Sherlock (BBC) Fanfic - Survival - Chapter 9
Title: Survival
Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)
Characters: Sherlock, John, Molly, Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, Mycroft, Moriarty (men.), Homeless Network, Col. Moran
Genre: Drama, hurt/comfort, angst, friendship - there will be a great deal of bromance (or pre-slash, you can in fact read this one either way)
Rating: T
Chapter Length: 3,597 words
Spoilers: End of series 2, “The Reichenbach Fall”
Warnings: Spoilers, angst, some violence and mentions of drugs
Status: Incomplete
Summary: “Sherlock had never expected dismantling Moriarty’s empire would be anything less than gruelling, however he also never anticipated just how desperately he would miss home.” Post-Reichenbach to reunion; Sherlock’s p.o.v.
Chapter 1 - Chapter 2 - Chapter 3 - Chapter 4 - Chapter 5 - Chapter 6 - Chapter 7
- Chapter 8
A.N.: Thank you, yet again, for all the fantastic responses I've received for this fic. One of the most wonderful things is how many readers on here and on FFn are giving me feedback for every chapter - you're all being so incredibly generous with your time to do so, and I adore you for it. Thank you so, so very much.
As ever, thanks have to go to the amazingly skilled and kind betas I've been so lucky as to work with. velveteenkitten, interjection, patchsassy and infinityuphigh - thank you for all your help and encouragement.
Cover by
carolstime
ooo
SURVIVAL - CHAPTER 9
ooo
It is the nineteenth of January when Sherlock’s brother next contacts him. The Dublin office has apparently been taken care of, and his expertise is required elsewhere. A car will arrive for him in three hours (Mycroft knows about the keyrings and is giving him time), the text says, although no destination is provided. Fortunately, that is not the information he considers important in this case. What Sherlock has been desperate to hear is that he will not be acting as support again, and he is not disappointed. The past month has driven him mad; the renewed smoking habit he swore to himself would be kept under control has spiralled from one cigarette every couple of days to one every couple of hours. With nothing to dress for, Sherlock has been languishing in an undershirt and his pyjama bottoms for the past five days. His bags have been kept packed at the end of the bed, ready for him to leave at a moment’s notice, out of wretched hope that each morning will begin with new instructions - only a clean pair of jeans, a t-shirt and a thick, forest-green jumper have been left out, waiting patiently on the back of the room’s armchair. After a hurried shower, they are finally put to use.
He is not absent from the hotel for long. There are galleries and shopping centres within easy walking distance, not to mention Trinity College and the Book of Kells less than fifteen minutes away. The National Gallery is simplest though, with non-existent queues, and Sherlock is back at the Mespil less than half an hour after the initial call. With nothing left to do, he sits and toys with the small metal ring and the attached logo until it is warm from the constant connection to his fingers, at which point he tucks it away with the others.
The knock comes an hour early, insistent and urgent. Sherlock is cautious but not truly worried - he knows that pattern, and when the tiny peephole shows a frowning Douglas he is not the least bit taken aback. He opens the door and the older man holds it while Sherlock grabs his coat and bags.
“Compromised?” he asks as they stride briskly down the hall.
“Not yet,” comes the tight reply, “but there’s potential. No one you know, lad,” Douglas tells him, offering a tiny smile. “No one any of us knows, actually. Hired runner. Might know a little more than he should, though.”
“Ah. Not actually a threat then, as long as everyone clears out of Dublin in time. They already know we know about them - they have to by now - and I seriously doubt the runner had access to any information regarding current targets,” he muses. “None of us are so stupid as to mention them.”
“Quite right,” Douglas grins, mimicking Sherlock’s accent briefly when they exit the lift. “Just need to extract everyone. Even then, you shouldn’t be in any danger here. Only I knew where our back-up was, and I didn’t know it was you until ten minutes ago. The Boss Man’s just bein’ careful.”
Sherlock nods wryly in response, then waves the man away whilst he pays and checks out. The receptionist is, luckily, efficient and Sherlock is in the waiting Land Rover nice and quickly. There is a skinny, grey-haired man he doesn’t know driving, whilst Douglas sits in the back with Sherlock. He doesn’t ask for a name, and only acknowledges him with a nod. Douglas smirks.
“Still an anti-social bugger,” he states as he hands over an envelope. “That there’s your ticket, boarding pass, confirmation of your booking at the hotel… You know the drill.”
