The Inevitable Dusk (Chapter 1 Cont)
Chapter One
Chapter One Cont
Ten Years Earlier
Sherlock hated rehab. Everything about it, from the group therapy sessions to the disgusting, bland mess they called food seemed especially designed to make his brain rot, synapses firing first too quickly, then slowing down to a crawl in a way that made him want to bang his head against one of the whitewashed walls. The only thing that had kept him from doing so was the occasional cigarette, filched from the head matron of his ward and covertly smoked with his head hanging out the small window in his room.
“Mister Holmes?” one of the nurses asked from the doorway. Sherlock opened one eye, saw the customary look-at-me-I’m-helpful-I-swear smile, and closed it again with a soft sound of derision.
“Mister Holmes,” the nurse tried again, then sighed. “You have a visitor.”
Visitor? Oh, of course. Sherlock grimaced to himself. Mycroft. With an internal groan, Sherlock swung his feet off the bed and pushed himself to standing, glaring at the back of the nurse’s head as she led him through the corridors to the visitor’s room-- the only room in the place, Sherlock noticed, that had anything approaching personality; the walls were painted a soft yellow, and someone had made an attempt at keeping houseplants in the corners.
Mycroft was perched on the edge of one of the overstuffed chairs, customary umbrella by his side; he pasted on a congenial smile as Sherlock and the nurse entered the room, but Sherlock knew his brother well enough to see the boredom and disinterest underneath the affable exterior.
Sherlock stood in front of Mycroft, arms crossed, and the nurse fluttered anxiously for a moment.
“Would you-- that is, can I get you anything, Mister Holmes?” she asked nervously. Mycroft shot her a look, and with another stammer, she left the room, door clicking shut behind her.
“Well?” Sherlock prompted.
Mycroft raised an eyebrow. “Yes?”
Sherlock sighed and rolled his eyes. “You’re clearly not here for a social call, so what do you want?”
Mycroft held his gaze for a moment, then let out his breath and rolled his shoulders-- on anyone else it would be called a shrug, but the elegance infused in the gesture seemed to suggest that Mycroft was above something so simpleton as shrugging.
“Very well. If you must know. We’ve taken care of him.”
“Muhlfeld?”
Mycroft looked at him shrewdly. “Whom else, brother dear?”
Muhlfeld. Dead. Sherlock sat down in the chair next to Mycroft, his slouch a direct counterpoint to Mycroft’s prim posture. “I suppose this is the point where I thank you for saving me from the deadly clutches of a drug dealer who wanted me dead.”
“Yes, well. We’ve never been much for tradition, have we little brother?”
Sherlock didn’t reply to that, and the two of them sat in silence for a few moments, until Mycroft cleared his throat and stood to face Sherlock, twirling his umbrella against the ground.
“I must be off,” he declared. “You only have a month left in your stay here, Sherlock. Try not to murder anyone.”
Sherlock made a sound in the back of his throat. No promises. A smile flickered across Mycroft’s face, and then Sherlock’s brother turned and walked out of the falsely cheery visitor’s room, leaving the door open behind him.
“Sherlock!”
Sherlock watched dispassionately as John hurried toward him, dodging a sergeant with a pile of paperwork, and just managing to make it in the lift.
“What the hell was that?” John asked.
Sherlock didn’t answer; John and his confusion weren’t important right now. He closed his eyes and opened them again to find himself sitting on the lumpy, uncomfortable bunk that had been his bed during his stay at rehab. Muhlfeld. Unknown junkie. Both killed with the same gun. But not for the same reason. Muhlfeld had posed a threat to Sherlock. How could a man who was living on the streets have the same level of importance?
Wait. They were killed with the same. Gun. Sherlock frowned. Mycroft’s not that sloppy, nor are his people. The only reason Mycroft would ever use the same gun is if he…
“Wanted me to make the connection,” Sherlock breathed.
“What?”
Sherlock blinked and looked over at John. “Mycroft wanted me to make the connection. Which means he’s trying to say something.” The lift doors opened, and Sherlock stalked out, thoughts flying in all directions, following strings of possibility, probability, likelihood. “Mycroft knew I would find the link; he also knew that connecting him to it would virtually end my interest in the murder and shift my focus to him. Which means the case was only meant to be a temporary distraction. Don’t you see?” he asked, and spun around to face John.
