Sherlock turned and began walking down the street, disappearing around the corner. John stared after him, then straightened his shoulders and, with a resigned inhale, turned to face the Whitechapel Mission.

It was an old building, with a dingy brick exterior and a plain, unassuming sign above the front door; to the left was a bulletin board, and John stopped just in front of it, scanning the notices. “Meals served daily at 7AM, 12 Noon, and 7PM,” read the top one, the others announcing special occasions and meetings. John pulled open the door and stepped inside, a soft bell announcing his presence.

“Hello,” an elderly lady greeted from a desk in the front lobby, her velvet suit fitting in perfectly with the well-worn carpet and sparse pieces of furniture. “How may I help you?”

John smiled, the one that he’d learned from his mother and her old bridge group made him look (in their words) adorable, and came closer. “Well, ma’am,” he began, voice low as he leant over the desk, creating an air of confidentiality. “I was wondering if you would be willing to help in an investigation.”

The lady looked to see if there was anyone else in the room, then answered him in a hushed tone. “What kind of an investigation? Are you a detective?”

“Of sorts,” John replied. “I’m helping out a friend, see. I need to find a man’s family. Do you think if I showed you a picture, you could tell me if you recognise him?”

The woman’s eyes grew sympathetic behind her large, thick glasses. “Oh, the poor dear. Of course, anything I can do.”

John flashed her another smile and pulled out his mobile, opening up the picture Sherlock had sent him and showing it to her, keeping quiet as she peered at it.

“Yes, I’m certain I’ve seen him in here before,” she said after a moment. “For some of our meals. He was rather quiet, from what I remember, but then so many of them are. Think it’s shameful, which is downright silly, we’re happy to help-”

“When was the last time you remember seeing him?” John interrupted gently.

“Oh...three days ago, I think? For our dinner; I felt awful, closing up that night, what with the snow, but we just don’t have the space to offer accommodations.”

John took ahold of the woman’s hand, lightly cradling the papery skin, and tried to push as much sincerity he could into his next words; something about the woman, who had undoubtedly been a part of the church for most of her life, sitting there day after day trying to make a difference, struck a chord in him. “I am certain that every person that walks through that door appreciates everything you’re doing very much, ma’am. And that man’s family will be thankful to know what happened, in the end.”

She smiled tremulously at him. “You’re a good man. I hope you find him.”

John chuckled quietly and stepped back, releasing her hand as he prepared to go. “Not nearly as good as I ought. But I try. Afternoon,” he said with a dip of his head, and crossed the room, then pulled open the door and stepped out to greet the cold, cloudy day, bell jangling merrily behind him.

Six Days Earlier

“Anything new to report?”

Mycroft’s assistant (Sierra, she’d told him this morning) shook her head. “No, sir. The added security has not seen any suspicious activity or persons around your brother and Doctor Watson. They are currently in between cases, so they haven’t gotten themselves into any scrapes lately either. Though…”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow, waiting for the rest.

“It appears your brother may be in need of some stimulus. The violin is getting very screechy-- or so I’m told.”

Mycroft sighed. “Yes, Sherlock was always the one who needed constant entertainment. I would see if Inspector Lestrade has anything open for him, but he is a rather good judge of what Sherlock would find interesting, and what he would scoff at. Have we made progress in identifying the man who called?”

Sierra glanced down at her mobile. “No, sir. Walker is wondering if you would be willing to help him with a sketch, though.”

Mycroft nodded and pushed himself out of his chair. “Very well, then.” Perhaps Walker would be able to recreate Seb’s face, and they would be able to eliminate Seb as a threat for good.

Sherlock found three possible places in a kilometer radius of Whitechapel Mission that the mud on the victim’s shoes could have come from. He took samples of all three, carefully putting them into vials, then sealing the vials in plastic bags. Standing on the corner of the street where the last sample was located, Sherlock pulled off a glove and located his mobile, sending off another message to the only number in his contact list without a name.

Meet me in the alley on Milward. -SH

Sliding the phone back into his pocket, Sherlock continued down the street, pushing against the wind and holding his coat tight around him to ward off the chill; the pavement was as bustling as ever, and Sherlock wound through the crowds with an ease acquired from learning London (and people) as deeply as possible.