Another nod from Sherlock, and then there is nothing but the sound of the engine.
ooo
Sherlock steps out of Venice’s Marco Polo airport into more miserable weather than he left in Ireland. The water is smooth as he is taken out to the city itself, only turning a little choppy at the mid-point, and the flooding comes as quite a shock. He knows about the acqua alta, but he never anticipated it occurring during his stay. The hotel Mycroft has booked for him, Casa Rezzonico, is close to the edge of a smaller canal, and he cannot help but feel nervous. When he arrives he discovers he had no reason to worry - the Peggy Guggenheim is less than one hundred meters away and both buildings are untouched by the water.
The small hotel is comfortable, Sherlock’s room a warm combination of red and magnolia, and is probably the only one in all of Venice with a green garden. When the sun finally shines on the third morning, Sherlock takes a small breakfast of coffee and a pastry out on the lawn; the air is fairly chilly and the grass slightly damp, but he is still suffering a slight backlash from his incarceration in Dublin. The simple joy of being outside is more than enough compensation for the cold seeping through his epidermis, making him shiver. He has never been one for ‘simple pleasures,’ and it surprises him how very much they mean to him now. Not that it should - human beings will take comfort wherever and however they can during times of trial, and he is no exception. Of course, it is to a decidedly less humiliating extent in his case.
There is no way for Sherlock to blend in here. His skill with the language in general is admirable (close to both French and Spanish, plus his uncle by marriage had been Florentian); however, his knowledge of the local slang is incomplete. Not to mention that he is too tall, too pale and far too angular to go unnoticed in this close-knit society. Robert Clarke becomes a writer, taking a long break whilst researching his next attempt at a novel, and it does not take long for the locals to learn his name and begin calling out greetings as though he has been living there for years. Venetians are, it would seem, either extremely friendly or have an admirable awareness of how much their economy relies on tourism generated by writers and the like. Within the week they are beckoning him over to pass on bits and pieces of local gossip and lore quite happily. Sherlock smiles and laughs and feigns interest, only to disregard two-thirds of what he is told as irrelevant. The final third, on the other hand, is more than worthy of investigation, and he spends hours doing so whilst trying to avoid the streets and squares where the acqua alta is stubbornly lingering. Not that they are impassable, but he does not enjoy the indignity of queuing and jostling his way along the temporary platforms.
Piazza San Marco is, as expected, the worst. It may be the ‘off’ season, but the queues for the Basilica and the Palazzo Ducale are ridiculous nonetheless and completely block the gangways - Sherlock avoids the square entirely after wasting over an hour trying to walk less than four hundred meters. It is a perfectly understandable course of action, in his opinion, although it does result in some rather odd and lengthy detours. It will be the last place to be reclaimed from the lagoon as well, he is sure; water seeps through the grates at high tide during the summer months, for goodness’ sake. The flooding may only come to an inch or so above his ankles, the one time he decides to check, but there is far more beneath the city’s famous streets - it actually totals more than an extra meter, according to the reports, and his hosts tell him it will have affected roughly a quarter of the city.
It is more than a simple annoyance, though. Venice may be prepared for such instances, but that does not mean life continues without a care. Progress is depressingly slow until the waters finally recede. Mycroft had been unable to provide photographs of either of the Venetian agents, and Sherlock knows better than to loiter near the tiny office after his near-disasters in Coimbra and Havana. Soon he is doing little more than banging his face against the proverbial brick wall, growing more frustrated by the day.
Or he would have been, if he was not so very charmed by the city.
It is pleasant in all the standard ways, but the stories grab Sherlock by his very marrow. As with many Italian cities, Venice boasts a plethora of myths and legends all its own; many are terrifying, more are bloody, and several are a glorious combination of the two. Sherlock spends hours in cafés and bars listening to enthusiastic locals trying to one-up each other, and adores every second. He spends long evenings writing his favourites down for future enjoyment, and by the time the pavements are dry and normal service has resumed Sherlock is stunned to find that he has not only been distracted from his boredom, but also his thoughts of John and 221B.
It is confusing. The temporary relief has done wonders for him; he can feel his muscles tighten and his chest ache when the awareness of his losses returns, both sensations he had failed to properly register or account for until now. He has been happier than he has in months, has enjoyed his time without the maudlin, painful thoughts, and he cannot help but resent their reappearance. Conversely, the guilt threatens to consume him. To forget John and the others for even an hour seems unthinkable (a sacrilege and a betrayal), and that he’s allowed them to slip from his mind for days has him spilling whispered apologies into his tea-cup.
ooo
The situation moves along quickly once Sherlock has confirmed the identities of his marks. They are subtle and strangely well-trained, but gathering the evidence required is a study in patience more than skill; within a fortnight he has enough to bury them. All that is left to do is to retrieve a few documents from the office itself - an easy task, now that he knows the agents’ routines and has observed one of them entering the code for the ‘safe’ room.
