Perseverance (5/7)
BBC Sherlock
Rating 15 (swearing, implicit slash)
Summary: It hasn't been Greg's day, his week, his month or even his year.
This was inspired by Second Skin's Persuasion, and started off as a prequel and remix of that. It has ended up much, much longer...
Note: The chronology of Series 2 is notoriously dodgy. This fic assumes that Scandal takes place in April 2010-Summer 2011, Hounds in Summer 2011 and Fall in Spring-Summer 2012. There are spoilers for Scandal and Hounds in later parts.
Betaed by the wonderful Small Hobbit.
Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4
When Greg got to the nondescript cafe that the voice on the phone had given him as a rendezvous, he found Mycroft already there, drinking coffee with a pained expression on his face. The moment Greg took a sip of his, he could see why. But he wasn't there for pleasure.
"A man called Miles Archer got killed in London this afternoon," he said. "I want to know what's going on."
"What do you mean?" Mycroft asked cautiously.
"He's an American, supposed to be a tourist from San Francisco. He got shot at Irene Adler's house in Belgravia."
"Surely she's almost one of the tourist landmarks by now? For a certain breed of tourist." Greg scowled at that, and Mycroft hurriedly went on, "I'm sorry, I shouldn't be making jokes about a suspicious death. But I don't quite see why you need me involved."
If you don't think this matters, why did you agree to meet me, Greg wondered, staring at Mycroft till Mycroft's eyes dropped to his coffee.
"Sherlock was at the house at the time," Greg said, "and he reckoned the man was CIA. OK, he was off his face when he told me, but I still trust his judgement on that. And John reckoned he was a professional hitman as well."
"And?" It was amazing how dismissive Mycroft could make the single syllable. So much for all the working together crap, Greg thought, moment it's inconvenient, he just shuts down communication.
"I was told soon after I met you that you practically ran the CIA," he said, and watched Mycroft blink in surprise and then go very still. Greg's nerves felt raw; he was suddenly tempted to yell at the man across the table. Because it was one thing letting the Secret Service cutting corners; it was another bloody thing having the Americans fouling up his patch. "So what are you playing at, Mycroft?"
"This is not my doing, Greg," Mycroft said quietly, and he looked and sounded so reasonable now, no trace of the condescension that was his normal weapon. "I do not control the CIA, but I do usually have some influence on them. Ms Adler has some information of national importance that had to be retrieved and I thought I had an agreement with the Americans that Sherlock would take care of that. Unfortunately, another branch of the Agency decided their intervention was necessary."
"The CIA are having bloody turf wars in London?" Greg demanded. "So what's next?"
"The police investigation will be closed down, of course," Mycroft said. "And we will make a strongly worded complaint to the Americans."
"And things will go back to normal again, will they?" Greg said. "Except I don't know they will. Because there's something bloody funny going on, isn't there?"
"What do you mean?"
"Why would the CIA be interested in Irene Adler? I can see her having information of national importance. I mean that's why she's got away with things for so long, isn't it, coz she's got friends in high places to protect her. MPs, a duke or two, probably some of the Vice Squad." The rumours had been going around for five years or more, ever since Irene had set up shop in London. But now probably wasn't the time to start naming names, Greg decided.
"This is more than Irene's usual tricks," he went on instead. "The CIA wouldn't be interested if it was just photos of some high court judge getting spanked, would they? So what's she up to now?"
Mycroft didn't answer; he just looked at Greg with a strange kind of unblinking emptiness in his eyes, as if he was trying to absorb every particle of data from him. The way Sherlock would sometimes look, like he was seeing into your brain, your soul. Greg waited, because maybe Mycroft was going to deduce something amazing. Solve some crime that Greg hadn't even realised had been committed. But then Mycroft frowned and asked:
"Did Sherlock say anything about boomerangs when you were trying to take him home?"
Should have guessed there'd be cameras somewhere in the area, Greg thought.
"Yeah," he replied, "he kept on trying to discuss them with Irene. Mind you, he was also telling her how he'd once solved a case for the Pope; he seemed obsessed with the woman." It had been quite funny, once John had told him that Sherlock wasn't in any danger; the detective had been staggering round like a drunken giraffe, long legs flailing and talking to someone who wasn't actually there. It had taken quite a lot of effort by him and John to get him safely back to 221B in a taxi.