“No, I don’t, Sherlock,” John said frustratedly. “What does Mycroft have to do with any of this?”
Sherlock flung his arm out for a cab. “Mycroft had Muhlfeld killed ten years ago. Muhlfeld was a loose cannon, so to speak, and proved to be very insistent on having me dead. Mycroft struck preemptively.” Sherlock ducked into the cab that had pulled up, letting John relay their destination (“Baker Street, please”); Sherlock’s gaze out the window unfocused as he was consumed again by his thoughts. “But why the diversion tactics? Why not come to me directly?” he muttered to himself.
“Maybe he didn’t want you to notice something else that was going on. Or maybe because you’re a stubborn git and he knows that,” John suggested from beside him, and Sherlock turned to pin him with a stare, ready to snap at John for interrupting his thoughts, until the words were processed.
Maybe he didn’t want you to notice something else.
Extra security guards. I assumed they were because of the drugs.
The “social call”.
The case was a distraction, of sorts. Why?
A memory flitted to the front of Sherlock’s mind, echoing words from a morning when the air in the flat was chilled from the wind rushing through broken windows and tinged with the smell of smoke. “Andrew West, known as Westie to his friends.” The Bruce-Partington Programme, it was a real case but nothing Mycroft couldn’t handle on his own, no, he gave it to me, hoped it would distance me from
“Moriarty,” Sherlock whispered with sudden clarity.“Something’s happened with Moriarty.” Sherlock leaned forward in his seat and spoke to the cabbie, words sharp and cutting.
“Change of address. Ten Carlton House Terrace. Get me there in less than twenty minutes and you’ll receive a big enough tip to take your wife out to dinner somewhere fancy.”
“Now wait,” John frowned; his brow wrinkled with concern. “It can’t be about Moriarty. Moriarty’s dead. And you tore apart his network.”
“No, possibly dead, but not certainly,” Sherlock denied, shaking his head emphatically and catching John’s eye. “His body was gone within minutes after I was. Mycroft’s people had nothing to do with it; there was always the possibility that Moriarty had managed to fake his suicide as well, but no way to be absolutely sure.”
John’s frown grew deeper as the words sunk in, but didn’t say anything more, and Sherlock found himself grateful for that; he wasn’t sure if he’d be able to hold anything resembling a civil conversation. They had made an agreement, he and Mycroft: if either of them heard whispers about Moriarty’s continued existence, they were supposed to tell the other. Sherlock hadn’t liked it at first (meddler), but he had to admit that it was an effective plan; Mycroft had an abundance of government resources at his beck and call, and Sherlock had the eyes and ears of his Network to catch any rumors circulating through the streets. So if he’s made contact with Moriarty, why keep it a secret? Troubled, Sherlock turned his head to stare out the window of the cab, watching London go by on the other side of the glass.
The cabbie pulled up at the Diogenes Club no less than twelve minutes later, and true to his word, Sherlock carelessly pulled five twenty-pound notes from his wallet and shoved them at the driver as he stepped out of the car.
“Ta, mate,” the man said, but Sherlock didn’t pay him any mind.
“Right,” John began, coming around to stand at Sherlock’s side. “Why are we at Mycroft’s club? What’s our plan?”
“We need to talk to Mycroft,” Sherlock replied, and started across the street toward the ornate building, his pace quick enough to disregard any threat from oncoming traffic. “That’s the plan.”
As he finished talking, a plain black car pulled up in front of the club. “There,” Sherlock pointed with satisfaction, and started to speed up his pace. “We can catch him before he goes inside--we won’t have to deal with that ridiculous rule of silence.”
“How do you know it’s him?” John protested from behind him. “It could be anyone.”
“License plate,” Sherlock called in response, but kept going forward. The car door opened, and Sherlock could see the familiar shape of Mycroft ducking out of the car, umbrella tucked under his arm.
“Mycroft,” Sherlock said, voice carrying loudly across the last few metres between him and his brother. Mycroft looked up at the sound of his name, eyes connecting with Sherlock’s over the top of the car; Sherlock watched Mycroft open his mouth to reply, then drop out of sight behind the car.
