Sherlock (BBC) Fanfic - Survival - Chapter 15
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: 4,149 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 - Chapter 9 - Chapter 10 - Chapter 11 - Chapter 12 - Chapter 13 - Chapter 14
A.N.: Buuuuh. I’m so late… I’m sorry, but things are still rather cray-cray here - in actual fact there’s been a whole new level of insanity added, because I’ve been going to job interviews - so I’m back to being ridiculously behind with my replies to all of the wonderful feedback I’ve received. I’m doing my best to catch up again, but for the moment, please just know that I really appreciate the time and kindness so many of you are expending to offer me your thoughts and encouragement. The fact that you are still sticking with this scribble of mine, even as we reach chapter 15, means the world to me. Thank you!
As ever, I need to say an enormous thank you to my betas - velveteenkitten, patchsassy, and infinityuphigh. Without their expertise, I have no doubt that you’d all have been driven mad by my silly little errors; without their unending kindness and patience, I know that I’d be the mad one by now.
Cover by carolstime
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SURVIVAL - CHAPTER 15
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“‘Your absence has gone through me / like thread through a needle. / Everything I do is stitched with its colour.’” Mycroft sighs. “Merwin, Sherlock? Really?”
The humiliation burns low in Sherlock’s stomach, and he resists the urge to turn a glare on his brother. He knows that this is a terrible idea, and is more than a little disgusted with himself for even giving it serious consideration, never mind actually deciding to go ahead and do it. That said, he has just spent a night tossing and turning, unable to sleep because all he sees when he closes his eyes is the greyed and exhausted face of his former flatmate. Sherlock has never found sleep to be an easy bedfellow, in any sense of the phrase, but it has always been due to his mind spinning on too quickly to be caught; last night his mind stalled - stalled, of all things - and if this will resolve the problem, then he is willing to cast caution aside.
It is only a note, after all, and a quoted poem at that. He will pair it with flowers and send it anonymously - he has disguised his handwriting rather well, he thinks, and can use Mycroft to have them delivered. Owing his brother a favour, distasteful as it may be, is a far safer option than giving his details to a florist: false as they are, revealing his current location to a stranger would still be inadvisable. The risk is negligible; no one would ever connect Sherlock Holmes to flowers and poetry (although, contrary to popular belief, he does in fact hold a fondness for better examples of the latter), even if they were inclined to question his ‘death.’ Mycroft has no reason to worry, and the contents of the note are none of his concern.
Not that he will say so, knowing that the argument would be seen as petulant.
“I can’t write a personal note, and this is short, honest, and entirely accurate,” he bites out instead. “Not all of us feel the need for the pomp and tasteless gaudiness of a nine-page epic.”
“You are showing a rather worrying level of sentiment, little brother.”
“I was under the impression you believed any level of sentiment to be a weakness,” he retorts, his lip curling slightly in the face of his brother’s distain. It is not anything new, but Sherlock is not as entirely immune to the desire to impress his older sibling as he would have the world believe (not that he will ever let Mycroft know - he would rip his own throat out first), and this time the criticism stings more than usual; Sherlock himself believes the same, and seeing his brother’s disapproval pricks at his own.
Mycroft shrugs, something almost apologetic lingering around his eyes for a split second. “I have long given up on fettering your care for John and the others; a degree of sentiment is expected. But this is ridiculous. You know better, Sherlock.”
“He will never know who sent it unless I have the chance to tell him.” Even as the words leave his lips, Sherlock is hoping otherwise.
“John Watson is not a stupid man, Sherlock - it was you who first pointed this out to me, remember? ’Not nearly so stupid as the rest of them,’” Mycroft reminds him, his tone as close to gentle as Sherlock has heard in years. “He may be able to guess.”
“Would that be so bad?” he erupts, too loud and voice breaking on the last syllable. “He’s still grieving, you said, and it’s been more than fifteen months. Still lives at 221B of his own will, still visits my grave twice a week… Maybe knowing I’m alive, even if I can’t go home, would help. Or at least anger him to the point that my absence stops being a bad thing!”
“And do you really think,” Mycroft interrupts before he can open his mouth to continue, voice icy, “are you really so stupid as to think that he would remain safely out of the way if he knew? Has that ‘caring’ mind of yours faded to the point that you believe nothing untoward would result from any realisation on his part?” He sniffs, glaring at Sherlock with such bitter disenchantment that the younger Holmes cannot fight the rising sense of shame. “He would exhaust every resource at his disposal to find you, draw attention to the both of you, and likely get you killed just in time for him to watch it first-hand. You want him to know you’re alive because you feel guilty, Sherlock, and knowing he’s in pain hurts you. This is precisely why sentiment is a defect found in the losing side.”
There is no viable response he can give so he turns away instead, moving to stare out of the window and try to force his emotions back into the boxes his mind has created for them. Five minutes of nothingness passes, until he hears the soft thump of a paper file (mid-sized, with fewer photographs than usual if he can trust his hearing) being tossed onto the small coffee table. Mycroft leaves the room - Sherlock does not bother to turn.