He does not stand and wait for an hour for them to leave - he walks straight there, across the Rialto bridge and down three side streets until he can see the market across the canal. He arrives at precisely seven-seventeen in the evening; early enough that he has a full half-hour before he needs to be gone, but not so much so that anyone will notice anything amiss if they see a figure entering the office. Ignoring the reception area, he takes the stairs two at a time to reach the second floor. The building is as empty as he knew it would be, with not a sound from the neighbouring accountancy firm even when the internal door slams behind him.
The file Mycroft has named most vital will most likely be at the very back of the windowless storage room, in a locked cabinet. The cabinet is easy enough to find (coded labels using the periodic table) and the lock itself proves no trouble at all, but the number of files he has to check through to find the one he needs is another matter. It takes him halfway to his deadline to find the thin, manila folder. He tucks it under his shirt immediately, securing it with a spare belt, just in case he is interrupted. He then fills his bag with a variety of folders and envelopes from any unlocked or easily-jimmied cabinets as quickly as he can before returning to the ground-floor reception area. With it being only February, he is yet hopeful that last year’s diary will have yet to be thrown away; he finds it in less than a minute, buried beneath a handful of recent post. It is tempting to take the envelopes as well, but he has been so careful to leave no trace of an intruder upstairs that to do so now feels nothing short of stupid. The diary, now useless to them, could have been mislaid. Recent correspondence could not.
Sherlock leaves without incident five minutes earlier than planned, and calmly makes his way back to Casa Rezzonico. As far as his hosts are concerned he has been out enjoying the galleries since this morning, and they greet him without suspicion or worry. He has been cordial with them without allowing himself to be drawn in as he was with Rosa, and they accept the news without a fuss when he informs them that he will be leaving the next day. It is a couple of days earlier than booked, but in terms of his schedule, he is right on time. His alibi is in place - his agent, a friend of six years, has suffered a stroke and ‘Robert’ cannot, in good conscience, remain on holiday.
They advise him to eat out on his last night in the city, and it fits far too well with his persona to refuse. He ends up across town in an out-of-the-way restaurant owned by a family friend, filled with locals and going by the name Osteria alla Staffa (he translates it to something like ‘The Stirrup Inn,’ which seems innocuous enough). The food is delicious, the atmosphere lovely, and one of Moriarty’s agents is at a table to Sherlock’s right.
It is not particularly improbable, he supposes. Many of Venice’s restaurants are packed with tourists, especially as it is now early February, so one as far from the beaten path as this would naturally do very well with the locals. What is an unwelcome surprise is that the man seated across from his mark is obviously a colleague (professional but familiar demeanour, work-related conversation for over ten minutes including mentions of files, very similar suits and bearings), but not one Sherlock has seen before, despite having monitored the office for over a fortnight. He has not been rushing, but now he takes smaller, slower bites to ensure he can observe the two for as long as possible.
Not that there is much to observe. These men are far too intelligent to discuss the realities of their business with so many ears around, and by the time his dessert arrives Sherlock has accepted that there is little he can do with regards to the stranger. He takes a picture on his phone, disguising the move by appearing to photograph his torta di ricotta, with the intention of sending it to Mycroft at the first opportunity. Later, he will wonder why on earth it failed to occur to him to present the elder Holmes with a photograph of the torta as well, but for the moment he is too focused on this blasted unknown. The man is older then both the Venetian agents (early- to mid-forties), and his accent is that of someone for whom learning Italian is a relatively recent endeavour. No, Sherlock’s job is done. The concern now is that the presence of this man (respected, deferred to by body-language: a superior?) means that the organisation has finally elected a ‘successor,’ as it were, and this meeting is indicative of improved cooperation and coordination between offices.
The very last thing Sherlock needs is a new spider.
Unfortunately, that may be what the stranger is. His watch is exactly the same make and model as Moriarty’s (could be awed imitation or coincidence; could be intentional association and insinuation), and when the second agent arrives (checked the office, found nothing amiss) his reaction only causes Sherlock more concern. He can pick out the Italian for Colonel in the greeting, plus the young man’s admiration is even more apparent than his partner’s. The is a touch of obsequiousness there, easy for Sherlock to pick up on after so many years with Mycroft, but what is truly telling is that the ‘Colonel’ does so as well yet makes no comment. It is expected, encouraged.
It is Sherlock’s worst bloody nightmare.
