Perseverance (6/7)
BBC Sherlock
Rating 15 (swearing, implicit slash)
Summary: Greg finds out what's happened to Irene Adler. And to Jim Moriarty.
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, Part 5
The divorce finally came through in May and Greg spent the night with John at 221B. Though the whole thing was marginally less disreputable than that made it sound.
He'd gone round to Baker Street because they knew better than to try and cheer him up. He didn't want positive thinking tonight, he wanted to wallow in his misery. It was easier being with a bloke who couldn't get a girlfriend any more because of the world's most tactless flatmate (plus said flatmate) than with smug couples - or enthusiasts for internet dating - oozing sympathy.
As it turned out, Sherlock wasn't there, but John was happy to share a number of beers with him.
"So where is Sherlock?" Greg asked after a while.
"I don't know," John said unhappily. "He said he was going to the Highlands, to the Isle of Uffa, but he took his passport and not me."
"Might have needed the passport as ID for a flight up there," Greg said. "Any texts from him?"
"No. he's probably OK, but you know Sherlock. You think he's finally worked out it makes sense to have someone with him as back-up and then he just wanders off into danger on his own again. God, sometimes it's like having the world's brainiest toddler on your hands."
"Worse, surely," Greg replied. "At least you can put your gun out of a toddler's reach." He suddenly remembered he wasn't supposed to know about John's handgun. Probably didn't matter, he thought, taking another swig from his bottle.
***
"I wish I wasn't so crap at relationships," Greg said a bit later, and realised he shouldn't have had the last beer.
"You're not," John said, rather muzzily. "You were married for twenty years. That's a real achievement. Not many people manage that. I mean look at me. Longest I've ever been with someone has been five years and half of that I was away in another country. And the last date I went on, I got dumped after five minutes."
"Really?" Greg asked, knowing he shouldn't be curious. But John was obviously getting to the stage where he was blissfully immune to embarrassment.
"I got to the restaurant - on time - and Tina gave me a kiss. And then she noticed I had a bitemark on my neck and I said Sherlock had a case involving vampires and he couldn't really bite his own neck to test his theories, could he, and, and it just went downhill from there..."
Greg laughed, and then remembered his own situation. "You know what?" he said. "The more I hear about other people's dates the less I want to go on one myself. Molly at Barts keeps on suggesting I try internet dating, sends me links. She even found a website for people who want to date someone in the emergency services."
"You're kidding me."
"No. Only the thing is, I hated going on dates even twenty-five years ago, when my hair wasn't grey. It's..." - Greg waved his hands around, trying to think how to explain - "it's so planned. You arrange to meet, and you're trying to work out how to impress them and what you say and don't say, and if you're wearing the right clothes, and whether to kiss them or not and all that stuff. And then if it doesn't work out you have to do it all over again with someone else."
"And you don't like that?"
"It's not...I don't work like that. For me it's best when you meet someone just casually, down the pub or in the street and you look at them, and they look at you, and you know. You just know there's a connection. And sometimes you don't do anything, and sometimes ten minutes later you're pulling his jeans down in an alley," - oh shit, he shouldn't have said that, should he? - "and sometimes you end up marrying them."
John was nodding at him, glassy-eyed. Either he'd hadn't registered what Greg had let slip or he was completely unfazed by it. "That sounds more fun than filling in tick-boxes on a form, saying you want to meet a non-smoker aged 25-35 who likes going for walks and meals out. And they never have a box to say 'I don't mind being kidnapped occasionally'."
"Yeah, but it's not gonna happen, is it? I'm not gonna meet someone like that. Not now."
"Don't see why not," John said. "You're still bloody good-looking. I mean if I was gay - which I'm not - I might fall for you, so I don't see why someone else shouldn't." He paused and then added. "You know it's funny about that, isn't it? How it just happens sometimes. Irene Adler says she's gay, but she fell in love with Sherlock."
"She has a funny way of showing it," Greg says. "Does she always drug and beat up men she's in love with?" He shook his head. There was something wrong with this conversation, wasn't there? Oh, he knew what it was. Because he was a detective.
"Irene Adler's supposed to be dead," he told John firmly. "So why are you talking about her like she's still alive?"
"Why are you?" John replied, squinting at him in concentration. "Because you're using the present tense as well, aren't you?"
"Coz she is still alive, isn't she?" It was another of those deductions that some bit of Greg's mind had made long ago and the rest of him had somehow never quite registered. "Dimmock got landed with solving her murder, and he's got nowhere with it. So I bet he came to Sherlock a couple of months ago and asked for help and Sherlock must have said 'No'. Only Sherlock would never say 'No' to solving Irene Adler's murder unless he knew she wasn't dead. That makes sense, doesn't it?"
John nodded again vaguely.
"So what did she do?" Greg asked.
"You don't wanna know," John slurred.