When the streets are darkening and the ache in his legs becomes unbearable he moves to sit down, scooping the new file up as he passes; he does his best to ignore that the tiny card and its envelope are missing. Mycroft could have taken it in order to prevent Sherlock attempting to send it by other means (no - he intends to send it), and he can do without the disappointment that will result if he allows himself to get his hopes up.
ooo
Desperate to avoid a third, similarly unpleasant encounter with his older brother, Sherlock does his best to avoid Mycroft until he leaves Vienna a day and a half later. It is not an easy task. The two of them have only four rooms to share, including the bathroom, and Mycroft seems determined to keep a close eye on him. In the end, Sherlock spends his last five hours at the hotel barricaded in the living room, with the stereo turned up until he can barely hear the elder Holmes shouting through the door.
This would not be happening if Major Lucas had remained at Mycroft’s heel rather than gallivanting off to Serbia. Mycroft would be maintaining his smug, professional front, rather than lowering himself to yelling over the dulcet tones of Johnny Rotten.
Sherlock picked up the Sex Pistols’ disc for barely two dollars back in Canada, solely in the hope of treating Mycroft to their fantastic, anti-establishment rendition of ‘God Save The Queen.’ He has always had a soft spot for punk, especially during his late teens and cocaine years, and the Sex Pistols are an excellent example of the genre - loud, vaguely clever, and decidedly ‘fuck you.’ Mycroft never approved in the least; the disc is proving its worth now, if his brother’s furious shouting and violent attempts to get the door open (futile - he barricaded it with the heavy desk and bookcase) are any indication.
With only two hours until his train is due to leave, Sherlock finally allows silence to descend. Mycroft has retreated to the bathroom (bergamot-scented steam edging under the door), probably with a set of ear-plugs, so Sherlock hurries to throw his things together before shoving them roughly into his bag and dashing out onto the pavement. It has barely taken him ten minutes to escape, and with another eighty before he needs to head towards the station Sherlock can afford to take his time wandering through the city centre - he even has enough leeway to pick up another notebook and spend some time on selecting John’s keyring, rather than buying the first half-decent one he sees.
Still, he runs for the first five minutes, using every short-cut he can remember. He would rather not risk Mycroft catching up to him. The external door is loud enough that he may have heard it, in which case he will be quick to investigate; an awkward farewell with his brother is the last thing he needs before making his way to Munich.
Vienna’s streets hide him well. When Sherlock had first arrived he had stuck out like a sore thumb: bundled up in one of the thick jumper and trouser combinations that had been so essential in Anchorage but was conspicuously excessive here in Vienna. Now he is dressed up in a smart pair of wool-blend slacks, a silk shirt, and a dark, heavy designer coat. All in all, the ensemble is rather similar to those he put together for himself, back when he was allowed to make his own choices in such things; it is like he has donned his old armour, a thought which is embarrassingly comforting, and he can feel the way it affects his stance and gait.
He still loathes his new hair colour, though. The shade is flattering enough if he looks at it objectively, but he is tired of looking in the mirror and seeing someone other than Sherlock Holmes.
Nevertheless, his good mood remains, even after being pulled up for a spot-check of his ticket and passport at the station. The past week has left him on something of a high, despite the arguments with Mycroft; analysing the information they have and charting their progress has shown that they are closer to the grand finale of all this than either of the brothers had realised. The network Moriarty built outside Europe, linking hundreds of crime families and gangs across the world, has been all but obliterated. Those few ‘allies’ whose organisations have survived have all pulled back their support, refusing to aid Moran in any way after seeing their peers taken apart one by one - and all the faster since hearing that he has lost the implied support of the Sicilian Mafia. Those within the continent, who work for Moran directly, are all that remain. No more trans-continental flights, no more ludicrous climates, no more visas.
Sherlock could be home by March, if things go well. It is a wonderful thought.
Besides, Munich is a city he loved as a child; he has not visited it since the age of twelve, but his memories are of the delightful variety.
When he steps off the train, it is clear that little has changed; the same wide streets, the same beautiful architecture, and even the same corners playing stage for similar musicians. If there is one thing about Munich that he appreciates above all else, it is that the buskers here have taste.
Under the arches of Tal, any other city would have someone torturing a guitar or playing mind-numbing synth-pop on an electric keyboard. Instead, Munich showcases a quartet wielding a violin, a cello, a flute, and a battered upright piano whose wheels can barely take its weight. The group (two men in a three-year relationship, a close friend, and the flautist is a stand-in - cousin, doing them a favour) are mainly playing standards and the occasional request, doing their best to catch the interest of the crowds passing by as they come and go from Marienplatz. They’re succeeding. Even Sherlock has to admit that they are talented musicians; he finds himself ducking into a noodle bar just to the right of them, disregarding his plan to have a light snack at the hotel, and takes a seat by an open window so that he can enjoy the music as he eats.
Pachelbel’s ‘Kanon D-dur’ is one of the most overplayed, abused, and outright bastardised pieces of music in history, despite being rediscovered less than a century ago. It is, therefore, also an excellent yardstick for measuring musical ability. These gentlemen play it beautifully; Sherlock has long-since lost interest in the piece, listening to it only when his goal is to assess the skill of a particular musician or orchestra, but this performance breathes new life into it. It is moving and personal, whilst still sounding as though it could fill any music hall in Europe.
