Fic: Restitution (oneshot)
Title: Restitution (Part 4 of Series- Reichenbach to Return)
Author: missilemuse.
Part: 1/1
Wordcount: 2130
Rating: PG
Warnings: none.
Spoilers: for season 2
Disclaimer: Sherlock and John belong to ACD's grey cells, and each other in that order... Although the B.B.C. version receives full credit for inspiring me to put a pen to paper.
Summary: She had no intention of being indebted to him forever...
Author's notes: This is me, finally giving up and getting on the band-wagon; writing a post-Reichenbach Series. Sherlock made me cry and John wouldn't let me stop. This is the result. Each story complete in itself.
Series Master-post HERE.
The car purred smoothly, as he went over the last minute appointment changes for the next day that Luna had drawn up for him (apparently it was Harry Potter month).
“You have the rescheduled Conference call with the U.S. Defence Secretary at 8.00 a.m.”
“Fine.”
“And the Prime Minister has requested…”
“No.”
“Well, then you have the 2 - 2.20 p.m. slot free.”
“Hmm… the secure line we talked about?”
“There are some security glitches to be worked out. The Research Department have asked for your feedback on the new Sat-phone com-link, they gave you last month.”
“The batteries drain too quickly.”
“I’ll pass it on, Sir. About the surveillance on Dr. Watson?”
“What about it?”
“I was supposed to bring it up for review, every month, since… well, it’s been a month, Sir.”
Luna was the gem of his staff. He had no doubt that she had already figured out that Sherlock was alive. But he had not taken her into confidence, and she was smart enough to know that it was one of the things, she simply shouldn’t mention.
“The surveillance stays.” It was too early. John had dropped out of public eye, moved from Baker Street, and stopped updating his blog after one final post. The continued surveillance meant that hundreds of pounds were being spent to watch a retired ex-army doctor, do his shopping. None of that mattered, however. It was simply too early…
“Alright, Sir. Dr. Watson’s latest session with Dr. Thompson is on your tablet, for you to review later tonight.”
Mycroft wished he could say that the recordings were giving him any insight into John’s mental state. But the last two sessions had consisted of long silences interspersed with Dr. Thompson’s predictable questions, and assurances. The only thing that John had admitted was that there was something he had left unsaid, which was frustratingly inadequate.
He regularly eavesdropped on world leaders, terrorists and scientists working on cutting-edge research. He didn’t like it, but it was his job. Data was the fulcrum, needed to push the levers of the world. And moral ambiguities went to hell in a hand-basket when it came to the greater good.
But he had never hated himself more than when he had to listen to John’s silences; more telling than any passionate outburst.
It was necessary, he told himself. Dr. Thompson may have all the experience in her field, but she was way out of her depth while dealing with this. Only someone who knew Sherlock, could even begin to understand what John was going through (last time he had checked, there had been two names on that list, excluding Mycroft).
Then there was John himself, so wonderfully complex, behind the external façade he had perfected. Even when John had been nothing but an invalided soldier, she hadn’t been able to figure him out. His credentials spoke for themselves- the man who didn’t bore Sherlock Holmes. The poor therapist didn’t stand a chance.
He could have offered the services of a better doctor. But when he had approached him at the funeral to offer his condolences, John had turned his back on him after muttering a single line through gritted teeth. “The only reason I don’t shoot you on sight Mycroft is that I suspect, it might lead to anarchy, but don’t push your luck.” Mycroft didn’t.
This made him incredibly grateful for the presence of the Detective Inspector. He checked in on John regularly, and kept Mycroft updated. ‘It’s still bad’, was the last update. John went through the motions of living. But Mycroft could see the crack in the dam, and was afraid for the Doctor.
The car had stopped outside Diogenes Club. He could see the frown on Luna’s face as he made to get out of the car. It was one of the traditions of the club that it had an exclusively male membership. He didn’t think women were inferior. After all, Mummy had managed to raise the two of them on her own. But female presence was usually a distraction, and the club was a Sanctuary for like-minded men to get away from any and all distractions. So needs must.
