Pulling the Trigger (4/?)
Mycroft had spent the last three days in Japan, looking into every Pharmaceutical company that has ever even considered carrying a UK company product for a common link, someone to fit the very loose description he has. ‘Hello, have you talked to anyone from the UK that has a lot of research information you can’t track and a fascination for your culture? That misunderstands your culture even? Someone you’ve seen often over the last several years?’ Oh yes, helpful. Worse, he had to communicate it without seeming intrusive, without being direct, and still getting the information he needed without giving the slightest impression that there might be an affairs investigation involved. Afraid of jeopardising their working relationship with other companies, the men he was speaking to would shut right down.
He had practice at this, of course, and thank god, because he wasn’t used to being emotionally invested; it made things so much harder.
It didn’t help that he was constantly thinking about Gregory Lestrade. Was he alright? How was he coping? How were the involved officers reacting? Did they know he was related to the case? Did he feel exposed? Did he need support? Did he want support?
...Had he gone to Sherlock..?
He sat heavily on the hotel bed (too hard for his tastes, he was unfortunately addicted to the luxuries of comfort,) kneading the soft insides of his indoor slippers with his toes. He felt exhausted, anxious and empty: heavy. He wanted to go home and wrap himself in Greg’s cream blanket, fall asleep to the smell of sweat and cheap aftershave.
There wasn’t time.
He had a list of people to interview and- and then he’d have someone to destroy.
----------
Dimmock, Sally, Sherlock and John were sitting in a circle on the 221B Baker Street living room floor. All the furniture had been pushed out of the way, Sherlock’s endless assortment of random notes, experiments, possibly-Moriarty-related cases and miscellaneous unopened mail relegated to boxes and tucked into John’s sparse room for the time being. (Dimmock didn’t know enough about Sherlock to be surprised but Sally did; she politely avoided drawing notice to it, but she completely ceased any implication that Sherlock might not have feelings. She’d never seen him so serious about anything.)
They were surrounded by stacks of boxes of paper, each going through their own, working in relative silence. Newspaper clippings, medical journals, research prizes, medication sheets, employee listings, buildings owned by companies or company members, registrars ... anything to narrow down their field of candidates. John would get up once an hour or so to make another batch of tea, Sally would help him carry in mugs; Dimmock left to get food twice, when he got too frustrated. Sherlock would sometimes pace while he read, throwing useless papers behind him willy-nilly, leaving the others to watch in resigned silence.
The worst part was that Sherlock apparently didn’t trust any of them not to miss a tiny detail, so every once in a while he’d deem it necessary to speed through everyone else’s ‘rejected’ pile to make sure. Sally got so angry once she almost tried to cram one of her articles into Sherlock’s mouth; she thought back to Lestrade, looking like a ghost, slipping back into his car and tearing away, and sat back down, viciously circling something possibly relevant with an acid green pen.
Eight hours in no one felt like they were getting anywhere. Sherlock’s started tearing through the boxes they’d already finished, so frustrated he was practically crying.
Sally exchanged a significant look with John; he sighed and lifted to his feet, taking Sherlock by the arm and dragging him bodily into the consulting detective’s bedroom.
They heard shouting, mostly in Sherlock’s threatening rumble, muffled just enough by the closed door that they could hear the tone but not make out most words, strange low sounds that were probably John’s ‘calm’ voice, the one that never completely failed to mask his anger. Banging. Then- the sound sank to muffled speech, tapered to nothing. Absolutely silence: no voices, no pacing, no objects being shuffled around as Sherlock resentfully distracted himself by inspecting things.
Sally and Dimmock stared at each other, both clearly uncomfortable.
After a good minute of nothing, they broke eye contact and went back to the reams of information, the quiet somehow more awkward then before.
John and Sherlock re-emerged twenty minutes later, the military man moving past them and into the kitchen. Sherlock looked rumpled: his usually-immaculate button-up shirt had twisted around his torso, half of his collar flipped upwards, one sleeve pushed up to his elbow. His belt was missing and his hair was a complete tangle. He moved more slowly than before, ambling forward and dropping to the ground, fumbling when he opened a new box.