Once done with his meal of nigiri-zushi and nyumen, he buys two copies of the album they are selling from the cello case. It is no surprise to see that there are fewer than five left.
It has been a terrible waste of an hour, Sherlock knows, but he refuses to regret it. If nothing else, he has finally procured a gift for Mrs. Hudson. Ever since buying the keyring for Lestrade, the thought that he should probably bring something back for his landlady as well has been an annoying niggle in the back of his mind. Honestly, if this sort of constant social anxiety is a consequence of friendship then the brainless majority can bloody well keep it.
ooo
He is booked in at the Leonardo Hotel, Heimgartenstraße, which is a little further from the centre of Munich than he would have liked to be. The fact that the two closest U-Bahn stations are on the same line does not help in the least; convenience was obviously not considered a factor when the booking was made. Generally, Sherlock is afforded the ‘luxury’ of choosing his own hotels and temporary residences (within parameters, of course). This time, however, Mycroft had taken it upon himself to organise things - partially because Sherlock had been preoccupied with some very interesting invoices - and the older man’s choice makes it all too clear that the supposed kindness was, at least in part, actually committed out of the simple desire to be difficult.
He refuses to acknowledge the tactical sense of it; it will be far easier to ensure his location remains a secret when he can lose any pursuers between the city centre and here, rather than being forced to duck into doorways and double back on himself, but having to commute will be a pain. Sherlock loathes rush hour, even in London, so being forced to begin his mornings crammed inside an overcrowded bus or U-Bahn service is going to be horrendous. He wishes he had left the Sex Pistols’ disc playing on repeat in his absence, rather than bringing it with him.
The hotel room is nice, at least. The Leonardo is clearly marketed towards professionals on business trips so there are no unnecessary fripperies, but it is clean and smart, and the bed is comfortable enough that Sherlock finds himself dozing off within a minute of his head coming to rest on the pillows.
This proves to be a blessing, despite the extra hour he loses, when he is forced to drag himself out of bed before seven the next morning. Waking at such an hour would not usually be any trouble at all, but the last few days have not exactly been conductive in terms of rest. Disregarding his current, John-related issues, sleeping whilst punk music was blasting at almost eighty-five decibels would have proven impossible even if Sherlock had been inclined to attempt it (he had been enjoying Mycroft’s reaction far too much to consider it, in any case), and the thirty-four hours before that were spent buried under Moriarty and Moran’s respective paper trails. Aside from a brief cat-nap on the train, he had been awake for over fifty hours, so the extra sleep is very much a necessary evil.
Sherlock remembers when John, in spite of all his knowledge and experience as a doctor, was fooled into believing he was unaffected by such human weaknesses as exhaustion - or, rather, that he did not register the feeling, his mind disregarding the complaints of its transport automatically (Sherlock is very much aware of what he does to himself, of course, as well as the way hunger and uninterrupted adrenaline can sharpen his senses; he is simply adept at working through the more troublesome effects). They had worked their way through a handful of cases together before the shorter man caught him in the middle of a crash. Sherlock had worked too hard on a week-long case, skipping meals whenever he could get away with it and enjoying the chase too much to sleep, until his body finally collapsed and demanded maintenance. John had not been impressed, and Sherlock had never again been allowed to, as John put it, ‘abuse’ his body in such a manner - or, at least, to such an ‘unreasonable’ extent. There had, however, been amusement mixed with the concern and exasperation, as though his actions were somehow ridiculous: during a chat with Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock overheard John liken him to a child desperate to stay up past his bedtime to finish a game.
Of course, the older man probably understands Sherlock’s habits far more these days, judging by the state of him in that photograph.
The thought is a morose one, and singularly unwelcome. Sherlock is miserable enough, sandwiched between a large businessman (call-centre manager, two small dogs, married, terrible cook) and an off-duty nurse whose stilettos (third date) keep finding their way onto his toes.
He redirects his mind, going back over the information he has regarding his mark. Meinard Vogt is a shrewd man, and excellent with money - he has been the sole handler of the Network’s investments for five years now. He runs a successful (and wholly legitimate) accountancy firm, registered under his Grandmother’s maiden name. According to the footer of his most recent e-mail, it is located just off Marienplatz; of course, it still being there is dependant upon Moran not having realised just how much information he and Amerson were able to steal during their month in Anchorage.
Thankfully, that proves to be the case, and Vogt is easy to find - Sherlock manages to catch sight of him just before the man (thirty-eight, unmarried, teetotal, passionate audiophile) enters the accountants’ building. Killing time in Marienplatz is simple enough, and the sheer volume of tourists coming and going hides him nicely; he only has to wander back and forth a little to remain below the metaphorical radars of any observers. People-watching is reasonably diverting for the first two hours, but by the time Vogt re-emerges Sherlock has seen far too many dull tourists and is bored stiff.
The older man takes his lunch at the Café Luitpold, barely a minute’s walk from the Hofgarten. If it could be called a lunch - in actual fact, he eats two pastries and a miniature cake, and Sherlock tries not to smile when it occurs to him how much John would disapprove.
Not that his own choices are much better: a triple espresso and a delicious slice of chocolate gateau.