The deductions slid through the background of his mind, a constant ticker-tape of knowledge, observations of the world around him. Fourteen blue windbreakers in the past ten minutes, passed that man a few minutes ago, he’s just finished having a session with a prostitute, she’s recently gotten engaged, another of Mycroft’s surveillance, five red umbrellas, Wait. Sherlock paused, casting a look out across the road, and felt the back of his neck crawl with the subconscious awareness of being watched. Closely. Closer than normal. Two are obvious, suits in the cafe across the street, those are always there. But where are the others? That one, overcoat and pinstriped trousers, he finished his newspaper ages ago, possibly the smoker hanging around outside that shop. Damn Mycroft; as if the normal stuffed suits following him weren’t enough?

Mentally growling with frustration, Sherlock ducked into the nearest alley he could find, determined to lose the men tailing him and meet up with Wiggins before Mycroft could send men to the alley on Milward (because of course his brother monitored his phone). Keeping one ear tuned into sounds from behind and occasionally checking over his shoulder, Sherlock melted into the maze of back alleyways and small, cramped footpaths, referencing against his own mental map to ensure he was going the right way. After a few minutes, Sherlock turned the corner that led into the alley he was looking for.

Wiggins was precisely where Sherlock had instructed him to be, leaning against a skip with his hood up and hands stuffed into his pockets.

“Mister Holmes,” the man said in greeting as Sherlock walked toward him.

“Wiggins. Do you have what I asked for?”

The man shot him a crooked grin, then reached up to wipe his nose with the sleeve of his jacket. “‘Course I do,” he replied, and pulled a crumpled piece of paper from his trouser pocket, holding it out to Sherlock.

He’s back on the drugs, Sherlock noted, watching the faint tremble in Wiggins’ fingers and the sheen of sweat on his face, despite the cold; he didn’t say anything, however, just took the paper and started reading.

“Showed the picture about,” Wiggins said, “and a couple blokes’d seen ‘im round before. No one knew ‘is name, though. He didn’t make no trouble, but he wasn’t friendly either. Mostly just came, got what he was lookin’ for, ‘n left.”

“Whom did he buy from?”

Wiggins shuffled and rubbed his bloodshot eyes. “Coghlan.”

“Price?”

Wiggins looked at him, eyebrows half-raised. “Whatever he was willing to pay.” Anything, from the sound of it.

Sherlock nodded, taking the information in, and pulled out his wallet. “Fifty pounds, I believe we agreed?”

“Yeah,” Wiggins said, squaring his jaw and reaching out for the bills that were pinched between Sherlock’s fingers.

Sherlock held on, forcing Wiggins to meet his eyes. “Buy yourself a new jacket, a decent meal.” Don’t spend it on more cocaine. “You’re useless to me if you wind up frozen to death.”

Wiggins didn’t reply, and Sherlock didn’t say anything more, just let go of the money and walked away, footsteps echoing slightly against the alley walls.

Two Days Earlier

Knowing who the man was did not make him any easier to find. Mycroft studied the digital sketch Walker had helped him create four days ago, an image in the likeness of Seb and ignored the sense of foreboding that had been lurking in the back of his mind for the past day.

Sebastian Moran. Supposedly Moriarty’s right-hand man. That was all Walker had been able to give Mycroft, and it wasn’t enough. Not nearly. Mycroft needed more, needed some sign of him on CCTV or other surveillance, needed some kind of proof of his existence.

And something (his gut, he supposed, though the idea made him scoff) was telling him that more information would come a price.

John had just sat down with a cup of coffee and a croissant when Sherlock came into view, angrily walking by the windows of Rinkoff’s and throwing the door open. He cast a glance around the bakery, then stalked across the room to sit down at John’s table and immediately took out his mobile; he pounded out a text message, then set it on the table with a glare.

Deciding it probably wouldn’t be worth asking what had Sherlock so mad right that second, John took a sip of his coffee, then told Sherlock what the woman at the mission had said.

“She did recognize him, but no name; he used to come in a few times a week for their meals, apparently.”

Sherlock’s jaw was still clenched tight, but he did look thoughtful at that. “The visits to the mission probably corresponded to his transactions for drugs. According to one of my contacts, those took place every other day or so too.”