"The hiker in Buckinghamshire who died yesterday was killed by a boomerang. How did Irene Adler know about the case?" Mycroft's voice was sharp.
"Sherlock told her?" Was it possible about the hiker? Who went round using a boomerang in Buckinghamshire? OK, it might explain what had happened to the weapon, but why...
"Why that case?" Mycroft demanded and Greg wondered if there was any way of catching up with the conversation. "It's hardly one of his finest achievements. Surely the obvious conclusion is that he was telling Ms Adler about it because she'd asked him?"
"Yeah...maybe." What was the question again? What was it he was missing?
"So the question is how she heard about an incident that has not yet been publicly reported. Whose details are still known only to a handful of police officers."
That bit did make some kind of sense. "You think Irene Adler has some kind of contacts that told her about it?"
There was a bleakness in Mycroft's face now. "I'm sure she has. While you are surprisingly well-informed about Ms Adler's activities. Before we go any further, Greg, can you please confirm that the leak was not from your end of the operation?"
It took a few seconds or so for the penny to drop and then it was too late to do what Greg wanted to. Throw his cup of coffee right into the bastard's face. Mycroft was going pale now, as if he'd belatedly realised what he'd just asked Greg. What he was suggesting.
Greg stood up, his chair scraping against the wooden floor.
"I have never cheated on my wife." He forced the words out. "With you or with anyone else. Go back to your scummy little world, Mycroft, and leave me alone. I'll take the murderers over you, every time."
He didn't wait to see what Mycroft would say, what pathetic excuse would come from those clever lips. He just walked out of the cafe and kept walking.
***
The text came just as he was approaching the bus stop.
I am truly sorry, Greg. My suggestion was unforgivable. MH
He mashed the keys together replying:
To right it was. You don't understand about people, do you? And you never will. GL
It was true, he thought, as he sent the message. It was all puzzles and manoeuvres to Mycroft in the end, just like it was to Sherlock. If he really understood human nature - if he felt things himself - he'd know why a man married to Angie wouldn't feel the need for "recreational scolding", or whatever it was that Irene Adler had on offer. Mycroft was just another bloody heartless machine, and you'd be a fucking idiot to want to have anything more to do with him than you had to.
His phone pinged again with Mycroft's reply. No doubt now he'd get the treacle, the diplomatic language that Mycroft normally used to conceal the emptiness at the heart of him. But when he read it, all it said was:
Whatever you think of me, please stay away from Adler and the case. She's involved in something very dangerous and I can't risk you. MH.
It made no sense. Mycroft had said the case would be closed down, as Greg had been expecting. So what was there to stay away from? And what did Mycroft mean: I can't risk you? That had always been the point - that Greg was there to be the fall-guy when Sherlock screwed things up. Why was Mycroft worrying about him now?
He couldn't understand him; he'd never be able to understand what went on in that strange warped mind. Better to leave it; not worry about 'very dangerous' till it came and found him again. Because when you were Sherlock Holmes' unofficial minder, you could be sure it always would.
***
The autumn rushed past and Greg braced himself for Christmas. This year he was gonna crack the sodding thing, make an effort. Show how much his family mattered to him. By mid-November he was getting things into position. Paul had been told that he was coming home for Christmas, even if Greg had to drive halfway across the country to collect him. John and Sarah Sawyer and every medic who owed him a favour were helping Jill prepare for her interviews at medical school, so she stayed calm. He was even near to working out a sufficient bribe to keep Cathy sweet over the holidays.
And he had ten days leave booked at Christmas, because he was owed for all the overtime he'd done in the summer. Christmas Day lunch in London with everyone pulling their weight on the cooking, Boxing Day go down to Angie's sister in Dorset, fancy restaurant down there booked for two on New Year's Eve. He'd had major drug busts that had taken less organisation, but that didn't matter, as long as he was prepared.
When John asked whether he'd come to Mrs Hudson's party, his immediate response was to refuse.
"Won't you need a break from the family by the evening of the 25th?" John said. "You don't have to, it's just...well I don't know there'll be many people there. And it'll be a bit of washout if it's just Sherlock, me and Jeanette turning up."
"Jeanette?"