It soon becomes clear that, despite his supposedly high-pressure job, Vogt is not the most harried of men. He orders refill after refill of his cappuccino, and spends over an hour reading the morning’s Süddeutsche Zeitung from cover to cover; Sherlock requests a copy of his own after the first couple of minutes, and curses his high-school German tutor when he finds that he struggles with the colloquial terms that crop up occasionally. He finishes flipping through it long before Vogt finally decides that he should be getting back to work, entertaining himself by solving the more intriguing crimes and scandals until he sees the other man signal for his bill.
Sherlock manages to pay and leave ahead of him, which proves to be a mistake. He should have changed his appearance after Palermo: watching Vogt in the large, elegant mirrors lining the walls, Sherlock can see his mark’s gaze sharpen when he catches sight of the strawberry-blonde hair and the smart coat. It only takes a moment for him to chart Sherlock’s height and meet his eyes in his reflection, recognition filling his face immediately.
It is like a starting pistol has gone off. Vogt takes off at a brisk walk, striding past Sherlock and knocking a waiter out of his way - as soon as he is through the door, he is running. Sherlock is on his heels though, following him down Brienner Straße, right at the Karolineplatz, and on, rushing along Barer Straße towards the Pinakotheken.
This is not how things were supposed to go, but Sherlock cannot help the giggle that bubbles in his chest. The adrenaline is flooding his bloodstream, his brain flicking through possible routes and strategies, and he has not felt this aware, this alive, in months. He would happily chase this man across Munich and back, and hang the consequences; or not, because every second spent chasing Vogt is a second more the man has to pass on information or contact an accomplice. It would not take much for him to have all the files relating to Moriarty and Moran destroyed. Any sensible human being would have a code of some sort, a way to obliterate the evidence by remote; Vogt probably has a two-fold safeguard, consisting of a code for the electronically-stored data and a trusted secretary or P.A. to take care of any paper files - be they ‘in the loop,’ as it were, or trained to obey first and think later. The Holmes brothers may have enough copies of e-mails and files to guarantee at least a long and damaging court case, but that extra evidence would likely secure a conviction.
Vogt has yet to wrest his phone from his pocket. If Sherlock is going to act, it needs to be now. He masters his expression and locks down on the urge to laugh, painting himself as the wronged party. Vogt is fleeing: it will be easy to convince any bystanders that he is guilty of something.
“Stoppen, dieb! [Stop, thief!]” he roars, allowing his English accent to show through in the hope that a security guard from one of the museums and galleries in the area will move to assist him. “Aufhalten! Bastard, stoppen! [Halt!/Stop! Bastard, stop!]”
The uniformed guard sprinting their way is too far behind to be of any use, but a tall young man (fine-art student at the Nuremberg academy, handball player) sprints across from the steps of the Alte Pinakothek. He has a perfect line in Vogt’s blind-spot, and the accountant is far too busy checking Sherlock’s position over his right shoulder to bother checking his left. The boy tackles him to the ground just as the phone comes loose from Vogt’s pocket.
“Danke, [Thanks,]” Sherlock says, remembering to dumb his German down a little as he pulls out his own phone. “Bitte, halten ihn. Ich werde die Polizei rufen. [Please, hold him. I’ll call the police.]”
It is not the best-case scenario by any stretch of the imagination, but the young man is eager to help and it is easy enough to evade the security guard’s questions for the couple of minutes it takes for the Schutzpolizei to arrive. Sherlock has been keeping the majority of his copies of the evidence against Vogt in his bag, as well as the documentation from Mycroft to confirm that Erik Sigerson (pointless to change his identity again now) is on official business for Interpol; his efforts to be prepared for all eventualities have paid off. He hands all of the papers over to the Munich Police, who have been kind enough to send a Detective Inspector from the Kripo, as requested.
By the time the situation has been properly discussed, the young man has been relieved of his captive and is standing barely two meters away, eyes wide. Sherlock gives him Mycroft’s contact details, telling him that there will be a reward for him - just mention Sigerson. The thousand-or-so pounds will be negligible in the grand scheme of things, but it will be an irritant to his brother. A little extra paperwork, and perhaps an apology or explanation to a superior or colleague: it is the best Sherlock could hope for. He may have only had to commute the once, but it was an unpleasant enough experience to demand some form of retribution.
It takes almost an hour (which Sherlock supposes is reasonable enough, considering the delicacy of the situation), but soon he has given all the information he can risk. Everything they need to know is documented anyway, written out in such a way that even the most oblivious cretin should be able to understand it, and there is no way that he can allow himself to be taken to the police station. There is nothing more he can do here. It is dangerous for him to remain in Munich; he will have to quickly pick up his luggage from the hotel and take a taxi for the first hour, until he hits Ingolstadt. Then he can make his way across the border and to Prague. There is an office there that he can deal with, and he will have time to re-order his schedule and contact Mycroft by more than coded SMS.
He is just about to slope quietly away when one of the younger officers shoots Vogt twice in the chest, and all hell breaks loose.
ooo
As always, thank you so much for reading this scribble of mine. If you have the time and inclination, I’d love to know what you think - no flames please, but con-crit is a wonderful thing.