Sally excused herself to help John with the tea, leaning awkwardly against the counter as she watched him go through a clearly habitual ritual, smoothly rinsing and drying four cups while plucking out milk, sugar, loose-leaf tea. She opened her mouth- so many things tried to come out at once nothing at all made it. She straightened up, trying to gather her thoughts. “So, uh... what just happened.” ...and failed, apparently.
John shrugged, pouring a dash of milk into Sherlock’s tea as he stirred Dimmock’s black-with-sugar with his weaker right hand. “He just needed a nap, that’s all. Sherlock intellectualizes so often he doesn’t realize it when the problem’s obvious. Freud would be proud.”
She stared at him, realizing that she probably looked crazy. “A nap.”
“Hm. Grab the left-over Chinese, would you?” He moved into the living room again, leaving her cup on the counter. She watched, dazed, before hurrying after him, snatching the styrofoam container in passing. She had to hurry back for the forks.
Sherlock meanwhile swayed slightly as he looked through papers at a significantly slower rate than before- not because he had gone stupid with drowsiness but because he was thinking about something else, glancing through his messy fringe at John, working quietly beside him, awkwardly using his right hand to eat as he marked papers with his left. John, who had had a delightfully soporific effect on him, warm and solid against his back as they curled together on his covers, at first wrestling him into submission before merely holding him (holding him together.)
It was very interesting.
----------
Mycroft had barely entered the office of Opalesce Pharmaceutical‘s Research Head before he knew he had come to the right place. A series of knickknacks lined the middle shelf of Doctor Robert Stillman’s library; painted fans, a gleaming long knife of folded steel, books: an entire assortment of folded cranes. Beside the shelving hung a painted scroll, black, white and red of a great crane under a crimson full moon.
“Mr. Holmes.” Stillman rose to greet him; Mycroft noted how he went to bow before catching himself and reaching out to shake hands first. “Wonderful to meet you.” He smiled and it looked natural but all Mycroft could think was ‘you murderer.’ He sat back into a blush black-leather chair, gesturing Mycroft to a significantly smaller seat, looking for all the world like a nice, friendly man. “What can I do for you?
The chair wasn’t particularly comfortable, either. “Doctor Stillman. I’m sorry to bother you but I’ve been considering investing a good sum of money into your newest suggested product, and I’d like to protect my interests. I’m sure you understand.”
Stillman’s smile might have only looked sinister to Mycroft, but he felt chill at the sight of it. “Of course, of course. Let’s just go through it shall we?”
----------
John jerked awake at the sound of a triumphant yell. He was calling Dimmock before he even realized he’d taken his phone in hand, running down the stairs.
“Sherlock!”
“I found it, John, I found it!” John paused, still dizzy from the abruptness of interrupted sleep, to stare up at Sherlock. Instinct told him that all Sherlock really needed right now was hot soup and a warm bed- he was white where he wasn’t flushed, neck and temples glistening with what looked like fever-sweat.
“Sherlock.”
The taller man brandished papers at John, talking far too rapidly about the information in his hands- some man named Stillman, Research Head, frequent trips to Japan, a warehouse by the docks specified for his department but lacking any other information- for that they would need CCTV footage or- honestly Sherlock would much prefer to simply break into the place. “Look, John, it’s perfect, it fits perfectly, call Dimmock, call Donovan, we have to go now.”
John sighed, stepping closer to press his hands against Sherlock’s neck, pressing his thumbs against the man’s jaw bone. Sherlock’s pulse fluttered erratically under his skin. “Sherlock, listen to me. Dimmock is coming.” He led Sherlock to the couch, pushing him down on it. “Until he gets here I need you to sit. I’ll get you something to eat.”
Sherlock struggled to stand up again; despite his clear eyes it was obvious he was having difficulty finding his balance. It was especially obvious to John, who had seen Sherlock fly between rooftops.
“John, I can’t-“
“Sherlock, please, just stay there, eat, we’ll leave the moment Sally and Dimmock get here.”
Sherlock grumbled a weak protest but sank back down. John smiled, stroked Sherlock’s fringe back before slipping away into the kitchen.
How strange, Sherlock thought, that he was obeying so easily- John’s touch making him feel drowsy. Dare he say ‘comfortable’? (He’d never think of a word like ‘safe.’)