He swiftly walked in intending to make a couple of phone-calls in the talking room, before settling down with a much needed glass of scotch. But his manager, Charles accosted him as soon as he was in the foyer. “Sir, there’s a gentleman waiting for you in the talking room.” He handed Mycroft a card- Mr Godfrey Norton, Attorney-at-law. “He wishes to join the club, as a member.” Mycroft raised his eyebrows, as he didn’t recognise the name. He was usually well aware of potential aspiring club members.
“Did you not explain that there are no vacancies at present?”
Charles appeared suitably embarrassed. “I did explain that to the gentleman, but he insisted on making a personal case. He appears to be well connected, Sir.”
Mycroft sighed. This was one of the disadvantages of having the public face of a minor Government official and being the owner of one of the most prestigious London Clubs. His old manager would have known how to handle the visitor, but Charles was new; which explained how a little name-throwing by someone who probably was the second cousin of the dowager, sixtieth in line to the throne, had easily impressed him.
“Very well,” he sighed. “But if I ring for tea, kindly rescue me with an urgent phone-call.”
Charles’ face coloured, as he realised that he had made a mistake in allowing the man to wait. “Yes Sir,” he stammered.
Mycroft entered the room, to find the man seated where John had been, four weeks ago. All he could see from the door was a full head of auburn hair. He carefully placed the umbrella on its stand, and the briefcase at its usual spot. He then walked directly to the table to pour out drinks. After all, he was letting the man down.
He began smoothly, his back to the man. “I believe you were informed that there are no membership vacancies at present, Mr. …”
He drew a sharp intake of breath, in shock. He had turned around, two glasses in hand. It was a tribute to his impeccable self-control cultivated over years that the scotch in the glasses sloshed against the tips, but not a drop spilled over.
Sitting on the chair, legs crossed, auburn hair cropped to the roots, sans make-up and dressed in an impeccable imitation of Sherlock’s suit; was a very much alive Irene Adler.
Mycroft’s only thought was- Oh God, Sherlock, what have you done!
***
She had been in Belize. She had answered the phone on the second ring. They had decided to call each other strictly once a month, and the month was far from over. If Kate was breaking pattern, it had to be something important.
“What happened?” she asked urgently, before Kate could speak.
“I thought you would want to know. Sherlock Holmes is dead.”
Irene found herself gripping the phone tighter, as she sat up in bed. “How was he killed?”
“That’s it, Ira, he wasn’t. He took his own life.”
Irene couldn’t help the wholly inappropriate snort that escaped her at that statement. “Kate, you know as well as I do that if he’s really dead, it had to be murder.” Probably by Jim Moriarty, she added mentally.
She had followed Sherlock’s public successes and Jim Moriarty’s trial obsessively, for someone who wasn’t even on the same continent. The news-casts of the trial in-progress, had been the best-reality T.V. show, she had seen in years. The verdict hadn’t surprised her in the least. Jim had always been a show-off.
And now Sherlock was dead. Murder made to look like suicide in all probability. And if Moriarty was involved, the police would never sort it out.
“He’s definitely dead, and he did kill himself.” Kate’s voice was solemn. She knew exactly what effect Sherlock’s death would have on her. Bless her soul!
“It happened a couple of days back. But I wanted to be sure before I told you. So I got Donald to fax me a copy of the official report and everything. And, there’s a new newspaper story about Sherlock doing the rounds here.” Irene unconsciously stiffened at the warning note in her voice. “You’re not going to like it. Everything about it is really… strange... Ira… You there?”
“Send me everything, you have.” She ordered, still not ready to believe. “We’ll talk later.”
“Alright. Just…take care.”
“You too,” Irene replied softly. This separation was an ordeal. A dead woman wasn’t meant to be in a relationship. But Kate wasn’t willing to give up on her yet.
She started the laptop, and waited patiently as page after page of scanned documents spewed out of the printer. She started reading carefully.
The press thought that Sherlock Holmes was a fraud, who had paid an actor Richard Brooke, to play Jim Moriarty so that he could proclaim his genius to the world. Jim, as Brooke had given the complete scoop to a reporter, Kitty Riley.