Read Chapter 16...
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: 4,149 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 - Chapter 9 - Chapter 10 - Chapter 11 - Chapter 12 - Chapter 13 - Chapter 14
A.N.: Buuuuh. I’m so late… I’m sorry, but things are still rather cray-cray here - in actual fact there’s been a whole new level of insanity added, because I’ve been going to job interviews - so I’m back to being ridiculously behind with my replies to all of the wonderful feedback I’ve received. I’m doing my best to catch up again, but for the moment, please just know that I really appreciate the time and kindness so many of you are expending to offer me your thoughts and encouragement. The fact that you are still sticking with this scribble of mine, even as we reach chapter 15, means the world to me. Thank you!
As ever, I need to say an enormous thank you to my betas - velveteenkitten, patchsassy, and infinityuphigh. Without their expertise, I have no doubt that you’d all have been driven mad by my silly little errors; without their unending kindness and patience, I know that I’d be the mad one by now.
Cover by carolstime
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SURVIVAL - CHAPTER 15
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“‘Your absence has gone through me / like thread through a needle. / Everything I do is stitched with its colour.’” Mycroft sighs. “Merwin, Sherlock? Really?”
The humiliation burns low in Sherlock’s stomach, and he resists the urge to turn a glare on his brother. He knows that this is a terrible idea, and is more than a little disgusted with himself for even giving it serious consideration, never mind actually deciding to go ahead and do it. That said, he has just spent a night tossing and turning, unable to sleep because all he sees when he closes his eyes is the greyed and exhausted face of his former flatmate. Sherlock has never found sleep to be an easy bedfellow, in any sense of the phrase, but it has always been due to his mind spinning on too quickly to be caught; last night his mind stalled - stalled, of all things - and if this will resolve the problem, then he is willing to cast caution aside.
It is only a note, after all, and a quoted poem at that. He will pair it with flowers and send it anonymously - he has disguised his handwriting rather well, he thinks, and can use Mycroft to have them delivered. Owing his brother a favour, distasteful as it may be, is a far safer option than giving his details to a florist: false as they are, revealing his current location to a stranger would still be inadvisable. The risk is negligible; no one would ever connect Sherlock Holmes to flowers and poetry (although, contrary to popular belief, he does in fact hold a fondness for better examples of the latter), even if they were inclined to question his ‘death.’ Mycroft has no reason to worry, and the contents of the note are none of his concern.
Not that he will say so, knowing that the argument would be seen as petulant.
“I can’t write a personal note, and this is short, honest, and entirely accurate,” he bites out instead. “Not all of us feel the need for the pomp and tasteless gaudiness of a nine-page epic.”
“You are showing a rather worrying level of sentiment, little brother.”
“I was under the impression you believed any level of sentiment to be a weakness,” he retorts, his lip curling slightly in the face of his brother’s distain. It is not anything new, but Sherlock is not as entirely immune to the desire to impress his older sibling as he would have the world believe (not that he will ever let Mycroft know - he would rip his own throat out first), and this time the criticism stings more than usual; Sherlock himself believes the same, and seeing his brother’s disapproval pricks at his own.
Mycroft shrugs, something almost apologetic lingering around his eyes for a split second. “I have long given up on fettering your care for John and the others; a degree of sentiment is expected. But this is ridiculous. You know better, Sherlock.”
“He will never know who sent it unless I have the chance to tell him.” Even as the words leave his lips, Sherlock is hoping otherwise.
“John Watson is not a stupid man, Sherlock - it was you who first pointed this out to me, remember? ’Not nearly so stupid as the rest of them,’” Mycroft reminds him, his tone as close to gentle as Sherlock has heard in years. “He may be able to guess.”
“Would that be so bad?” he erupts, too loud and voice breaking on the last syllable. “He’s still grieving, you said, and it’s been more than fifteen months. Still lives at 221B of his own will, still visits my grave twice a week… Maybe knowing I’m alive, even if I can’t go home, would help. Or at least anger him to the point that my absence stops being a bad thing!”
“And do you really think,” Mycroft interrupts before he can open his mouth to continue, voice icy, “are you really so stupid as to think that he would remain safely out of the way if he knew? Has that ‘caring’ mind of yours faded to the point that you believe nothing untoward would result from any realisation on his part?” He sniffs, glaring at Sherlock with such bitter disenchantment that the younger Holmes cannot fight the rising sense of shame. “He would exhaust every resource at his disposal to find you, draw attention to the both of you, and likely get you killed just in time for him to watch it first-hand. You want him to know you’re alive because you feel guilty, Sherlock, and knowing he’s in pain hurts you. This is precisely why sentiment is a defect found in the losing side.”
There is no viable response he can give so he turns away instead, moving to stare out of the window and try to force his emotions back into the boxes his mind has created for them. Five minutes of nothingness passes, until he hears the soft thump of a paper file (mid-sized, with fewer photographs than usual if he can trust his hearing) being tossed onto the small coffee table. Mycroft leaves the room - Sherlock does not bother to turn.