He does not leave in a hurry, but he still catches the way the older man’s eyes follow his movements. Sherlock wants to say that there is something there, some level of recognition or suspicion; though it is possible, he cannot afford to consider it. Instead, he wanders back to his hotel, only allowing himself to glance over his shoulder in response to particularly loud noises. No one is following him.
However, the presence of the ‘Colonel’ at the airport the following afternoon does little to help settle Sherlock’s thoughts.
ooo
Mycroft meets him in Germany, and his reaction to Sherlock’s concerns is that of a man who knew a storm was coming but lived in the hope that it would not. It leads to another shouting match - the older man should know better after the last time he kept such potentially crucial warnings to himself, considering it ended in Sherlock’s blood washing over the pavement. Sherlock rages, roaring discontent and, for a few short seconds, abuse; he stops abruptly when Major Lucas raises a hand. The ensuing silence is awkward and deafening, and Sherlock does not endure it for long. He allows the two men twenty seconds in which to respond before allowing his face to twist with derision, and he walks out in an obvious rage.
It is tempting to refuse to work with Mycroft again. Sherlock has been kept in the dark when he has been assured on multiple occasions that he never would be; it is only the thought of what Mycroft’s response would be that stops him leaving Düsseldorf without a word. He is not so foolish as to believe that his brother would not hunt him down, after which he would most likely be left with no choice but to cooperate. Sherlock’s eyes and mind are valuable commodities, which Mycroft would be unwilling to relinquish without an impressive fight.
Instead, he waits. Two days later, Mycroft is apologising and giving him every last ounce of intelligence they have amassed to date, promising that this argument is not one they will have again.
Sherlock is sent to Turkey, and spends his three weeks in Ankara hoping not to see the Colonel again. Amerson is a reasonable man, for all that his name reminds the younger man of Anderson’s, and understands immediately when Sherlock explains the reason for his constant caution. News of a “New Big Bad,” as the soldier puts it, has been passed along, but Sherlock is the first to have seen him. He is able to furnish him with the photograph, which Amerson immediately sends to every agent he has contact details for and then studies himself for a good two hours.
“I’ve seen him,” he mutters, frowning. “I’m sure of it. He’s not as good at blending with the crowds as some of the other agents.”
“He wouldn’t be. I’d estimate him to be at least six-foot-five, and his features are all very square - jaw, shoulders, palms,” Sherlock tells him, trying to encourage just a little more information from the older man.
“Tanned when I saw him, too,” Amerson says, tone distracted, and Sherlock bites his tongue and waits until - “Jo’burg! That’s where I saw him! He was in Johannesburg, had a coffee with the guy I was assigned to.” His face falls. “Fuck. He was right under my fucking nose, and I never twigged he was another agent. Fucking shit.”
Sherlock has never been good at reassurance; it seems far safer for all parties for him to leave Amerson to it when the shorter man strides to the window, glaring out at the darkness.
Three days later he offers a quiet reassurance that Amerson should let it go, that it was not his fault or responsibility, when they shake hands at the station. The soldier shakes his head, but his smile seems a little easier and Sherlock cannot help thinking that John would be proud of him. The hopeful, pleasant thought follows him across the country to Batman, where he spends a week photographing several covert meetings involving large quantities of ketamine and methamphetamine whilst trying not to derive too much amusement from the city’s name. After the ‘Geek Interpreter’ case John had revisited his childhood heroes, and Batman has refused to be deleted. There were far too many jokes, too many happy moments of John sharing anecdotes and Sherlock sniggering away; if keeping those moments means keeping the reference, Sherlock will accept the loss of space in his hard-drive. It is, after all, negligible in relation to the whole.
Of course, the memories cannot distract him forever. After Batman he leaves Turkey entirely, flying to China and then entering Tibet by road. There are no triggers for happy memories to be found here, and no time to indulge when he manages to dredge up a few in response to the meals and early mornings. He spends almost a month at a monastery in the mountains close to Xainza and the S203, cold and miserable, trying to pin down the location of a bolthole used by one of Moriarty’s operatives to hoard stolen and illegal goods too unique or distinctive to immediately sell on. By the time he finds it there are mere hours to spare, and Sherlock is, for the first time, afraid that he could be too late. It is pure luck that has him succeed in getting the necessary information to his waiting back-up in time for them to take decisive action, and the entire mission is a wake-up call he did not want.
Still. Lucerne is worse. In Lucerne, he is too slow.
ooo
As always, thank you so much for reading. I hope I haven't disappointed anyone yet! If you have the time and inclination, I would really appreciate 'hearing' your thoughts via review - no flames, please, but con-crit is a wonderful thing. Thanks again!