----------
It hadn’t been too terribly hard, steering the conversation towards Gregory Lestrade. A few vague comments about what had sparked his interest in the medication; wife dying from the disease Stillman was researching, new lover suggesting that he help assuage his grief by investing in a cure to stop the same from happening to anywhere else.
The idle banter that was meant to endear Stillman to a possible investor turned to this new lover, a healthier, happier conversation.
“He’s a DI. My brother works with him, you see. He’s- well. I’m sure you’d understand if you ever met him.”
“Oh?” Stillman leaned forward in his seat, his smile edged a little farther than natural, eyes flashing with eagerness.
“I ought to have a picture somewhere.” Mycroft patted his pockets, making a small sound of triumph as he plucked his wallet out, digging through it to pull out a picture of Gregory Lestrade. It was a little frayed around the edges, the bottom left corner folded in- he’d had it in his wallet since leaving for Japan, frequently pulling it out and back in to give it wear, rolling it between his fingers. It looked a little old and well-loved now. (He’d never had anyone’s picture in his wallet before. It made him anxious somehow. Embarrassed yet oddly proud.)
He passed it to Stillman, focused entirely on his expression. The man barely noticed, accepting the image with an easy smile.
His eyes flashed with recognition, grin flashing to sharkish before he schooled his expression.
“My, he looks like he’s aged well.”
“He certainly has.” Mycroft answered back, irritated when he detected a hint of anger in his own tone. He watched Stillman as Stillman stared at the photo, tongue darting out to wet his lips as he took in the image of his favourite victim- the one he never got to kill.
“Oh,” Mycroft said after a moment, sounding as though it had just occurred to him and feeling as though he’d throttle the man if he had to sit through a moment more of Stillman’s shallowly-hidden recognition and desire. “He does- have this tattoo.” Mycroft blinked, cocking his head to the side, looking up as though he were visualizing it. “Right between his shoulder blades,” and a smile, as though recollecting it fondly.
When he glanced back down Stillman was watching him raptly, Greg’s pictures crinkling between the man’s fingers. “Although,” he said with a small frown, “he won’t let me touch it.” He noticed the delicate frisson moving up the doctor’s spine at the revelation. Didn’t like it. Wasn’t surprised by it.
“It’s a crane,” he said, gesturing to the hanging scroll, “what’s the symbolism?”
“Long life,” Stillman purred, “the aim of our company.”
“Apt indeed,” he smiled, “which is why I hope to support Opalesce.”
“Quite a strange history, Greg. He has some very particular surgerical scars but he won’t at all tell me what they’re from. He doesn’t particularly like me to look at them either.” Mycroft shrugging with a single shoulder, feigned worry and confusion tugging down one side of his mouth.
“Does he?” the man asked, keeping his eyes fixed on the image, running his thumb over Lestrade’s face. Mycroft noticed the way Stillman shifted in his chair, pupils dilating, tracing his lips with his fingers before his free hand vanished under the desk.
Calm, stay calm. Mycroft wanted to wrap his hands around the man’s throat and squeeze until he couldn't breathe, stare him in the eye as he died. ‘I know, you sick fuck. I know all about you.’ But it was far more than he deserved.
Mycroft had the power to destroy Stillman’s financial net, put him in a dark, dank little hole for the rest of his pitiful life, and that was exactly what he intended to do.
So he smiled instead, a crooked, bemused smile that said ‘I don’t understand it but isn’t he lovely anyway?’ Mycroft reached across the desk to take the picture back; he had to tug on it, the doctor looking rather reluctant to let it go.
“I must go.” They stood up at once, looking for all the world like two men that had just had a very nice conversation, reaching across to shake hands without any awkwardness. Mycroft thanked him for his time, Robert- ‘call me Bob’- suggested that they meet again ‘for sushi or sake perhaps’. Mycroft laughed and said he’d consider it, shutting the door behind him as he slid out.
He made it out of the building and into his car before the incipient eruption. Mycroft smashed apart every bottle in his car’s miniature fridge before drinking whatever could be safely consumed, trying to burn out the image of Doctor Robert Stillman’s lust-hazed eyes fixed on Lestrade’s picture.