When the streets are darkening and the ache in his legs becomes unbearable he moves to sit down, scooping the new file up as he passes; he does his best to ignore that the tiny card and its envelope are missing. Mycroft could have taken it in order to prevent Sherlock attempting to send it by other means (no - he intends to send it), and he can do without the disappointment that will result if he allows himself to get his hopes up.
ooo
Desperate to avoid a third, similarly unpleasant encounter with his older brother, Sherlock does his best to avoid Mycroft until he leaves Vienna a day and a half later. It is not an easy task. The two of them have only four rooms to share, including the bathroom, and Mycroft seems determined to keep a close eye on him. In the end, Sherlock spends his last five hours at the hotel barricaded in the living room, with the stereo turned up until he can barely hear the elder Holmes shouting through the door.
This would not be happening if Major Lucas had remained at Mycroft’s heel rather than gallivanting off to Serbia. Mycroft would be maintaining his smug, professional front, rather than lowering himself to yelling over the dulcet tones of Johnny Rotten.
Sherlock picked up the Sex Pistols’ disc for barely two dollars back in Canada, solely in the hope of treating Mycroft to their fantastic, anti-establishment rendition of ‘God Save The Queen.’ He has always had a soft spot for punk, especially during his late teens and cocaine years, and the Sex Pistols are an excellent example of the genre - loud, vaguely clever, and decidedly ‘fuck you.’ Mycroft never approved in the least; the disc is proving its worth now, if his brother’s furious shouting and violent attempts to get the door open (futile - he barricaded it with the heavy desk and bookcase) are any indication.
With only two hours until his train is due to leave, Sherlock finally allows silence to descend. Mycroft has retreated to the bathroom (bergamot-scented steam edging under the door), probably with a set of ear-plugs, so Sherlock hurries to throw his things together before shoving them roughly into his bag and dashing out onto the pavement. It has barely taken him ten minutes to escape, and with another eighty before he needs to head towards the station Sherlock can afford to take his time wandering through the city centre - he even has enough leeway to pick up another notebook and spend some time on selecting John’s keyring, rather than buying the first half-decent one he sees.
Still, he runs for the first five minutes, using every short-cut he can remember. He would rather not risk Mycroft catching up to him. The external door is loud enough that he may have heard it, in which case he will be quick to investigate; an awkward farewell with his brother is the last thing he needs before making his way to Munich.
Vienna’s streets hide him well. When Sherlock had first arrived he had stuck out like a sore thumb: bundled up in one of the thick jumper and trouser combinations that had been so essential in Anchorage but was conspicuously excessive here in Vienna. Now he is dressed up in a smart pair of wool-blend slacks, a silk shirt, and a dark, heavy designer coat. All in all, the ensemble is rather similar to those he put together for himself, back when he was allowed to make his own choices in such things; it is like he has donned his old armour, a thought which is embarrassingly comforting, and he can feel the way it affects his stance and gait.
He still loathes his new hair colour, though. The shade is flattering enough if he looks at it objectively, but he is tired of looking in the mirror and seeing someone other than Sherlock Holmes.
Nevertheless, his good mood remains, even after being pulled up for a spot-check of his ticket and passport at the station. The past week has left him on something of a high, despite the arguments with Mycroft; analysing the information they have and charting their progress has shown that they are closer to the grand finale of all this than either of the brothers had realised. The network Moriarty built outside Europe, linking hundreds of crime families and gangs across the world, has been all but obliterated. Those few ‘allies’ whose organisations have survived have all pulled back their support, refusing to aid Moran in any way after seeing their peers taken apart one by one - and all the faster since hearing that he has lost the implied support of the Sicilian Mafia. Those within the continent, who work for Moran directly, are all that remain. No more trans-continental flights, no more ludicrous climates, no more visas.
Sherlock could be home by March, if things go well. It is a wonderful thought.
Besides, Munich is a city he loved as a child; he has not visited it since the age of twelve, but his memories are of the delightful variety.
When he steps off the train, it is clear that little has changed; the same wide streets, the same beautiful architecture, and even the same corners playing stage for similar musicians. If there is one thing about Munich that he appreciates above all else, it is that the buskers here have taste.
Under the arches of Tal, any other city would have someone torturing a guitar or playing mind-numbing synth-pop on an electric keyboard. Instead, Munich showcases a quartet wielding a violin, a cello, a flute, and a battered upright piano whose wheels can barely take its weight. The group (two men in a three-year relationship, a close friend, and the flautist is a stand-in - cousin, doing them a favour) are mainly playing standards and the occasional request, doing their best to catch the interest of the crowds passing by as they come and go from Marienplatz. They’re succeeding. Even Sherlock has to admit that they are talented musicians; he finds himself ducking into a noodle bar just to the right of them, disregarding his plan to have a light snack at the hotel, and takes a seat by an open window so that he can enjoy the music as he eats.
Pachelbel’s ‘Kanon D-dur’ is one of the most overplayed, abused, and outright bastardised pieces of music in history, despite being rediscovered less than a century ago. It is, therefore, also an excellent yardstick for measuring musical ability. These gentlemen play it beautifully; Sherlock has long-since lost interest in the piece, listening to it only when his goal is to assess the skill of a particular musician or orchestra, but this performance breathes new life into it. It is moving and personal, whilst still sounding as though it could fill any music hall in Europe.