Click here to read chapter 10...
Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)
Characters: Sherlock, John, Molly, Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, Mycroft, Moriarty (men.), Homeless Network, Col. Moran
Genre: Drama, hurt/comfort, angst, friendship - there will be a great deal of bromance (or pre-slash, you can in fact read this one either way)
Rating: T
Chapter Length: 3,597 words
Spoilers: End of series 2, “The Reichenbach Fall”
Warnings: Spoilers, angst, some violence and mentions of drugs
Status: Incomplete
Summary: “Sherlock had never expected dismantling Moriarty’s empire would be anything less than gruelling, however he also never anticipated just how desperately he would miss home.” Post-Reichenbach to reunion; Sherlock’s p.o.v.
Chapter 1 - Chapter 2 - Chapter 3 - Chapter 4 - Chapter 5 - Chapter 6 - Chapter 7
- Chapter 8
A.N.: Thank you, yet again, for all the fantastic responses I've received for this fic. One of the most wonderful things is how many readers on here and on FFn are giving me feedback for every chapter - you're all being so incredibly generous with your time to do so, and I adore you for it. Thank you so, so very much.
As ever, thanks have to go to the amazingly skilled and kind betas I've been so lucky as to work with. velveteenkitten, interjection, patchsassy and infinityuphigh - thank you for all your help and encouragement.
Cover by
carolstime
ooo
SURVIVAL - CHAPTER 9
ooo
It is the nineteenth of January when Sherlock’s brother next contacts him. The Dublin office has apparently been taken care of, and his expertise is required elsewhere. A car will arrive for him in three hours (Mycroft knows about the keyrings and is giving him time), the text says, although no destination is provided. Fortunately, that is not the information he considers important in this case. What Sherlock has been desperate to hear is that he will not be acting as support again, and he is not disappointed. The past month has driven him mad; the renewed smoking habit he swore to himself would be kept under control has spiralled from one cigarette every couple of days to one every couple of hours. With nothing to dress for, Sherlock has been languishing in an undershirt and his pyjama bottoms for the past five days. His bags have been kept packed at the end of the bed, ready for him to leave at a moment’s notice, out of wretched hope that each morning will begin with new instructions - only a clean pair of jeans, a t-shirt and a thick, forest-green jumper have been left out, waiting patiently on the back of the room’s armchair. After a hurried shower, they are finally put to use.
He is not absent from the hotel for long. There are galleries and shopping centres within easy walking distance, not to mention Trinity College and the Book of Kells less than fifteen minutes away. The National Gallery is simplest though, with non-existent queues, and Sherlock is back at the Mespil less than half an hour after the initial call. With nothing left to do, he sits and toys with the small metal ring and the attached logo until it is warm from the constant connection to his fingers, at which point he tucks it away with the others.
The knock comes an hour early, insistent and urgent. Sherlock is cautious but not truly worried - he knows that pattern, and when the tiny peephole shows a frowning Douglas he is not the least bit taken aback. He opens the door and the older man holds it while Sherlock grabs his coat and bags.
“Compromised?” he asks as they stride briskly down the hall.
“Not yet,” comes the tight reply, “but there’s potential. No one you know, lad,” Douglas tells him, offering a tiny smile. “No one any of us knows, actually. Hired runner. Might know a little more than he should, though.”
“Ah. Not actually a threat then, as long as everyone clears out of Dublin in time. They already know we know about them - they have to by now - and I seriously doubt the runner had access to any information regarding current targets,” he muses. “None of us are so stupid as to mention them.”
“Quite right,” Douglas grins, mimicking Sherlock’s accent briefly when they exit the lift. “Just need to extract everyone. Even then, you shouldn’t be in any danger here. Only I knew where our back-up was, and I didn’t know it was you until ten minutes ago. The Boss Man’s just bein’ careful.”
Sherlock nods wryly in response, then waves the man away whilst he pays and checks out. The receptionist is, luckily, efficient and Sherlock is in the waiting Land Rover nice and quickly. There is a skinny, grey-haired man he doesn’t know driving, whilst Douglas sits in the back with Sherlock. He doesn’t ask for a name, and only acknowledges him with a nod. Douglas smirks.
“Still an anti-social bugger,” he states as he hands over an envelope. “That there’s your ticket, boarding pass, confirmation of your booking at the hotel… You know the drill.”