Lovely. “Did you find out where the mud came from?” John asked after taking a bit of his croissant.

Sherlock looked out the window and made a sound of dismissal in the back of his throat. “Not quite, but I collected comparative samples. One of them will match,” he said stiffly.

“Well that’s good; further along than we were an hour ago.”

Sherlock scoffed and continued to glower at passerby. John lasted about a minute before he sighed and asked.

“What, exactly, has you all in a huff?”

Sherlock turned his head to look at John.“Mycroft,” he hissed venomously.

John chuckled a bit, then tried to hide it when Sherlock scowled at him. “Mycroft? Really?”

“He’s put more surveillance on us-- nearly compromised my meeting!” Sherlock spat. “Stupid, interfering-- and he had the gall to say it was ‘for my own good’. As if I couldn’t take care of myself.”

He was probably concerned about you, John wanted to say, but didn’t. Instead, he pushed the last half of his croissant towards Sherlock and held the baleful look that Sherlock gave him. “Eat it,” he ordered. “I know you didn’t even touch the sandwich back at the flat.”

Sherlock grumbled, but complied, and after the first bite, his expression grew a little less tense. “Knew there was a reason why this place was in the Mind Palace,” he said after a moment.

John smiled, recognizing a compromise when he saw one. “Glad I could help you remember.”

They sat in silence, letting the sounds of other customers, the ding of the cash register, and the faint clattering of dishes in the kitchen wash over them while Sherlock finished off the croissant; John sipped his coffee and gazed out the window, watching as a light but steady rain shower started coming down.

“So, what now?” John asked calmly as they stepped out of the bakery a few minutes later, turning up his collar against the rain.

Sherlock started down the pavement, ready to hail a cab that was coming their way. “Back to Baker Street; I need to compare my mud samples. Perhaps Lestrade and his dullards will have the ballistics report by then.”

One Day Earlier

“I told you I could get past those idiots you call security.”

Mycroft forced himself to stay calm. “Oh?”

“Guess where I’m standing, right now? In the living room of your brother’s flat.” The amount of smug certainty in Moran’s voice awakened a strong and irrational urge in Mycroft to make his fist connect with the other man’s face.

“Yeah, I know; you didn’t think I’d really make it. But dear Sherlock has holed himself up in his bedroom, and his little pet doctor is dreaming away upstairs. You know, the amount of absolute crap in here is fascinating. Have you had him checked out for hoarding? Because you really--” Moran cut himself off quickly, and Mycroft heard him make a low growling sound.

“You brought your fucking dogs out?” Moran demanded, then laughed darkly. “Thought you would catch me when I didn’t expect it? No matter. If I can get past them once, I can do it again,” he spat out, and hung up.

Mycroft waited (not anxiously, he told himself, and forced his hands to stay still) in his office until the phone that sat on his desk rang; he picked up on the second ring, and told himself it wasn’t worry that made him answer so quickly.

“Did you get him?”

The beat of silence before the operation lead spoke told Mycroft all he needed to know, but it didn’t stop the clenching in his gut when his fears were confirmed:

“No.”

The call came two hours later, after Sherlock had narrowed down to a place where the homeless frequented in Vallance Gardens and was occupying himself by switching between screeching out notes on his violin and sighing dramatically while shooting glares (and fortunately not bullets, John thought) at the ceiling.

“Lestrade,” Sherlock barked into his phone, and John folded the paper, ready to dash out as soon as Sherlock had hung up. “Ballistics?”

Sherlock fidgeted impatiently as he listened to Lestrade talk, but a small smile - more a baring of teeth though, the one he got when they were this close to breaking the case - crossed his features at the news.

“Good. We’ll be over in a few. I’ll bring my results from the mud,” Sherlock said crisply, and cut off the call, jumping off the couch and tugging on his coat with sharp, precise movements. John followed quickly behind, and in a matter of seconds they were in another cab, winding through London towards Scotland Yard.

Still One Day Earlier

“Sherlock and Doctor Watson are not safe in Baker Street, for the time being.”

“So it would seem, sir,” his assistant agreed.

“They need a distraction. A case. Something to get them out of the flat.”

“I spoke to the Inspector; it’s been slow. Too slow, and too boring for Sherlock.”

Mycroft steepled his fingers and thought for a moment. “We will just need to create one then.”