Once done with his meal of nigiri-zushi and nyumen, he buys two copies of the album they are selling from the cello case. It is no surprise to see that there are fewer than five left.
It has been a terrible waste of an hour, Sherlock knows, but he refuses to regret it. If nothing else, he has finally procured a gift for Mrs. Hudson. Ever since buying the keyring for Lestrade, the thought that he should probably bring something back for his landlady as well has been an annoying niggle in the back of his mind. Honestly, if this sort of constant social anxiety is a consequence of friendship then the brainless majority can bloody well keep it.
ooo
He is booked in at the Leonardo Hotel, Heimgartenstraße, which is a little further from the centre of Munich than he would have liked to be. The fact that the two closest U-Bahn stations are on the same line does not help in the least; convenience was obviously not considered a factor when the booking was made. Generally, Sherlock is afforded the ‘luxury’ of choosing his own hotels and temporary residences (within parameters, of course). This time, however, Mycroft had taken it upon himself to organise things - partially because Sherlock had been preoccupied with some very interesting invoices - and the older man’s choice makes it all too clear that the supposed kindness was, at least in part, actually committed out of the simple desire to be difficult.
He refuses to acknowledge the tactical sense of it; it will be far easier to ensure his location remains a secret when he can lose any pursuers between the city centre and here, rather than being forced to duck into doorways and double back on himself, but having to commute will be a pain. Sherlock loathes rush hour, even in London, so being forced to begin his mornings crammed inside an overcrowded bus or U-Bahn service is going to be horrendous. He wishes he had left the Sex Pistols’ disc playing on repeat in his absence, rather than bringing it with him.
The hotel room is nice, at least. The Leonardo is clearly marketed towards professionals on business trips so there are no unnecessary fripperies, but it is clean and smart, and the bed is comfortable enough that Sherlock finds himself dozing off within a minute of his head coming to rest on the pillows.
This proves to be a blessing, despite the extra hour he loses, when he is forced to drag himself out of bed before seven the next morning. Waking at such an hour would not usually be any trouble at all, but the last few days have not exactly been conductive in terms of rest. Disregarding his current, John-related issues, sleeping whilst punk music was blasting at almost eighty-five decibels would have proven impossible even if Sherlock had been inclined to attempt it (he had been enjoying Mycroft’s reaction far too much to consider it, in any case), and the thirty-four hours before that were spent buried under Moriarty and Moran’s respective paper trails. Aside from a brief cat-nap on the train, he had been awake for over fifty hours, so the extra sleep is very much a necessary evil.
Sherlock remembers when John, in spite of all his knowledge and experience as a doctor, was fooled into believing he was unaffected by such human weaknesses as exhaustion - or, rather, that he did not register the feeling, his mind disregarding the complaints of its transport automatically (Sherlock is very much aware of what he does to himself, of course, as well as the way hunger and uninterrupted adrenaline can sharpen his senses; he is simply adept at working through the more troublesome effects). They had worked their way through a handful of cases together before the shorter man caught him in the middle of a crash. Sherlock had worked too hard on a week-long case, skipping meals whenever he could get away with it and enjoying the chase too much to sleep, until his body finally collapsed and demanded maintenance. John had not been impressed, and Sherlock had never again been allowed to, as John put it, ‘abuse’ his body in such a manner - or, at least, to such an ‘unreasonable’ extent. There had, however, been amusement mixed with the concern and exasperation, as though his actions were somehow ridiculous: during a chat with Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock overheard John liken him to a child desperate to stay up past his bedtime to finish a game.
Of course, the older man probably understands Sherlock’s habits far more these days, judging by the state of him in that photograph.
The thought is a morose one, and singularly unwelcome. Sherlock is miserable enough, sandwiched between a large businessman (call-centre manager, two small dogs, married, terrible cook) and an off-duty nurse whose stilettos (third date) keep finding their way onto his toes.
He redirects his mind, going back over the information he has regarding his mark. Meinard Vogt is a shrewd man, and excellent with money - he has been the sole handler of the Network’s investments for five years now. He runs a successful (and wholly legitimate) accountancy firm, registered under his Grandmother’s maiden name. According to the footer of his most recent e-mail, it is located just off Marienplatz; of course, it still being there is dependant upon Moran not having realised just how much information he and Amerson were able to steal during their month in Anchorage.
Thankfully, that proves to be the case, and Vogt is easy to find - Sherlock manages to catch sight of him just before the man (thirty-eight, unmarried, teetotal, passionate audiophile) enters the accountants’ building. Killing time in Marienplatz is simple enough, and the sheer volume of tourists coming and going hides him nicely; he only has to wander back and forth a little to remain below the metaphorical radars of any observers. People-watching is reasonably diverting for the first two hours, but by the time Vogt re-emerges Sherlock has seen far too many dull tourists and is bored stiff.
The older man takes his lunch at the Café Luitpold, barely a minute’s walk from the Hofgarten. If it could be called a lunch - in actual fact, he eats two pastries and a miniature cake, and Sherlock tries not to smile when it occurs to him how much John would disapprove.
Not that his own choices are much better: a triple espresso and a delicious slice of chocolate gateau.