Another nod from Sherlock, and then there is nothing but the sound of the engine.
ooo
Sherlock steps out of Venice’s Marco Polo airport into more miserable weather than he left in Ireland. The water is smooth as he is taken out to the city itself, only turning a little choppy at the mid-point, and the flooding comes as quite a shock. He knows about the acqua alta, but he never anticipated it occurring during his stay. The hotel Mycroft has booked for him, Casa Rezzonico, is close to the edge of a smaller canal, and he cannot help but feel nervous. When he arrives he discovers he had no reason to worry - the Peggy Guggenheim is less than one hundred meters away and both buildings are untouched by the water.
The small hotel is comfortable, Sherlock’s room a warm combination of red and magnolia, and is probably the only one in all of Venice with a green garden. When the sun finally shines on the third morning, Sherlock takes a small breakfast of coffee and a pastry out on the lawn; the air is fairly chilly and the grass slightly damp, but he is still suffering a slight backlash from his incarceration in Dublin. The simple joy of being outside is more than enough compensation for the cold seeping through his epidermis, making him shiver. He has never been one for ‘simple pleasures,’ and it surprises him how very much they mean to him now. Not that it should - human beings will take comfort wherever and however they can during times of trial, and he is no exception. Of course, it is to a decidedly less humiliating extent in his case.
There is no way for Sherlock to blend in here. His skill with the language in general is admirable (close to both French and Spanish, plus his uncle by marriage had been Florentian); however, his knowledge of the local slang is incomplete. Not to mention that he is too tall, too pale and far too angular to go unnoticed in this close-knit society. Robert Clarke becomes a writer, taking a long break whilst researching his next attempt at a novel, and it does not take long for the locals to learn his name and begin calling out greetings as though he has been living there for years. Venetians are, it would seem, either extremely friendly or have an admirable awareness of how much their economy relies on tourism generated by writers and the like. Within the week they are beckoning him over to pass on bits and pieces of local gossip and lore quite happily. Sherlock smiles and laughs and feigns interest, only to disregard two-thirds of what he is told as irrelevant. The final third, on the other hand, is more than worthy of investigation, and he spends hours doing so whilst trying to avoid the streets and squares where the acqua alta is stubbornly lingering. Not that they are impassable, but he does not enjoy the indignity of queuing and jostling his way along the temporary platforms.
Piazza San Marco is, as expected, the worst. It may be the ‘off’ season, but the queues for the Basilica and the Palazzo Ducale are ridiculous nonetheless and completely block the gangways - Sherlock avoids the square entirely after wasting over an hour trying to walk less than four hundred meters. It is a perfectly understandable course of action, in his opinion, although it does result in some rather odd and lengthy detours. It will be the last place to be reclaimed from the lagoon as well, he is sure; water seeps through the grates at high tide during the summer months, for goodness’ sake. The flooding may only come to an inch or so above his ankles, the one time he decides to check, but there is far more beneath the city’s famous streets - it actually totals more than an extra meter, according to the reports, and his hosts tell him it will have affected roughly a quarter of the city.
It is more than a simple annoyance, though. Venice may be prepared for such instances, but that does not mean life continues without a care. Progress is depressingly slow until the waters finally recede. Mycroft had been unable to provide photographs of either of the Venetian agents, and Sherlock knows better than to loiter near the tiny office after his near-disasters in Coimbra and Havana. Soon he is doing little more than banging his face against the proverbial brick wall, growing more frustrated by the day.
Or he would have been, if he was not so very charmed by the city.
It is pleasant in all the standard ways, but the stories grab Sherlock by his very marrow. As with many Italian cities, Venice boasts a plethora of myths and legends all its own; many are terrifying, more are bloody, and several are a glorious combination of the two. Sherlock spends hours in cafés and bars listening to enthusiastic locals trying to one-up each other, and adores every second. He spends long evenings writing his favourites down for future enjoyment, and by the time the pavements are dry and normal service has resumed Sherlock is stunned to find that he has not only been distracted from his boredom, but also his thoughts of John and 221B.
It is confusing. The temporary relief has done wonders for him; he can feel his muscles tighten and his chest ache when the awareness of his losses returns, both sensations he had failed to properly register or account for until now. He has been happier than he has in months, has enjoyed his time without the maudlin, painful thoughts, and he cannot help but resent their reappearance. Conversely, the guilt threatens to consume him. To forget John and the others for even an hour seems unthinkable (a sacrilege and a betrayal), and that he’s allowed them to slip from his mind for days has him spilling whispered apologies into his tea-cup.
ooo
The situation moves along quickly once Sherlock has confirmed the identities of his marks. They are subtle and strangely well-trained, but gathering the evidence required is a study in patience more than skill; within a fortnight he has enough to bury them. All that is left to do is to retrieve a few documents from the office itself - an easy task, now that he knows the agents’ routines and has observed one of them entering the code for the ‘safe’ room.