"Course I don't want to know. But I probably need to know, don't I? What she's up to?"
"She's on the run."
"CIA after her?" That was why Mycroft had told him to stay away from Irene, wasn't it? He'd known there would be something more.
"Everyone is," John said. "She tricked Sherlock into helping her and apparently damn near brought down Mycroft."
"What happened?" Greg said, trying to sit up, concentrate.
"I dunno the details. I wasn't there," John said, and he was flexing his left hand now, the way he did when he got unhappy. "Irene spoiled some big operation of Mycroft's, and I think he was going to have to pay her off as well. Only Sherlock saved the day at the last minute, worked out the password for her camera phone. He was being such a smug bastard about it afterwards. All that mattered to him was he'd beaten her. Irene said she was gonna be killed and he just didn't care." He looked abruptly guilty. "God, can you forget all that? I'm probably not supposed to tell anyone."
"I'll keep my trap shut," Greg said. "Except I'd better warn Dimmock, because if Irene Adler gets killed again, he's gonna get dropped into all kinds of shit. And I probably ought to see if Mycroft needs me. Needs me to help him, I mean, to help him with Irene Adler."
"Sounds a good move. Somebody needs to sort those two idiots out. Good job there are some of us around with sense. Do you want another beer, by the way?"
***
Greg couldn't remember afterwards if John had actually asked him to stay for the night, or just decided that it was unrealistic to try and move him from the sofa. In fact, there were a whole lot of things that he couldn't remember too clearly. But from the way John was chugging down painkillers and Lucozade the next morning, he was probably pretty hazy as well. Greg gratefully accepted some paracetamol, but declined the fry-up John was planning.
It was only when he got back to his new flat - thank God he had the whole of the weekend off - that he thought to check his mobile. For some reason, he'd had a text from Mycroft last night. Well, could hardly have been urgent, could it, or he'd have phoned? He opened the message with trembling fingers - the fault of the hangover, he told himself - and read it:
Dear Greg, I feel for you at this difficult time. But I think keeping our dealings strictly professional might be a better move. MH
He read it three times to see if it made any kind of sense. Maybe it was one of those messages where you had to read every other word? No, that wasn't why it didn't make sense. It was as if he'd come in halfway through a conversation....
Oh, fuck. No, he couldn't. He couldn't possibly have. He would remember if he had. But he knew, even before he checked the Sent messages, that he had done something extraordinarily stupid. And there it was:
Mycroft heard you had a bad time with Irene. Wanna drink sometime and tell me about it? Greg. PS My divorce just came through
He hadn't put kisses on it; he hadn't called the man "Mike". Other than that, he could hardly have been more pathetically obvious. Well, he thought, wishing he didn't suddenly feel nauseous again, so much for that illusion.
***
Greg didn't expect to spend part of the summer in the south of France, let alone with his in-laws - ex-in-laws - but it ended up being a better time than he'd feared. Him, Paul and Cathy with Angie's parents in Provence, while Jill stayed in London with Angie and Trench. Kind of definition of what an amicable divorce should be, he thought, even if it meant a bit of grin and bear it. He'd always got on well with Angie's parents and it did mean he finally got to spend more time with the kids. He had swimming races with Paul - Greg always lost, but that was part of the point - and heard all about Cathy's latest plans for fame and glory.
He was supposed to be having three weeks off, though he reckoned he might make ten days at most before the Met panicked about something and called him back in. But he'd had more than a fortnight of sun and swimming and too much good food before an urgent phone call came. Mycroft's voice on the line, apologetic but firm.
"Sherlock is causing havoc at a chemical weapons research establishment in Devon. Is there any possibility that you could come back and keep an eye on him?"
Greg flew back on the first flight he could get that evening, because "Sherlock" and "chemical weapons" was one of the more worrying combinations he'd heard in recent years. Even Paul and Cathy had accepted that as a decent excuse.
He found himself hoping - completely unrealistically - that it would be Mycroft meeting him at the airport for his briefing, but instead it was the glossy brunette supposedly called Anthea. She gave him a car and maps and last of all a Glock pistol.
"You've had firearms training, haven't you?" she said.
"Yeah, but that was years ago. I'm not currently authorised to use one."
Anthea looked him up and down, and then smiled a vague smile.
"In that case, come with me," she said. "You're about to get a refresher course."
After a couple of rather fraught hours practice, Anthea decided that Greg probably wasn't a danger to the public now, though he still wasn't entirely convinced.
"I don't like guns," he said. "And why do I need one anyhow?"
"Mr Holmes wants you prepared for anything," Anthea said, smiling at him. "He worries about your safety. Constantly."
***
He was pretty sure that not even Mycroft had foreseen him needing to shoot a hellhound while high on hallucinogenic fog. It was frankly amazing that they ended the case with no more casualties than a dead dog and a blown-up murderer. It was still going to be difficult to explain it all to the Devon police force, though.
