Bird's Bone
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Someone was shaking him. He tensed and shrank away. "Sherlock. Sherlock," the person was saying. It was Lestrade. Sherlock clawed his way to the surface of his mind and turned his head minutely.
"Sherlock," Lestrade said. "Sherlock, look at me." The hallway was a fury of motion behind him. Employees were being corralled back into the main office while uniformed officers secured the area. Lestrade's radio crackled and blipped, tinny voices relaying messages in coded jargon. It was a hypnotic tempest of information, and Sherlock witnessed it but observed nothing. "Sherlock," Lestrade said. "Come on, look at me." With a monumental effort, Sherlock did. Lestrade had Sherlock's wrist in his hand, was looking him over for external injury, Sherlock dimly noted. Useless, none of the blood was his. Lestrade looked him in the eye. He looked haggard and worn.
"Is there anyone else here, Sherlock," he asked. "Is John here with you?"
Sherlock's gaze slid into the middle distance. A shrinking feeling crept into his fingertips, crawled coldly up his arms.
"Jesus Christ," Lestrade muttered. "Get him out of here, get him to the ambulance."
He had made a mistake. He didn't know where John was. If he had been able to break the code this wouldn't have happened. Wrong, that neglected part of his brain informed him, but wouldn't tell him why. Sherlock was lifted into a wheel chair and a blanket was tucked around his shoulders.
He had been impetuous - that was always his failing. Gloria would have taken care of him, she had believed he would succeed.
Wrong!
If he were smarter he could have cracked the code and saved John, and instead he had acted on impetuous guesswork -
Wrong!
Sherlock pulled the blanket closed around him and sank again, into himself, where the office, the police, all the sounds and the movement clouded into meaningless white noise. He felt the rolling motion of the wheels beneath him, the stiffness of his skin where the blood had dried. People drifted by in waves of scent and color, and then the bright steel doors yawned before him, and Sherlock saw they were going to put him in a box.
Chaos erupted. Sherlock landed hard on one elbow with the wheelchair tipped over him. People were yelling and grabbing his arms and hurting him, and John was dead. Sherlock had failed, and now they were going to put him in a box. As this terror ripped through him, Sherlock did something he hadn't done since he was very small, since he had tracked mud through his bedroom and then thought it was his father, clawed up through the earth and come to sleep in Sherlock's bed. He began to scream, and when he did, he screamed for Mycroft.
*
Meredith was standing outside the building when Mycroft arrived. Several others in Mycroft's employ were there as well, awaiting further instruction.
"He's on the tenth floor," Meredith told him. "You're cleared to examine the crime scene, and John Watson remains unaccounted for."
"Dr. Watson is confined in a single room in an unoccupied wing upwards of the fortieth story. Find him and alert me immediately." Mycroft strode into the building, leaving Meredith to verify his identity with the police. An elevator was being held for him on the ground floor.
Sherlock had specifically mentioned the helicopter landing pad because the knowledge of it's location had been the impetus for whatever had transpired this morning. It meant that Dr. Watson had been used as leverage (predictable) that his location had been unknown until today, and that his relative safety had been verbally verified no later than 8:37 that morning when the news helicopter had been deployed to cover the effects of a collision on the morning traffic. Dr. Watson had been near enough that the noise from the rotor had interfered with his communication with Sherlock, now known to have been detained on the tenth story, close enough to the ground not to have confused the sound with its corresponding transmission. The elevator pinged and its doors slid open.
A large group of people were being detained in the central office. Mycroft was aware that Sherlock's presence had been reported among them, along with a worrying account of hysterical behaviors. Detective Inspector Lestrade was barking into his radio, some little distance up the hall, and when he caught sight of Mycroft, relief flashed visibly across his face. He heaved a brisk but enormous breath and momentarily holstered the radio.