It soon becomes clear that, despite his supposedly high-pressure job, Vogt is not the most harried of men. He orders refill after refill of his cappuccino, and spends over an hour reading the morning’s Süddeutsche Zeitung from cover to cover; Sherlock requests a copy of his own after the first couple of minutes, and curses his high-school German tutor when he finds that he struggles with the colloquial terms that crop up occasionally. He finishes flipping through it long before Vogt finally decides that he should be getting back to work, entertaining himself by solving the more intriguing crimes and scandals until he sees the other man signal for his bill.
Sherlock manages to pay and leave ahead of him, which proves to be a mistake. He should have changed his appearance after Palermo: watching Vogt in the large, elegant mirrors lining the walls, Sherlock can see his mark’s gaze sharpen when he catches sight of the strawberry-blonde hair and the smart coat. It only takes a moment for him to chart Sherlock’s height and meet his eyes in his reflection, recognition filling his face immediately.
It is like a starting pistol has gone off. Vogt takes off at a brisk walk, striding past Sherlock and knocking a waiter out of his way - as soon as he is through the door, he is running. Sherlock is on his heels though, following him down Brienner Straße, right at the Karolineplatz, and on, rushing along Barer Straße towards the Pinakotheken.
This is not how things were supposed to go, but Sherlock cannot help the giggle that bubbles in his chest. The adrenaline is flooding his bloodstream, his brain flicking through possible routes and strategies, and he has not felt this aware, this alive, in months. He would happily chase this man across Munich and back, and hang the consequences; or not, because every second spent chasing Vogt is a second more the man has to pass on information or contact an accomplice. It would not take much for him to have all the files relating to Moriarty and Moran destroyed. Any sensible human being would have a code of some sort, a way to obliterate the evidence by remote; Vogt probably has a two-fold safeguard, consisting of a code for the electronically-stored data and a trusted secretary or P.A. to take care of any paper files - be they ‘in the loop,’ as it were, or trained to obey first and think later. The Holmes brothers may have enough copies of e-mails and files to guarantee at least a long and damaging court case, but that extra evidence would likely secure a conviction.
Vogt has yet to wrest his phone from his pocket. If Sherlock is going to act, it needs to be now. He masters his expression and locks down on the urge to laugh, painting himself as the wronged party. Vogt is fleeing: it will be easy to convince any bystanders that he is guilty of something.
“Stoppen, dieb! [Stop, thief!]” he roars, allowing his English accent to show through in the hope that a security guard from one of the museums and galleries in the area will move to assist him. “Aufhalten! Bastard, stoppen! [Halt!/Stop! Bastard, stop!]”
The uniformed guard sprinting their way is too far behind to be of any use, but a tall young man (fine-art student at the Nuremberg academy, handball player) sprints across from the steps of the Alte Pinakothek. He has a perfect line in Vogt’s blind-spot, and the accountant is far too busy checking Sherlock’s position over his right shoulder to bother checking his left. The boy tackles him to the ground just as the phone comes loose from Vogt’s pocket.
“Danke, [Thanks,]” Sherlock says, remembering to dumb his German down a little as he pulls out his own phone. “Bitte, halten ihn. Ich werde die Polizei rufen. [Please, hold him. I’ll call the police.]”
It is not the best-case scenario by any stretch of the imagination, but the young man is eager to help and it is easy enough to evade the security guard’s questions for the couple of minutes it takes for the Schutzpolizei to arrive. Sherlock has been keeping the majority of his copies of the evidence against Vogt in his bag, as well as the documentation from Mycroft to confirm that Erik Sigerson (pointless to change his identity again now) is on official business for Interpol; his efforts to be prepared for all eventualities have paid off. He hands all of the papers over to the Munich Police, who have been kind enough to send a Detective Inspector from the Kripo, as requested.
By the time the situation has been properly discussed, the young man has been relieved of his captive and is standing barely two meters away, eyes wide. Sherlock gives him Mycroft’s contact details, telling him that there will be a reward for him - just mention Sigerson. The thousand-or-so pounds will be negligible in the grand scheme of things, but it will be an irritant to his brother. A little extra paperwork, and perhaps an apology or explanation to a superior or colleague: it is the best Sherlock could hope for. He may have only had to commute the once, but it was an unpleasant enough experience to demand some form of retribution.
It takes almost an hour (which Sherlock supposes is reasonable enough, considering the delicacy of the situation), but soon he has given all the information he can risk. Everything they need to know is documented anyway, written out in such a way that even the most oblivious cretin should be able to understand it, and there is no way that he can allow himself to be taken to the police station. There is nothing more he can do here. It is dangerous for him to remain in Munich; he will have to quickly pick up his luggage from the hotel and take a taxi for the first hour, until he hits Ingolstadt. Then he can make his way across the border and to Prague. There is an office there that he can deal with, and he will have time to re-order his schedule and contact Mycroft by more than coded SMS.
He is just about to slope quietly away when one of the younger officers shoots Vogt twice in the chest, and all hell breaks loose.
ooo
As always, thank you so much for reading this scribble of mine. If you have the time and inclination, I’d love to know what you think - no flames please, but con-crit is a wonderful thing.
Read Chapter 16...