"You know I said I had a date with an art teacher last month? It worked out really well, so, I thought this was a chance for her to meet some of my friends, see what it is we do..." John's voice died away. He surely knew that the right time to let your girlfriend meet Sherlock was never, Greg thought, but yeah, John could probably do with some diluting of Sherlock, couldn't he?
"Mrs Hudson's done a lot of cooking already. You know she makes really good mince pies," John went on, and Greg couldn't suddenly help feeling that it did sound more fun than an evening arguing with the family about which film to watch on the telly.
"I'll have to see what Angie thinks about me buggering off at that point, so no promises," he said. John smiled gratefully at him, and then a thought struck Greg.
"Will Mycroft be there?" he asked. Bit awkward if he was.
"God, no," John replied. "Sherlock's uncomfortable enough about the party as it is. I don't need Big Brother wrecking the mood." He paused and then asked, with a slightly puzzled air. "Were you hoping to see Mycroft?"
"I'm staying clear of him," Greg replied promptly, and then he smiled at John and said, "You think Sherlock's tactless? The last time I saw Mycroft he asked if I'd slept with Irene Adler."
John's mouth gaped, and then he started giggling. "Irene did say she liked detectives, but ...how the hell did Mycroft think up that one? They're just hopeless, aren't they, the Holmeses, no clue about what ordinary people feel." And then he stilled and added quietly. "I suppose it's because they've never been in love. It'd be quite funny, really, if they did ever fall for anyone; they might finally understand what it's like for the rest of us."
But what if they fell in love and didn't think to mention it? Surely that couldn't have been why Mycroft asked about Irene Adler: that he was jealous? Why Sherlock, who'd never needed any friends, now couldn't manage without John at his side? Greg didn't know what to say to John; he wasn't sure there was anything he could say. So he just smiled a bit more, and promised that he'd see what he could do about the party.
***
As soon as he met Jeanette, Greg decided that she was the weakest link. It wouldn't be a proper evening at 221B unless at least one person stormed off in frustration, and there was something brittle about Jeanette that suggested it was going to be her. Why the hell had he decided to come, he wondered. Because you've had enough of Angie for today, his guilty conscience replied.
Christmas had gone smoothly enough at home so far, but then things had been quieter anyhow, since the summer holidays. Angie and him didn't quarrel any more and she didn't complain about her life. No problem about Greg coming to the Baker Street party, which he had thought might wind her up. Angie seemed calmer somehow; just drifting round in her own world and barely seeming to notice him. She hadn't even been all over Paul, back from uni. No trace of her normal worrying about him, trying to make sure he was eating properly, that he was being looked after.
He wasn't going to sit here and think about Angie. He was going to listen to Sherlock play the violin and eat too many mince-pies and get just tipsy enough to tell Mrs Hudson embarrassing stories about life in the Met. He'd have to be a bit careful, though, he realised, when he caught himself looking rather too hard at Molly Hooper, who turned out to have a surprisingly sexy body when it wasn't concealed by her lab coat.
But Molly didn't seem to mind him gawping at her, and she smiled at him and said warmly:
"I wasn’t expecting to see you. I thought you were going to be in Dorset for Christmas."
He couldn't help grinning back at her, but he knew he ought to make it clear where he stood, after the summer holiday fiasco.
"That's first thing in the morning. Me and the wife - we’re back together. It’s all sorted."
"No," said Sherlock, "she's sleeping with a PE teacher."
***
It was like the time fifteen years ago that Greg had been stabbed; he'd looked down and there was blood coming out of his side, but he couldn't understand why. It hadn't hurt to start with; it had just been strange.
Angie doesn't know any PE teachers, he found himself thinking. I suppose the nearest thing they have at her school is Mr Trench. His thoughts suddenly clicked into focus. Mr Trench, whom Angie had been so pleased to have join the staff, because it meant they had a man at last. Was that the only reason she'd been happier in the spring?
Sherlock was starting on a verbal dissection of Molly now, so Greg grabbed a drink and offered it to him, hoping it'd shut him up. How had Sherlock known? Maybe he was wrong; he didn't always get things right. Angie had gone off to France in the summer; she surely hadn't been with Trench then? And then he heard Sally's voice in his head:
Maybe if your wife has some time away, she'll realise that she still cares. Six weeks is a long time. Another scene came into his head. Angie crying when she got back and saying: This is where I belong; I have to try and make it work. It hadn't been her trying to decide whether she could do without Greg, had it? She'd made up her mind about him long ago. It'd been whether she could break it off with sodding Mr Trench, and she hadn't been able to. That was why she was going round in a dream all the time; the dream of a world where she wasn't married, didn't have a family, just her and her lover together forever.