He does not stand and wait for an hour for them to leave - he walks straight there, across the Rialto bridge and down three side streets until he can see the market across the canal. He arrives at precisely seven-seventeen in the evening; early enough that he has a full half-hour before he needs to be gone, but not so much so that anyone will notice anything amiss if they see a figure entering the office. Ignoring the reception area, he takes the stairs two at a time to reach the second floor. The building is as empty as he knew it would be, with not a sound from the neighbouring accountancy firm even when the internal door slams behind him.
The file Mycroft has named most vital will most likely be at the very back of the windowless storage room, in a locked cabinet. The cabinet is easy enough to find (coded labels using the periodic table) and the lock itself proves no trouble at all, but the number of files he has to check through to find the one he needs is another matter. It takes him halfway to his deadline to find the thin, manila folder. He tucks it under his shirt immediately, securing it with a spare belt, just in case he is interrupted. He then fills his bag with a variety of folders and envelopes from any unlocked or easily-jimmied cabinets as quickly as he can before returning to the ground-floor reception area. With it being only February, he is yet hopeful that last year’s diary will have yet to be thrown away; he finds it in less than a minute, buried beneath a handful of recent post. It is tempting to take the envelopes as well, but he has been so careful to leave no trace of an intruder upstairs that to do so now feels nothing short of stupid. The diary, now useless to them, could have been mislaid. Recent correspondence could not.
Sherlock leaves without incident five minutes earlier than planned, and calmly makes his way back to Casa Rezzonico. As far as his hosts are concerned he has been out enjoying the galleries since this morning, and they greet him without suspicion or worry. He has been cordial with them without allowing himself to be drawn in as he was with Rosa, and they accept the news without a fuss when he informs them that he will be leaving the next day. It is a couple of days earlier than booked, but in terms of his schedule, he is right on time. His alibi is in place - his agent, a friend of six years, has suffered a stroke and ‘Robert’ cannot, in good conscience, remain on holiday.
They advise him to eat out on his last night in the city, and it fits far too well with his persona to refuse. He ends up across town in an out-of-the-way restaurant owned by a family friend, filled with locals and going by the name Osteria alla Staffa (he translates it to something like ‘The Stirrup Inn,’ which seems innocuous enough). The food is delicious, the atmosphere lovely, and one of Moriarty’s agents is at a table to Sherlock’s right.
It is not particularly improbable, he supposes. Many of Venice’s restaurants are packed with tourists, especially as it is now early February, so one as far from the beaten path as this would naturally do very well with the locals. What is an unwelcome surprise is that the man seated across from his mark is obviously a colleague (professional but familiar demeanour, work-related conversation for over ten minutes including mentions of files, very similar suits and bearings), but not one Sherlock has seen before, despite having monitored the office for over a fortnight. He has not been rushing, but now he takes smaller, slower bites to ensure he can observe the two for as long as possible.
Not that there is much to observe. These men are far too intelligent to discuss the realities of their business with so many ears around, and by the time his dessert arrives Sherlock has accepted that there is little he can do with regards to the stranger. He takes a picture on his phone, disguising the move by appearing to photograph his torta di ricotta, with the intention of sending it to Mycroft at the first opportunity. Later, he will wonder why on earth it failed to occur to him to present the elder Holmes with a photograph of the torta as well, but for the moment he is too focused on this blasted unknown. The man is older then both the Venetian agents (early- to mid-forties), and his accent is that of someone for whom learning Italian is a relatively recent endeavour. No, Sherlock’s job is done. The concern now is that the presence of this man (respected, deferred to by body-language: a superior?) means that the organisation has finally elected a ‘successor,’ as it were, and this meeting is indicative of improved cooperation and coordination between offices.
The very last thing Sherlock needs is a new spider.
Unfortunately, that may be what the stranger is. His watch is exactly the same make and model as Moriarty’s (could be awed imitation or coincidence; could be intentional association and insinuation), and when the second agent arrives (checked the office, found nothing amiss) his reaction only causes Sherlock more concern. He can pick out the Italian for Colonel in the greeting, plus the young man’s admiration is even more apparent than his partner’s. The is a touch of obsequiousness there, easy for Sherlock to pick up on after so many years with Mycroft, but what is truly telling is that the ‘Colonel’ does so as well yet makes no comment. It is expected, encouraged.
It is Sherlock’s worst bloody nightmare.
