Fic: "Adrift"
Title: "Adrift"
Fandom: Sherlock
Characters: Sherlock Holmes, Mycroft Holmes
Warnings: Descriptions of murder victim; language
Spoilers: for "Reichenbach"
Summary: One of the snipers wasn’t called off in time. It falls on Mycroft to break the news to Sherlock.
Sherlock wakes on a sofa, and the first thought in his mind is that it’s too comfortable - and too unfamiliar - to be the one at 221b. He then recalls why it can’t possibly be the one at 221b, and this is followed quickly by the thought that he may never sit on that sofa again. The hollow feeling that leaves in his chest is unpleasant and distracting, and he quickly shoves it away.
He’s in Mycroft’s home, though he’s never set foot in this particular part of it. It’s clearly one of his brother’s studies, going by the desk at the opposite end of the room and the vast bookcase that sits behind it, which is filled with documents and manuals and government publications. His clothes have been removed (and he doesn’t spend a lot of time contemplating who might have been tasked with doing that) and replaced instead with pajamas and a brand-new dressing gown.
It takes him a moment to catalogue his injuries, and he blames that on the blow he took to the head upon landing. His hips and shins have been bruised, and he can feel a butterfly bandage covering a cut near his eye. But there is no permanent damage, and he supposes - grudgingly - that he has Mycroft to thank for that.
The door opens, and his brother comes into the room.
“Ah, awake, are we?” he begins pleasantly, going over to his desk.
Sherlock gets up off the sofa, hitching the dressing gown tighter around his frame and ignoring the pain that throbs through his head at the sudden movement.
“I would have been sooner if you had placed a different material in that truck for my landing,” he snaps in irritation.
“You did toss yourself off a six story building,” Mycroft points out with insufferable patience. “You should be thankful that we are having this conversation at all.”
“What am I doing here, anyway?” Sherlock paces over to the window, looking out across the grounds of Mycroft’s estate. “Surely it’s not for my own protection. If anyone thought I had survived that fall, the first place they would check for me is a relative’s house. Getting sentimental in our old age, are we? Foolish, too, it would seem.”
“I assure you, this house is the most secure facility in the country. There is no possible way they could detect you here, and no way they could enter if they did suspect your survival,” Mycroft says patiently. “We have important matters to discuss, and I have to be certain that we won’t be overheard.”
This catches Sherlock’s interest, finally snapping his thoughts into order and clearing the fog from his brain. His headache fades into the background as he turns from the window and strides over to Mycroft’s desk, and the pain is replaced by the steady thrum of his mind. There is work to be done, and a game to finish.
Mycoft’s face is carefully blank, and Sherlock is able to glean nothing from it. He has always had difficulty reading his brother, though he’d never let on about it. The only other person who knows this is standing across from him right now.
“Well?” he demands impatiently. “What would you like to discuss?”
Mycroft says nothing for a moment. He moves to place a chair behind Sherlock and then pours a glass of water from the pitcher on his desk. Sherlock ignores both; Mycroft sighs.
“There has been an incident; an unforeseen development,” he says, and a tendril of ice slides into Sherlock’s stomach. He narrows his eyes.
“What have you done?” he growls.
“Not enough, it would seem,” Mycroft says sadly, but Sherlock knows his brother well enough to know the emotion is contrived. Mycroft is as skilled as he at infusing into his words the emotions he does not feel; Sherlock simply chooses not to employ this technique on a day-to-day basis, and he’s insulted that Mycroft tries to use it on him now.
“What’s happened?” he growls, planting both palms on the soft wood and leaning over the desk.
“One of the snipers didn’t get the signal in time,” Mycroft says quietly, and now his eyes are full of pity, which is worse than the quiet sympathy. “Detective Inspector Lestrade was assassinated this afternoon.”
Sherlock reels back from the desk as though he’s been burned and stumbles; the carefully-placed chair breaks his fall and he sits down heavily in it.
“This is a trick,” he snarls, though he can feel that the blood has rushed from his head and his ordered thoughts are now stuttering in his mind. “A motivation to get me to take down the rest of Moriarty’s network more quickly.”
“I assure you, it isn’t.” Mycroft pulls a file from a stack that sits neatly on the corner of his desk and hands it to Sherlock. He flips it open, and the first picture that greets him is that of Lestrade, sitting upright at his desk with a pen clenched in rigid fingers. The only thing that mars the seemingly placid picture is the smattering of blood across his face and the wall behind him. His head has been thrown back with the force of the bullet that killed him, and his sightless eyes stare at the ceiling of his office. Sherlock closes the file quickly, not bothering to look at the other photographs.
Mycroft inclines his head. “I hope you will accept my sincere condolences, brother.”
The file tumbles from his hand as Sherlock springs up from his seat and strides across the room to the television set, ignoring Mycroft’s soft, “I wouldn’t do that if I were you. Please.”
“Sod off,” he snaps, and turns it on.
“...likely that he died instantly upon impact,” a reporter is saying; Sherlock has come into the middle of a news report on his own death. “In a bizarre twist to this apparent suicide, a Scotland Yard inspector was gunned down at the same moment that Holmes died. His name has not been released as the family has yet to be informed, but police are treating the two cases as linked. It is public knowledge now that Holmes consulted with the Met on a number of cases, and it is possible that he ordered the hit in order to cover up the depth of his deception. Police say...”
Sherlock shuts off the television and tosses the remote aside. Numb disbelief gives way quickly to fury that burns in white flashes behind his eyes, and he’s finding it difficult to draw breath.
“They think I killed him,” he says raggedly. He runs his fingers absently over his lips, and the sensation brings forth the last time Lestrade kissed him, his breath warm and his stubble reminiscent of sandpaper as it brushed against Sherlock’s skin.
Sorry, lad. Your old man has to go to work. Go back to sleep.
That was days ago; it feels like years.
“It’s the logical conclusion for them to draw, Sherlock,” Mycroft tries to reason, bringing Sherlock crashing back to the present. “They don’t know any better.”
“They think I killed the man I -” Sherlock breaks off abruptly, sucking a breath through his nose as his vision fades and blurs for a moment. He closes his eyes, but that only makes it worse as Lestrade’s bloodied face flashes across his mind. He snaps them open again and groans.
“You’re allowing yourself to get emotional. You need to focus on the task at hand.” Mycroft is shuffling papers on his desk; Sherlock has yet to turn around and look at him. “To be fair, had you ended your call with Doctor Watson a few seconds earlier, your...friend might have escaped this fate.”
It is too much. Sherlock’s body has been slowly betraying him since the news, and he finally gives himself over to the tremors. He tries to take a step, but his legs are shaky and his knees buckle. He goes tumbling to the floor, and the last thing he hears before sinking into the welcome darkness is Mycroft’s exasperated sigh.