Perhaps he was just being bloody paranoid, he thought; he should pretend everything was fine, stay at the party and get completely rat-arsed. He'd wake up tomorrow and realise that there was a much better explanation for Angie's behaviour. But Sherlock had obviously decided that he hadn't wrecked the party enough yet, and gone off to phone Mycroft and hassle him about something. You didn't need to be a detective genius to realise that this evening wasn't going to end well, and Greg decided he couldn't face other people's misery as well as his own. He muttered an apology to Mrs Hudson and headed out into the cold.
***
Angie spend the night weeping and apologising for what had happened, and Greg sat there and patiently listened to her like she was some witness whose statement he had to take. She took the kids down to Dorset on her own on Boxing Day and Greg went back to the Yard. Well, he wasn't the only one having a lousy Christmas, he decided. Irene Adler had died in suspicious circumstances the previous night and they were dumping the case on Dimmock. Fine by him, it wasn't like he was short of things to do.
He slogged away clearing up his paperwork, and waited for the break-up to hurt, but it didn't seem to, not the way it should. Nothing seemed to matter any more. Sherlock threw a burglar out of the window at 221B on New Year's Eve and Greg just shrugged and decided to file a report that there was insufficient evidence to bring charges against anyone.
"How did you know about my wife having an affair?" he asked Sherlock, after the ambulance had gone.
"Surely it was obvious?" Sherlock said. "You know my methods by now."
"How did you know it was a PE teacher she was involved with?" Greg went on. Get the thing clear in his mind and then perhaps he could move on. "You've never met Angie, so that can't have been obvious. Oh, Christ, tell me Mycroft's not watching me?"
"Mycroft's not watching you," Sherlock replied, and then with a sideways glance at him, added, "and you're not sure whether that's a relief or a disappointment, are you? I found a piece of paper in your pockets one day: a lesson plan for key stage 2 gymnastics. There were seven possible explanations for why you were wearing someone else's trousers, but only one of those was likely."
"And I didn't spot that. Didn't spot anything."
"Of course you did; your reasoning skills may be hopeless, but your instincts can be surprisingly effective. But your conscious mind wouldn't admit what your senses had told you. You saw but you refused to observe." Sherlock stopped and then added: "If I were to say you're better off without her, would I be needing an ambulance as well?"
"You almost sound as if you care," Greg said, and God, wasn't that a stupid comment to make? Sherlock smiled sardonically and said:
"You're useful and I don't want you distracted by personal matters. It's easiest being on your own. And safest."
"You'd better go and check Mrs Hudson's OK," Greg retorted, and then walked away before Sherlock could reply.
***
There was one more thing he had to do, he realised, with a sinking feeling in his stomach. There might be a few particularly dim London teenagers who didn't realise that burgling 221B was a very, very bad idea. But the man who'd been taken to hospital was a burly middle-aged American in a suit. Maybe Sherlock could think of fifteen possible reasons for that. He could only think of one.
He dialled the number stored on his mobile and as soon as the phone was answered said, "Got a message for Mycroft Holmes."
"Speaking," said a posh voice he hadn't heard for months and Greg nearly dropped the phone. It wasn't fair that it wasn't an underling this time, and that his brain had suddenly seized up. He gulped and said:
"Sherlock half-killed a burglar today. I think the CIA goons are back in town. I've cleared up the mess so far, but you need to sort things out."
He ground to a halt. There was probably more he ought to say, but he didn't know where to start. Mycroft was smoothly thanking him for letting him know, making promises about dealing with the Americans, avoiding diplomatic incidents. Greg listened in silence, the words washing over him. Until Mycroft's voice, suddenly sharp, added:
"Are you still there, Greg? Are you all right? I've been worrying about you-"
Greg's thumb hit the "end call" button almost before he could think. Because otherwise he would find himself asking: Have you been watching me? Sherlock was right, he thought, as he stared down at the phone. He really didn't want to know the answer to that one.