"He's been calling for you," he said. Mycroft felt the beginnings of dread brush clammily along his skin. Lestrade's radio hissed again and he stepped aside. "Alright, well send them up, obviously!" He jerked open the door to a private office and gestured for Mycroft to enter, then was accosted by a uniformed officer on civilian detail. Mycroft could hear their voices rising as he shut the door behind him.
The office was sparsely decorated with framed snapshots, a mid-ranking employee of the mortgaging company that rented this floor. When Mycroft had closed the door he found his brother huddled behind it, a garish shock blanket pulled tightly around him and fisted over his eyes. Mycroft's breath caught painfully. He swallowed through the dryness in his throat, and then said softly, "Sherlock."
Sherlock drew very still. Then with a light rocking motion he leaned away from the wall, tilted until his head rested against Mycroft's knee. Mycroft lowered himself to the floor and gingerly began to look him over. Sherlock allowed him to peel away the blanket, and Mycroft observed the splatter patterns from two arterial punctures across his arm and the front of his shirt. Sherlock had friction burns on the backs of his wrists and on the protruding bones of his elbows. They were beginning to fester, and had been treated with a clear, glistening ointment. The skin at the corners of his mouth was red and flaking.
A churning sensation took up in the pit of Mycroft's stomach, which he ignored. Something was distinctly amiss. His phone vibrated again and Mycroft checked the message.
Target sighted at Bow and Long Acre.
Mycroft pocketed the phone and ran a hand over Sherlock's hair. It was still thick, but coarser than it had been in childhood. He had shaved recently, Mycroft noted. In fact, he looked quite well trimmed, and was very nearly making weight. Physically, he appeared healthier than Mycroft had seen him since childhood.
Mycroft considered the scenario, adapted to include all current information. He had of course maneuvered against James Moriarty the instant Dr. Watson had been confirmed missing. Sherlock, being of the erratic habits he had entertained in youth, often disappeared unexpectedly for days on end, though this behavior had been curbed somewhat in the last eighteen months. This change could be attributed, no doubt, to the good Doctor himself.
Mycroft had pulled every string available to him, as well as indebted himself dangerously to several people in order to weave the web that was currently closing in around Moriarty. Obviously none of today's three corpses belonged to him.
Sherlock was high-strung and deceptively sensitive, and had always responded poorly to corporal punishment. Whoever had set about breaking him had done so in the quickest and most thoroughly effective manner, displaying intimate knowledge of his psychological vulnerabilities. However, Moriarty had not been present at the scene today, nor could he in these last two weeks have invested the time it would take to reduce Sherlock to his current state. There were of course gaps in Mycroft's surveillance, but none of that magnitude. It was also highly unlikely that he would overlook a 100 decibel helicopter routinely deployed from the direct vicinity of his second captive on the upper stories.
Mycroft needed more data. If Sherlock had been let to escape with such moderate resistance, it was unlikely Dr. Watson had been under direct surveillance, so he was probably still alive. Mycroft did not yet want to consider what would need to be done for Sherlock if that were not the case. He fixed the blanket back over his brother and encouraged him to stand. He wouldn't be able to investigate the crime scene until Dr. Watson was accounted for. If he were in adequate condition, Mycroft would hand Sherlock over to him. If not, or if he were deceased, Sherlock would have to be sedated while Mycroft cleaned up by far the worst mess he had gotten himself into yet. Sherlock tucked himself under Mycroft's arm and allowed himself to be led out of the office, through the chaotic throngs of people outside, and onto the elevator. The steel doors glided closed and blissfully erased the rest of the world. Sherlock dropped his head to Mycroft's shoulder, buried his face against the lapel. Mycroft surrendered briefly to a surge of relief and fondness, and turned his nose to his brother's hair. He was going to fix this. That was his role in Sherlock's life.
The elevator eased to a stop, and Mycroft guided Sherlock out of the building. It would be easier to wait in the car, and the hot morning was waxing towards a sweltering midday. Sherlock made a small noise and balked when his bare feet hit the burning pavement. An emergency medic, spotting the red blanket, hurried towards them, which nearly sent Sherlock careening into hysterics. Mycroft held onto him firmly, and a curt dismissal sent the medic backing away. His phone vibrated. Expecting Meredith with news of Dr. Watson, Mycroft swung Sherlock somewhat roughly into the shade of the ambulance, and checked the message.