The NSY had not refuted these claims.
Sherlock had committed suicide by jumping off the rooftop of St. Bartholomew Hospital and added fuel to the fire.
Richard Brooke had been found dead on the rooftop of St. Bart’s, of a self-inflicted gunshot wound to the head.
John Watson was conspicuous in all the reports only in his blatant absence.
The news reports didn’t faze her. She had read plenty of sensational news-stories about herself. Only a quarter of what was reported in tabloids, was actually true. She rolled her eyes at the ‘hungry for fame’ expression, used by Riley. Had these people seen Sherlock? (Other than the face-shots in the cute hat, that is). If he had simply wanted fame, he could have been an underwear model. He would have got a lot more public ‘love’ with a lot less effort. She had to applaud Moriarty for the successful smear campaign, though. She wondered if he was really dead too.
She finally opened the Met’s Report on the suicide.
That was where she felt her breath catch for the first time.
There were scanned photographs of both the bodies, but that wasn’t what made her fingers involuntarily tremble.
Dr. John Watson had been a witness to the jump. The Report described how he had been too distraught to give a complete statement…How the investigating Officer had to ask leading questions to complete the report… How he had nearly passed out, during the official identification procedure…
John had seen it happen, step by step. Sherlock had stood on the ledge and called John to wish him Goodbye, and John had been right below the bloody building. John would lie for Sherlock, if needed. But Irene had met him. He wasn’t Kate. Even the bland tone of the Police Report told her that it wasn’t an act.
She closed her eyes as the papers slid out of her hands. This was not a murder. But, it wasn’t a suicide either.
Jim had said something to Sherlock before blowing his own head off; and made sure that Sherlock would follow. Unbidden, the scene that had played out in her living room in London, came to her mind. Oh, well done, Jim!
She found that she was breathing hard, unwilling to release the pressure behind her eyes. Sherlock, you bastard, I owed you; and I hated that more than anything. And you didn’t think it necessary to stick around to collect. Not fair!
This is your heart and you should never let it rule your head… Too bad, you didn’t follow your own advice, she thought viciously, as she found that the tears couldn’t be held back anymore.
She wiped her eyes as she made to stow the papers away, when her gaze accidently skimmed the last line on one of the pages of the Police Report.
‘Due to the suspicious nature of the deaths, both bodies were subjected to a full tox screen, and an autopsy, by Dr. Molly Hooper, Forensic Pathologist at St. Bartholomew …’
She seized the paper and blinked as she carefully read through the line once more.
Her smile lit the room…
***
Mycroft took a deep breath and mentally berated himself, as he placed the filled glasses back near the decanter. He had betrayed shock. Point, Irene.
He schooled his expression into a look of utter contempt, before settling on the opposite chair. It was his default expression while facing recalcitrant politicians, which usually sent them scuttling for the door; or signing off in minutes, on whatever he wanted them to.
Irene simply smiled her enigmatic half smile, as she cocked an eyebrow.
When Mycroft spoke, his voice lived up to Moriarty’s nickname for him. “Miss Adler, it’s obvious that Sherlock had a hand in ensuring your survival. So, if you quietly exit right now through the door on the left hand side and down the fire-escape, in memory of my dear departed brother; I will allow you a ten minute head start before I set every Law Enforcement Agency in this Country on you.”
She pouted her lips like she was seriously considering. “Tempting, Mr. Holmes, but circumstances have changed since the last time we had a chat. I have a proposition that you would be definitely interested in.”
“As long as you remember that you now have nine minutes.”
“Alright.” She uncrossed her legs. “Let’s get right down to business… where is Sherlock Holmes?”
Other than a slight tightening around her opponent’s jaw, there were no tells. Iceman indeed! “Would you like an address of the cemetery?”
“No! Mr. Holmes…” Her eyes flashed. I have no interest in visiting the slab, you are using to fool Dr. Watson.”
She didn’t have to fake the venom in her voice. She remembered the diminutive Doctor pleading with her at the power-station, to tell Sherlock she was alive.