But in fact, the local boys turned out to be remarkably helpful, especially once Greg had let slip that he was a West Country lad himself. They had to live with Baskerville, of course, so they were happy to palm off investigating Frankland's death onto the MoD police. That only left the dead dog, and as one of the sergeants explained, if the owner didn't complain, they wouldn't record it as a crime. And as there wasn't an owner...
"But can you have a word with the lads at the Cross Keys, please, DI Lestrade, tell 'em not to do that sort of thing again or they'll upset the RSPCA. And if Mr Knight's in possession of anything he shouldn't have, can you see it he throws it in a bog or something? We don't want any more accidents."
Greg had no idea how Henry Knight had got hold of a gun or what had happened to it. Though it was never safe possessing a pistol in Sherlock's vicinity. He sent off a rapid e-mail to Anthea, asking her to check if Baskerville had weapons missing and saying he'd send a full report later. Then he drove very carefully back to the inn, hoping he wasn't going to start seeing things again. Before he turned in for the night, he got the receptionist to put his gun and his phone in their safe. If he did have any more hallucinations, he didn't want to end up shooting someone. Or texting Mycroft.
***
By lunchtime the next day, Greg had sorted out the cordoning off of Dewer's Hollow, given a strictly unofficial briefing to the MoD police, and explained to Henry Knight that making a complaint about Sherlock stealing the handgun he'd been illegally possessing would be a very, very bad move.
"I'll see if I can get the Baskerville lot to tell you more about what Frankland was up to," he said. "But no promises and if you spill the beans to the press, you'll regret it."
He wasn't sure what would happen to the confused looking man now; he'd have to see if Mycroft had any bright ideas for getting him back on his feet. They surely owed him something after what he'd been through. But his own job for now was to get back to London and report on the situation.
He was expecting a meeting in a cafe, as usual, but instead Anthea told him to come to Mycroft's office, a dark little den incongruously located above John Lewis in Oxford Street. Going up in the world, he thought, as he sat there, drinking strong coffee and hearing Anthea explain that Mycroft had been delayed, but would be along shortly. Half-past five turned into quarter-past six, and Anthea sat behind Mycroft's desk playing with her phone and watching Greg surreptitiously. She was obviously wondering if she could trust him enough to leave him alone in the office. He smiled at her and waited patiently, because he'd spent half a lifetime sitting in unmarked cars on surveillance and this was nothing.
Mycroft turned up eventually, apologising profusely but vaguely for having being delayed. He looked tired, Greg thought, lines on his face that he didn't remember from the last time he'd seen him. Anthea slipped away and Mycroft perched on the edge of his huge mahogany desk and said: "Thank you for all your hard work, Greg. Now if you can fill me in on exactly what happened - and yes, I have already read John's blog post on the subject."
Greg grinned and gave him a rapid rundown of events. Mycroft listened, throwing in occasional questions. It was so much bloody easier briefing him than anyone else, Greg thought. Mycroft could pick up on all the important details immediately, but he didn't feel the need to interrupt you and tell the story himself, the way Sherlock always did. And Sherlock certainly wouldn't haven't smiled at him at the end and said, "You seem to have handled a difficult situation extremely well, Greg."
It wasn't said with Mycroft's normal air of condescension; he seemed genuinely pleased. Greg allowed himself a brief surge of pleasure that he'd been able to do that, uncover the warmth buried deep inside the man. Better get back to business though, he thought.
"So what now?" he said. "The Devon police won't make trouble, but you're gonna have to make some kind of deal with Henry Knight, and I don't know what you do about the Baskerville lot."
"Some fairly drastic reorganisations are certainly called for," Mycroft said, his smile vanishing. "Starting with their security protocols. They've been far too casual, as witness the incident of the luminous rabbit. It's amazing how well-trained professionals can be so irresponsible."
"Yeah, well all of do some pretty unprofessional things sometimes," Greg said. Mycroft looked sharply at him for a moment and then said abruptly:
"You were under considerable stress when you sent that text to me. Please don't let it worry you."
What the fuck, Greg thought, and then remembered, with a lurch of his stomach. It wasn't bloody fair, he thought, staring down at his hands, hoping his tan would hide the blush. Why the hell did Mycroft have to bring that up? He'd been trying to forget about that. It had been months ago, after all.
It had been months ago and yet it was still worrying Mycroft. Greg forced himself to look up at him, but the other man's gaze slid away from his scrutiny. Mycroft's hand was gripping onto the edge of the desk a little too tightly and suddenly Greg knew. Without thinking, he stood up, took two strides forward, and reached out his hand to tilt Mycroft's face towards his. Mycroft's grey eyes, at last looking into Greg's, were wide and dark, and his cheek was smooth-shaven, soft to Greg's fingers.
