prompting part XXIII
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Prompts from this post can be filled on the Overflow Post
IMPORTANT! Spoilers for aired episodes are now being allowed on this area of the meme, without warning. If you do not want to encounter spoilers, please prompt at our Spoiler-Free Prompt Post.
( Read more... )
"This is all too delicious," the caller starts, a delighted nasal purr that sends John right back to fury and fear and helplessness in an empty swimming pool, red dots dancing. "You should have warned me. I could have bought popcorn."
Sherlock's lip curls.
"I don't know if I can let you go on playing me for too long," Moriarty continues, the edge of a whine to it. "It's a copyright thing. And you're far too good at it, you know I hate competition."
Sherlock nods at John, who reaches for the phone, only to be interrupted by "Not so quick, Doctor," growled out several octaves harsher, before flipping back to wheedling in the blink of an eye. All John can think is for fuck's sake, not again. "A little bird tells me you're looking for something, Sherlock. And you know, for you, I might even be persuaded to play delivery boy."
John sits. Sherlock is on his feet. "This isn't you." He insists, scornful, in the direction of the phone's blinking light. "It hasn't got any... style."
A prolonged giggle, fading to a sharp, angry "Weren't you listening?" Moriarty breathes in and out, then continues. "Of course not. I was just an appreciative audience. Until I thought, the only thing more fun might be being able to call a favour from my very, very favourite detective. One time offer, Sherlock. Five, four-"
"Yes." Sherlock says, face blank. John thinks even Moriarty is taken aback that they didn't make it to two. Then;
"Ding dong!" he sings, and as the call ends, the doorbell rings.
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The tid-bit into Mycroft and Sherlock's childhood was sweet, Sherlock was adorable and so was Mycroft, being a good big bro as ever.
I like how that is how Sherlock worked out something really was wrong and it just seems like something Mycroft would do, a nice private goodbye. Really touching (or at least I think so. Perhaps I'm odd)
I also like how Sherlock's not messing about this time and excepts the deal immediately. It's good to see that he's taking it seriously.
Can't wait to see what happens next of course, you really are doing spectacularly.
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seriously though, I'm really really glad you like the tying-in with the pirate thing, I just thought the little face Mycroft pulled after he said it was so cute and wistful and heartbreaking ♥
More will be up soon!
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"This isn't my room," he says roughly, accusingly.
"It is not," Mycroft agrees. "It is also a great deal cleaner, larger and more secure. I trust it will be comfortable for the duration of your treatment."
Even in this condition, he doesn't need to wait for Sherlock to catch on. "You wouldn't dare," he says, "you have no right!", and when Mycroft says nothing in response Sherlock punches him square on the jaw.
It's not very hard. Sherlock hasn't a lot of strength left. But what force it has is born of fury, and it does land at the corner of Mycroft's mouth, and as a result Mycroft can taste a little blood. He catches Sherlock's wrist when he swings a second time, catches both his wrists and holds him at arms length impassively. His brother gets one for free, that's all.
"Mummy won't let you," Sherlock hisses. Mycroft feels a familiar headache building.
"Sherlock, she co-signed the commitment papers."
"Liar," Sherlock barks instinctively, then pulls away. "She's here?" The edge of hope in it is pitifully badly hidden. Mycroft's silence is an answer, and Sherlock turns to stare at the wall.
As he does he sees the case, the worn and well-loved violin case, "S HOLMES" scrawled on it in black felt-tip. He sneers. "She made you bring me that, I suppose?"
"Yes, she did," Mycroft lies, and leaves Sherlock and his needle marks and his angry chords, because he can only take so much.
*
John is a soldier, John will always be a soldier, so he reaches the door with gun already drawn. Finger on the trigger, he steps out in to the dark and looks in every direction for some trace of Moriarty, determined to turn the tables this time.
But he is a doctor first (dreads the day that proves he isn't, knowing alongside Sherlock that may well come) so when he sees the figure slumped on the doorstep, all else is forgotten. There's blood, on his hands from where he reaching out and touching, on his shirt and his jeans as he cradles the limp figure's head. Discretely elegant suit ruined beyond recognition, and the face, battered yet defiantly, terribly familiar. And the blood. He keeps coming back to the blood.