He does not leave in a hurry, but he still catches the way the older man’s eyes follow his movements. Sherlock wants to say that there is something there, some level of recognition or suspicion; though it is possible, he cannot afford to consider it. Instead, he wanders back to his hotel, only allowing himself to glance over his shoulder in response to particularly loud noises. No one is following him.
However, the presence of the ‘Colonel’ at the airport the following afternoon does little to help settle Sherlock’s thoughts.
ooo
Mycroft meets him in Germany, and his reaction to Sherlock’s concerns is that of a man who knew a storm was coming but lived in the hope that it would not. It leads to another shouting match - the older man should know better after the last time he kept such potentially crucial warnings to himself, considering it ended in Sherlock’s blood washing over the pavement. Sherlock rages, roaring discontent and, for a few short seconds, abuse; he stops abruptly when Major Lucas raises a hand. The ensuing silence is awkward and deafening, and Sherlock does not endure it for long. He allows the two men twenty seconds in which to respond before allowing his face to twist with derision, and he walks out in an obvious rage.
It is tempting to refuse to work with Mycroft again. Sherlock has been kept in the dark when he has been assured on multiple occasions that he never would be; it is only the thought of what Mycroft’s response would be that stops him leaving Düsseldorf without a word. He is not so foolish as to believe that his brother would not hunt him down, after which he would most likely be left with no choice but to cooperate. Sherlock’s eyes and mind are valuable commodities, which Mycroft would be unwilling to relinquish without an impressive fight.
Instead, he waits. Two days later, Mycroft is apologising and giving him every last ounce of intelligence they have amassed to date, promising that this argument is not one they will have again.
Sherlock is sent to Turkey, and spends his three weeks in Ankara hoping not to see the Colonel again. Amerson is a reasonable man, for all that his name reminds the younger man of Anderson’s, and understands immediately when Sherlock explains the reason for his constant caution. News of a “New Big Bad,” as the soldier puts it, has been passed along, but Sherlock is the first to have seen him. He is able to furnish him with the photograph, which Amerson immediately sends to every agent he has contact details for and then studies himself for a good two hours.
“I’ve seen him,” he mutters, frowning. “I’m sure of it. He’s not as good at blending with the crowds as some of the other agents.”
“He wouldn’t be. I’d estimate him to be at least six-foot-five, and his features are all very square - jaw, shoulders, palms,” Sherlock tells him, trying to encourage just a little more information from the older man.
“Tanned when I saw him, too,” Amerson says, tone distracted, and Sherlock bites his tongue and waits until - “Jo’burg! That’s where I saw him! He was in Johannesburg, had a coffee with the guy I was assigned to.” His face falls. “Fuck. He was right under my fucking nose, and I never twigged he was another agent. Fucking shit.”
Sherlock has never been good at reassurance; it seems far safer for all parties for him to leave Amerson to it when the shorter man strides to the window, glaring out at the darkness.
Three days later he offers a quiet reassurance that Amerson should let it go, that it was not his fault or responsibility, when they shake hands at the station. The soldier shakes his head, but his smile seems a little easier and Sherlock cannot help thinking that John would be proud of him. The hopeful, pleasant thought follows him across the country to Batman, where he spends a week photographing several covert meetings involving large quantities of ketamine and methamphetamine whilst trying not to derive too much amusement from the city’s name. After the ‘Geek Interpreter’ case John had revisited his childhood heroes, and Batman has refused to be deleted. There were far too many jokes, too many happy moments of John sharing anecdotes and Sherlock sniggering away; if keeping those moments means keeping the reference, Sherlock will accept the loss of space in his hard-drive. It is, after all, negligible in relation to the whole.
Of course, the memories cannot distract him forever. After Batman he leaves Turkey entirely, flying to China and then entering Tibet by road. There are no triggers for happy memories to be found here, and no time to indulge when he manages to dredge up a few in response to the meals and early mornings. He spends almost a month at a monastery in the mountains close to Xainza and the S203, cold and miserable, trying to pin down the location of a bolthole used by one of Moriarty’s operatives to hoard stolen and illegal goods too unique or distinctive to immediately sell on. By the time he finds it there are mere hours to spare, and Sherlock is, for the first time, afraid that he could be too late. It is pure luck that has him succeed in getting the necessary information to his waiting back-up in time for them to take decisive action, and the entire mission is a wake-up call he did not want.
Still. Lucerne is worse. In Lucerne, he is too slow.
ooo
As always, thank you so much for reading. I hope I haven't disappointed anyone yet! If you have the time and inclination, I would really appreciate 'hearing' your thoughts via review - no flames, please, but con-crit is a wonderful thing. Thanks again!
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