What happened? Sherlock thought frantically, but his question was answered even as it went through his mind by the sharp crack of a gunshot.
That hurt - why didn’t I account for the possibility of getting shot? Mycroft thought as he shuddered out a gasp past the pain in his chest. He had landed on his back, and as he fought for breath, hand crawling up to his chest and feeling his blood pour out of him, Mycroft was struck by the realization that he couldn’t remember the last time he’d just looked at the sky. Today it was grey, cloudy, looked like a ninety percent chance for rain sometime this afternoon oh bloody hell this hurts. Should have been more careful. Should have calculated this outcome. His hearing was going in and out, but somewhere in the distance Mycroft was fairly certain his assistant (Rebecca, today, he was sure- or was that yesterday?) was on the phone, and someone was running, their shoes smacking against the pavement.
Then there was someone kneeling beside him, a hand putting pressure down on the gunshot wound; Mycroft’s vision went white with pain for a moment oh bloody buggering fuck, and Mycroft only just managed to roll his head to the left to catch a glimpse of who it was.
“Sherlock,” he coughed, then winced at the sharp taste of copper on his tongue. Must have punctured an artery, nicked a lung.
“What the hell is going on?” Sherlock demanded, and if he thought it possible, Mycroft would have laughed. Sherlock; always wanting the answers, wasn’t he?
“It appears,” Mycroft whispered, and Sherlock bent closer to him in order to hear. “I’ve been shot.”
“Obviously, but why?” Sherlock gritted out. “Why did you concoct all this, the case?”
Mycroft coughed again, the sound nasty and wet from the blood coming up his windpipe as it filled his lungs; he watched with surprise, vision starting to swim, as Sherlock reached out with a hand and wiped at Mycroft’s mouth, his fingers coming away red and sticky after his attempt.
“Was this Moriarty?” Sherlock asked, his voice still full of steely anger, even as his eyes started to turn shiny with unshed tears.
Mycroft shook his head. “Moriarty...dead. His muscle, Moran.”
The fingers of the hand not pressing down on his chest fisted in the lapels of Mycroft’s coat. “Why didn’t you tell me? I could have helped you, you idiot.”
“Was threatening….” Mycroft struggled for breath, each inhale feeling heavier than the last. “You. Added security, tried to distract….didn’t antic- anticipate this.”
“Sentiment,” Sherlock accused, but without his usual disdain- the word was warped around the lump in his throat, came spilling out with in a messy knot of emotions as hot tears started dripping down his face.
Mycroft ignored Sherlock’s attempt to distance himself, and held his brother’s eye, trying to convey every last feeling that was pushing through his veins, even as his pulse grew weaker and his vision started to swim. “Moran, need be careful...he’ll try again,” he whispered raggedly, and lifted his right hand (push past the pain for a moment, this is important. God, it’s important.) just enough to brush his fingers through Sherlock’s curls, a gesture that took him back twenty, thirty years, to when Sherlock was a rambunctious, bright child running around in the forest a short walk from their home.
Sherlock shook his head, one hand coming up to support Mycroft’s, cold thin fingers gripping Mycroft’s wrist. “No.” His other hand pressed down harder on Mycroft’s chest, but Mycroft could still feel blood trickling out of the hole that had been ripped through his skin and bone (Not that it matters, it’s the internal bleeding that’ll do me in). “You’re not allowed to do this, Mycroft. You’re-” Sherlock sucked in a breath. “Just hold on, John’s calling an ambulance, so’s that ridiculous assistant of yours, you’ll be fine. You have to stay.”
“Proud of you,” Mycroft said.
“Don’t say that,” Sherlock choked out. “Don’t say it like you’re leaving.”
“‘m sorry,” Mycroft shuddered, then struggled for another breath I have so many other things to say, all the things I never said, but the air wasn’t coming; his vision began to turn dark at the edges, then full of swirls of red, and the last thing he saw was Sherlock’s face, locks of hair tumbling down over his forehead as he stared into Mycroft’s eyes, silently begging for him to stay.
( chapter two)