Sherlock runs past him, seeming a towering figure to John, on his knees feeling for a pulse. He runs past them, down the street, following John's earlier instinct. John lets him. Anything to put off Sherlock seeing, really seeing, his brother.
"Mycroft," John says. "Talk to me. Say something."
There is a pulse. There isn't an answer.
"Sherlock," John calls. He's stepped outside of himself, is ignoring the panic and disbelief. He has to get Sherlock to help him move Mycroft inside, though moving him at all is something of a gamble. He suspects broken ribs, hopes the spine is unaffected. As steady as they can, not to make anything worse, not to start him bleeding freely again.
"Jo-" Sherlock stops, entirely; John doesn't know how else to describe it. He stops moving in every conceivable way, utterly still. John doesn't dare say a word for fear the brittle sheen of composure will crumble.
"Is he-" It's barely audible.
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"Is he-" It's barely audible.
"He's breathing, weak but steady pulse. I need him inside, so I can check where he's hurt. Sherlock? I need you. Put your arm under here, like this. That's right. Wait for me, and don't lift any higher than I can, keep it flat. No, take his leg - yes. Ok. Now lift-" The whole way inside John keeps up a steady, detached flow of instructions, largely redundant, but it fills the air, punctures the tension.
Mrs Hudson gives out small distressed gasps, and clears the table with a sweeping tug at the tablecloth. Several things don't make it off in one piece. Nobody notices. Sherlock lays Mycroft down at John's instruction, then disappears after Mrs Hudson. John catches a glimpse of him holding her arm as he tells her to get clean water and a number of other things, some of which John will need, most of which he won't.
He wishes he had better light, and gets to work.
Mrs Hudson comes up behind him with an emergency kit, at some point. Every now and again Sherlock is at his shoulder, moving things around. It's more comforting than disruptive. He checks for broken bones, maps out the bruises and cuts, cleans Mycroft's face. Expensive fabric is ruthlessly set to with scissors; it's in the way, it has to go. He was right about the ribs. Most of it seems consistent with blunt trauma, skin broken on impact and bleeding shallowly, as well from the nose and mouth. All apart from one deep laceration to the lower abdomen, which he directs Sherlock's pliant hand to apply pressure to until he's able to stitch it together. After that he just stands there, looking at his fingers.
Eventually Mrs Hudson makes Sherlock sit away, on the couch. John is relieved. He steps back, runs through a checklist in his head. after a moment or two he realises what it is that's been eluding him, and pulls his woollen sweater off and folds it to tuck under Mycroft's head. Then he washes his hands, and goes in to the next room.
"He should go to a hospital. I can't really evaluate organ damage like this, let alone head-"
"No." Sherlock says, impassive. He's sitting back in his chair, eyes fixed on the wall. There's something about his posture, not unlike when he's reached a stumbling point on a case. John's not sure whether that should make him nervous or not.
"Right," John says eventually. Sherlock always has a reason. "Then we can put him in your bed."
Sherlock just nods. "Hypothesis?" He asks.
John blinks. "Sorry?"
"Observations, John." Sherlock states flatly. "I presume he's undergone some sort of interrogation? You have experience in that area. Would you be able identify the origin?"
"Sherlock?"
"Objectivity is essential, John. I would have thought, in your line of work, even you would be aware of that. Do you want to move him now? No need to be overly cautious. We can assume that they had not as yet got what they wanted, and the underlying principle of torture is to cause the desired levels of distress with the minimum of critical injury in order to maintain coherence in the subject."
John lets the silence stretch. "Then these guys weren't any good at their job," he says shortly, trying not to think of Harry on that table, trying not to yell.
Apparently he doesn't succeed, because Mrs Hudson's eyes go wide and she takes him gently by the arm and guides him out of the room. "I'll get some new sheets, dear." She says. "And then we'll move him, shall we?"
They move him in to John's bed, in the end, and John sets up some blankets on the couch with an assurance from Mrs Hudson that she will wake him in a few hours to check on Mycroft again. Eighteen hours is taking its toll, so he agrees.