Mycroft coolly studied his fingers, “Seven minutes.”
“Fine,” she sat forward in her chair. “You want to do this the hard way?”
She shrugged off her jacket.
Mycroft’s eyes widened; his expression a mixture of horror and panic, as she loosened the top button of her shirt. “WHAT are you doing?”
“You, Mr. Holmes, have one minute before I take off every article of my clothing and stroll out naked through the door behind me, and walk through the main room of your precious club. Where, if I’m not mistaken, I saw a Supreme Court Judge, three Cabinet Ministers and a prominent Newspaper Editor, sipping cognac, on my way in.” She opened the second button, “Forty-five seconds…”
This propelled Mycroft out of his chair and across the table, to hold her wrist in a vice-like grip. “STOP… Just stop!”
Know when you’re beaten…
Incongruously, he found himself huffing out a tired laugh as he let go of her hand and relaxed back in his chair; the scene from Buckingham Palace swimming to the forefront in his mind. He suddenly found himself inordinately grateful for the fact that Sherlock hadn’t been a girl.
“I can see why he saved you.” It was the only recognition he could grant her. It was also the only one she wanted, as he saw her visibly relax and button up her shirt.
He walked to the table and retrieved the scotch, he had poured earlier. Then he sat back and steepled his fingers beneath his chin, as he made a very important mental note on her file in his head. ‘Deal with her, as you would with Sherlock’.
“Why?” He asked, his sharp eyes missing nothing. “Why come back at all? Why take the risk? I’m not the only one of your problems. There were a lot of people you annoyed with your camera-phone, and the list is bigger since Sherlock unlocked it for us. What’s in it, for you?”
“Sherlock saved my life.”
“And this is you being…noble?”
She gazed at the arm of her sofa, stroking the leather, her movements deliberately sensual. “This is a nice place Mr. Holmes. That glass you are holding is itself worth a small fortune; a fortune you were probably born with. You deal with terrorists and criminals while sitting in your marble Palace, and delude yourself into thinking that you are capable of taking care of any problem… capable of protecting Sherlock.”
Her voice lowered. “If Sherlock is up to what I think he is; he is going to have to go deep down the Rabbit Hole.” Her voice dropped to a whisper, “…And there are no CCTV cameras down there.”
She sat back with a pointed look, “You need me!”
Mycroft carefully placed his glass on the table. “What are you offering?”
“I’ll help protect Sherlock, when he needs it the most; where your protection would be inadequate.”
“In exchange for…”
“If Sherlock survives and corroborates my involvement in ensuring it; I want my life back.”
“Ah…”
“The deal is not meant for Sherlock. I will help him, whether or not you agree, as I hate owing him. But, he may need saving more than once.”
Mycroft thought it over. She had taken a huge risk in approaching him, selfish motives aside. Sherlock may have saved her life in Karachi, but The Woman had survived for most of the past year without coming on his radar. It was no mean feat. And that was the tipping point on the balance in her favour. Sherlock needed her particular set of survival skills and web of contacts.
He scribbled a set of numbers on a piece of paper, and handed it to her. “These were his co-ordinates a week ago, when he had called me using the Sat-phone. But he’s constantly on the move. So I have no idea where he could be, presently. But I’ll try to keep you updated, as and when necessary.”
She glanced at the co-ordinates, handed the paper back and got up, putting on her jacket as she did so. “Nice doing business with you, Mr. Holmes,” she spoke in a low register, and Mycroft could see how Charles had been fooled into thinking she was a man. “I promise you that I won’t step in, unless it’s absolutely necessary.”
She turned to face him at the door. “One last question Mr. Holmes…keeping Dr. Watson in the dark; was that your idea or his?”
Mycroft tensed as he remembered their argument over it. How Sherlock had vehemently insisted that it was for John’s own good…and how he (Mycroft) was regretting this decision, every second of every day.
“Oh, I see,” she murmured softly. She really did.
Sentiment is a chemical defect, seen in the losing side. He had proved it to her, after all.
And this was not a battle they could afford to lose…
THE END…