"I'm not stressed now," Greg said, and he pressed his mouth against Mycroft's full lips, his fingers going round Mycroft's neck, pulling him into the kiss. A moment's hesitation from Mycroft and then he was responding, his lips opening to Greg's tongue. Greg's fingers teased the hair at Mycroft's nape, as his tongue flicked against the inside of teeth, and he heard Mycroft's breath speed up. He rubbed a thumb down the side of Mycroft's jaw, and the response was something suspiciously like a moan. Then Greg's hands reached down, pulling the other man fully upright, away from his desk. Sliding down a smooth, firm back to grab at Mycroft's full arse. Pressing his body against Mycroft's, feeling the heat spreading between them as his groin started an old, familiar motion...
Mycroft's mouth broke away from Greg's lips.
"No," he whispered. "We can't."
Greg's muscles tensed, and then very, very carefully he released Mycroft from his grasp. Backed off, panting, hands in the air and said shakily: "Why not?" Because Mycroft hadn't said I don't want this. Just we can't, like it was somehow illegal.
Mycroft drew himself up, smoothing down his jacket, trying to regain an air of dignity.
"You must see it's impossible."
"Why? We both feel this, we've always felt it. It was just because of Angie, but she's gone now. She's found someone she wants, so why the hell can't we have something?"
"Sherlock-" Mycroft began.
"Don't give me that excuse," Greg broke in. "Sherlock may not like me working for you, but he can live with it. I reckon he'll do anything to avoid getting landed with another DI. "
Mycroft was silent and then he swallowed and said slowly:
"There is a man..."
"Oh fuck, no," Greg gasped, his stomach spasming.
"No," Mycroft replied shakily. "I didn't mean...it's not like that, Greg." He ground to a halt again, and Greg watched the man's too fast breathing, feeling the same rhythm pounding inside himself. Then Mycroft began again, in a voice desperately trying to be calm:
"For the last three days there has been a man in a cell in a hidden location in London. James Moriarty, the pips bomber. I have spent today interrogating him."
Greg waited, but Mycroft didn't seem able to say anything more. But he didn't need to, did he? The implications abruptly flooded into the part of Greg's mind that was still vaguely functioning.
"You're torturing him," he said, and his voice sounded weirdly unshocked.
"No," Mycroft shook his head. "We started with force, of course. Mr Moriarty is rather unpopular with my department after the Coventry fiasco, so a certain amount of mistreatment was allowed, just to check his pain threshold. But you don't get reliable intelligence that way."
Trust that to be why Mycroft thought torture was a bad idea. "So what are you doing to him now?"
"Talking to him," Mycroft said quietly. "It is sometimes possible to build a relationship with a prisoner, to break down their resistance in that way. Deep down they want the chance to open up, reveal themselves as the person they truly are."
Greg nodded. You got that a lot with murderers. "And it's you doing the talking?"
"He ignores the rest of my team," Mycroft said wearily, and his body was sagging again, hands reaching for the desk to prop himself up. "I am Sherlock's brother, however, and so I intrigue him. But it's a slow process."
No wonder he's tired, Greg thought. Interrogations were always hard work, and something this big was a terrifying responsibility.
"If you get anything that links him to the bombings, we can have a go with him," he offered.
"I doubt we will. It will be hard enough to get what we're after in the time available."
"How long have you got?" Greg demanded, his mind lurching back to last year and the hours on the clock ticking away.
"No need to look at your watch," Mycroft said hastily. "It's not a ticking bomb scenario; we have no fixed deadline. It's both less urgent and more complicated than that. We believe that Moriarty is leading a double life."
"He's got some other identity, you mean?"
"Yes, which he's carefully maintained over several years. There are gaps in our tracking of him. Somewhere, we suspect, there is a job, a home - perhaps even a girlfriend or boyfriend - belonging to this Mr X. The connections cannot be so tight that Moriarty's immediate absence would be suspect. But if his friends or colleagues hear nothing from him for a month or two, they will worry. Start to make waves, go to the authorities."
"Missing adults are a low priority for the police," Greg said.
"Perhaps so," Mycroft said, "but there will be some kind of trigger, I feel sure of it. We just don't know when it will be pulled."
He paused, staring into space, and Greg wondered if he was mentally back in a cell, talking to a madman. Then Mycroft went on:
"I have to decide what we do with him, Greg. Which is why my answer to you is no."
Greg smiled then and watched Mycroft's puzzled look in response. He really wasn't used to dealing with coppers, was he?
"You're in the middle of a big operation and you've got tunnel vision," Greg told him gently. "Been there, done that. Course you can't think straight about your personal life. But you'll crack Moriarty soon and then we'll go out for a drink and you can tell me all about it."
Better go now, he thought, before either of us say something we'll regret later.
"Take care," he said. "And let me know when this over. I can wait a bit longer, Mycroft. Don't worry about that."