He doesn't speak to Sherlock at all, but just before he drifts off, he thinks he hears some stop-start attempts at Bach from the direction of his room.
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Mycroft finds him smoking on the balcony of a squalid two-room london flat a week later, and joins him via the fire escape. The polished tip of his umbrella taps against the metal of each rung in a pleasingly ominous manner. He thinks perhaps he could get used to that.
"Anonymous letters to policemen," Mycroft says, by way of greeting. He holds up the single typed sheet delicately. "This is new."
"I got bored."
"Yes, I know." Mycroft brushes at the railing before leaning on it, an upright mirror to his brother's aching deliberate slouch. "You wrote as much on the wall before you left your previous accomodation."
"I'm not going back."
"I know."
A raised eyebrow. "Does that mean you'll stay out of my business?" Sherlock asks.
"No," Mycroft says, almost off-hand. "But I will cede you the point; you always were the wrong choice for a caged thing."
It almost makes Sherlock smile. Almost.
*
Mycroft wakes up only and hour or so after John does. His breathing is shallow and it seems to cause him pain to move, but his eyes are clear and his first words are careful thanks to Mrs Hudson, who is in the process of adjusting his pillow at the time. Her loud, joyful cries of Sherlock's name echo through 221B.
John doesn't let allow any talking until he's checked Mycroft thoroughly, asked all the routine questions. He appears fully aware of his surroundings, if somewhat tense at the sight of John. Sherlock hovers in the doorway, a buttoned-up stormcloud.
"There, then," John says, and sinks gratefully in to a chair. "This is where you tell us what is going on."
"Is it?" Mycroft says, almost vulnerable, before he steadies himself. "I must first ask how, exactly, you brought me here-"
"Moriarty." Sherlock says sharply. Oddly enough, Mycroft appears both confused and relieved.
"Your... I see. He explained? When he... brought me here?"
"No."
"Ah."
"Shall tell you?" Sherlock says flatly. Mycroft raises an eyebrow as if to indicate that's not so much a possibility as an inevitability.
"It isn't difficult. Those with the resources to get to you are limited. Those with the motive, less so. But this was because of the plane, wasn't it? I can only imagine the position your source was left in."
"It was complicated," Mycroft concedes. He's watching Sherlock warily.
"Don't patronise me." Sherlock is all ice and hard lines. "And the british government; they'd allow the perceived loss of hundreds of lives to keep this quiet. Moreover, apparently, they'd allow these people to get to you. To question you. I didn't know you had superiors, Mycroft. Much less that they thought so little of you."
"Everyone answers to someone." Mycroft's smile is thin. "But well done. And as difficult as I acknowledge it is to believe considering my current state, the situation is, in fact, under control." He turns his head slightly to face John, and it takes obvious effort. "I do not mean to be ungrateful, Doctor, but I must request that you permit me to transfer to a more equipped medica-"
"Don't lie to me!" Sherlock says loudly, furiously, and everyone freezes.
"Sherl-" Mrs Hudson berates, but is cut off.
"No good at their job, John said. Unless that wasn't their job at all. Unless this was something entirely different."
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"Stay out? Yes, yes, stay away Sherlock, keep out Sherlock," he repeats, high-pitched and mocking. "It's your people! Your own people! And you'd nod while I spin some nonsense about terrorist kidnapping and then hand yourself straight back to them rather than stay here and accept my help! Is there anything you wouldn't do to keep me at arms length?"
"Of course there isn't!" Mycroft yells back, voice breaking on the words. "You're-" He stops too late. He doesn't have to fill in the unspoken words. Nobody does.
you're my brother
John's eyes are on Sherlock's face and he sees the exact moment everything clicks in to place.
There's a shaky silence.
"Your very old friend." Sherlock says, eventually. "Not as forgiving as you thought."
"Don't be childish." Mycroft sounds tired. "Some things are sorted out in private. It would only upset her."
"Sorted out? And how, exactly, is it decided to remove Mycroft Holmes from the equation?"
Mycroft grows very calm. "I was responsible for a security breach of disastrous proportions, Sherlock."