“What kind of case, sir?”

Mycroft waved a hand. “It doesn’t matter; I’ll leave the details up to you. Make sure that Lestrade gets assigned to it.”

His assistant nodded and stood to leave, but Mycroft stopped her with a finger.

“Wait.”

“Sir?”

“Sherlock...may be able to help with our predicament, as it were. But I can’t go to him, he’s so stubborn he’d refuse on principle.”

“What do you propose we do, then?”

“Make something about the case personal, confusing, so that he’ll understand that I was the one who coordinated it. That will ensure his interest in what’s going on.” Mycroft cast about in his mind for something that Sherlock would remember, and associate with Mycroft. “There’s a gun,” he continued, “in one of our storage houses. Walker can give you the information, if you ask him about the Muhlfeld incident. I want you to retrieve the gun from the storage facility and give it to one of our agents. Someone needs to die, unfortunately, but pick someone unimportant if you can. Instruct the agent to kill whomever the target is in a professional manner, and leave the body in someone else’s flat.”

His assistant was diligently typing as his spoke, copying all the information down in her own coded shorthand. “Yes sir,” she replied. “It’ll be done by tonight; your brother will be called in tomorrow morning.”

“What have you got for me?” Sherlock demanded as he surged into Lestrade’s office. The DI flinched a bit in surprise at the sound of his door banging against the wall, and he shot Sherlock a disapproving look.

“I’ll show you mine if you show me yours,” Lestrade drawled in retaliation, with a grin that John recognised as the one Lestrade pulled out whenever he wanted to annoy Sherlock; John couldn’t help a chuckle, even as Sherlock groaned in disgust.

“The mud had high deposits of clay in it. It’s consistent with mud found in Whitechapel and thanks to a...tip,” Sherlock grimaced, “I was able to narrow it further to somewhere in the area nearby Whitechapel Mission. A search of the surrounding streets turned up three places that the mud could have come from; I collected comparative samples and was able to determine the mud originated in a section of Vallance Gardens that the homeless sometimes gather in.” Sherlock spoke in a rush, but his words were clear and precise, and when he was finished he crossed his arms and raised his eyebrows. “Well? I’ve told you what I know, now give me the ballistics.”

Lestrade blinked, then sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose between his fingers. “I really ought to just get a damn recorder going whenever you start speaking,” he muttered to himself, but dug a folder out of the stack of paperwork and case files that cluttered his desk. He gestured to the seats across from his desk. “Have a seat, would you? This’ll take more than thirty seconds and you look ridiculous, standing in my doorway like that.”

Sherlock grumbled under his breath, but complied, perching on one of Lestrade’s chairs with a haughty look on his face; John relaxed into the other one, and Lestrade opened the file, scanning the contents and reading them out loud.

“Right, so. Ballistics found that the bullet was your average lead-tin alloy, probably the usual brass casing as well. Course, no way to know for sure since we don’t actually have the casing but it’s a good educated guess. Came from a nine millimeter, probably a Glock. The bullet entered his brain at about three hundred metres per second, so it was some kind of handgun; death was instantaneous. But that’s not all,” Lestrade said, and looked up briefly as he flipped to another page. “Someone’s used this gun before.”

John could see the exact moment Sherlock processed what Lestrade had said; his posture grew more proper, and the air around him seemed to crackle with interest. “Where?” he questioned.

“About ten years ago, a man was found floating in the Thames. Same gun, same point of entry. They never found the killer, never found any clues as to why this man suddenly appeared belly-up. Besides the obvious, anyway.”

“Who was he?” Sherlock said, exasperated.

Lestrade raised his eyebrows at Sherlock’s impatience, but answered the question. “Famous drug dealer Vincent Muhlfeld. He ran one of the largest drug dealing syndicates in the UK at the time; it was damn surprising to find him dead, since people had been trying and failing for years. But it does raise the question why someone who killed Muhlfeld would also murder some poor, nameless junkie ten years later-- Sherlock, what are you-"

Sherlock had frozen at Lestrade’s words, then jumped up from his seat and stalked out of the office without saying a word. John shared a hopeless shrug with Lestrade - I dunno either, mate - and hurried after the detective, trying to catch up before the lift started down.

( chapter one cont)