Except you weren't, John thinks, then he thinks shit, oh shit, because Sherlock has closed up again, stone-faced.
"I don't understand," John says, because damn it, he's in the room too. "Your bosses? They just - they tried to kill you?"
Mycroft blinks slowly. "In my line of work, one can hardly simply be fired, Doctor Watson. As you can imagine, things are rather more complicated than that. It is decided, from time to time, that people need to be quickly and quietly removed."
John hesitates a moment, but Sherlock is still sitting in stony silence, so he decides to simply put it out there. "Then why aren't you dead?" He winces a little, though he had known it would sound blunt. "I mean. This- " he skims his finger along Mycroft's bandaged arm. "Isn't very quick or quiet, or, you know, efficient, and I thought..." He trails off. "Sorry."
Mycroft actually laughs, though John can tell from the way it hitches that it hurts to do so. "Not at all, dear Doctor. I am, I admit, thinking something similar. I can only conclude it wasn't a popularly endorsed decision, which is gratifying, and that when I was young I was rather clever." He's starting to look and sound a bit sleepy, and John can't help but smile back.
"I'm beginning to think that might run in the family. Still not sure how it relates, though."
"It pays," Mycroft says, "to know one's colleagues. Know which one will call the loudest for your head. It's even better to make sure that they truly and fervently loathe you." He's gazing somewhere between John and Sherlock, at nothing. "There are few things as... inefficient... as hatred. Perfectly sane men suddenly feel the need to draw things out, watch and revel in it."
"Caring is not an advantage," Sherlock says, and it sounds to John like a quotation, a learned line. Mycroft stiffens. The two brothers are looking at each other, some sort of silent conversation happening right in front of John's face and he has no idea what it means. "You wouldn't make that mistake."
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Sherlock's lips part a little, involuntarily, before he presses them together and swallows back whatever it is he was going to say. And that, if nothing else, is enough proof to John that he's not the only one to find it hilariously, tragically ironic that Mycroft can lie there and apologise.
"Go to sleep," Sherlock says, and John realises that at some point, his hand came to rest on his brother's. "When you wake up, we can make plans."
Mycroft's lip twitches. "Can we indeed." There's an almost cautious lilt on the 'we'.
"Shut up," Sherlock says, and squeezes his hand. "Just shut up." John's fairly sure that as far as the Holmes' brothers are concerned, he really isn't in the room. And, right now, he's more than fine with that.
*
Sherlock is thirty three and Mycroft is forty one, and neither know with certainty how old Irene Adler is, but that's beside the point. The point is that Mycroft has failed, Mycroft has lost, Mycroft has been beaten because Sherlock has been beaten and while everyone answers to someone, Mycroft answers for someone too. He answers for Sherlock; he always will, so long as it is in his power, and power is what he's most fluent in.
Someone hits him hard across the face. Again. It's not the punches so much as the recoil against the cement of the wall that's causing his vision to blur. His left arm is numb; he tries to move his fingers and can't.
A hand tightens around his collar, tilting his head up. He knows the sleeve, knows the voice. More than one coffee shared over papers weighed with a nation's secrets. Old school tie, the expected camaraderie.
"I have total discretion in this, Holmes. I can make it easy. Civilised. I know, I just want to hear you say it."
There's a lot between the lines in that, Mycroft thinks blearily. Any other time, I'd have a field day. Resentment, to start, insecurity. Reassertion of dominance. Regression to a childhood sens-
The largest of the five or so masked men surrounding them pulls him fully to his feet, makes his head swim.
"Just say it," the voice echoes. "Tell me how everything went so wrong. Where was your leak, Holmes?"
"Oh no," Mycroft manages, and thinks what would Sherlock say. "It's more fun if you guess." It earns him something sharp in his stomach and he sinks to the ground.
"Holmes." The voice is disappointed. "We could have done this politely. "
Everything, mercifully, fades to black.
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Thank you so much! Especially for saying that it's in character, that means a lot! ♥ Especially with two such tricky boys as the Holmes brothers.
More coming! Hopefully really soon, sorry, work is getting in the way
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