Target now entering perimeter.
Mycroft gritted his teeth and pressed delete. Sherlock was beginning to hyperventilate, and Mycroft forced him to sit on the back of the ambulance, where he pulled his feet up onto the edge and drew thin, quick, rabbit-like breaths. He would probably need to be sedated regardless of circumstance. Again, Mycroft's phone vibrated and he answered it, keeping one hand planted on the back of Sherlock's neck. It was beastly hot, and Mycroft was beginning to lose his temper.
"Dr. Watson is confirmed, room 4606," Meredith said. "He's a bit worse for wear, but unharmed."
Mycroft's grip went a bit tight and Sherlock cringed. He loosened his hold and smoothed his brother's hair in vague apology.
"Send him down immediately. We'll wait at the ambulance."
Mycroft ended the call and checked on Sherlock, who had hidden his face in the blanket again. A sick, cold fury which he had heretofore ignored began to harden in his chest. He needed to see the crime scene. Mycroft kept his sharp eyes on the door, waiting for Dr. Watson to emerge.
When he finally pushed through the door, Mycroft experienced a brief but intense surge of relief. It was clear that Dr. Watson had received no similar treatment to Sherlock, and Mycroft wouldn't need to see his room to know it contained little but dessicated human waste and recycled water bottles filled with urine. He was utterly emaciated beneath his darkly stained clothes and matted beard. The limp he had brought home from Afghanistan was so pronounced as to appear debilitating. When he spotted Sherlock, his pace quickened to a lopsided gait in which half of his body refused to cooperate. His face contorted with the visceral dissipation of two weeks' relentless anxiety and fear.
"Thank God," he gasped, and clutched Sherlock in a desperate embrace. "Oh, thank God." He climbed onto the edge of the ambulance, pulling his game leg up behind him. He drew Sherlock nearly into his lap and pressed his cheek to the back of his head. He was crying, Mycroft saw. Sherlock's hand snaked from beneath the blanket and latched white-knuckled into the leg of John's trousers. John rocked them back and forth and that was how Mycroft left them, under the distant supervision of his assistant, curled together against some horror only they would ever know.
*
Mycroft was permitted into the crime scene with minimal fuss. He donned the blue scrubs and fitted the gloves on snugly. The room in which Sherlock had been kept was down the hall, and when Mycroft entered the forensics team stood aside, though not without some chagrin. He didn't know what Meredith had told them, or what forms she'd had forged, but it was sufficient to keep them out of his way for the time he needed.
The lay of the bodies suggested the woman had been killed first, and the comparative lack of physical trauma showed she had been the recipient of some emotional attachment. As expected, there was no video surveillance, which could indicate a small operation wary of potentially damning evidence. Mycroft eyed the straight jacket laid out in the closet, the blindfold and gag. The events more or less slotted into place, but the motive was unclear. Moriarty's obsession with Sherlock was far too personal for him to have delegated the intimate task of breaking him in this manner. It was clear that whoever had orchestrated this wished to make Sherlock amenable to instruction while preserving his intellect.
Mycroft examined the papers spread out on the desk: an extensive series of numbers, and this also was curious. Of course Sherlock was quite good with numbers, but he had no particular talent with them, not like Mycroft. Someone with a merely peripheral knowledge of Sherlock's abilities might set him to breaking codes, but Mycroft doubted that was the true objective. Given all other factors of the abduction, it was likely the numbers were a blind, a sidetrack to keep Sherlock from too closely analyzing what was being done to him, to perpetuate the illusion that he was responsible for the final outcome of his situation and his inevitable failure.
Mycroft had seen enough. It was fortunate that Sherlock had preserved the presence of mind to extricate himself from the situation when the opportunity arose. However, the repercussions from the event and its violent conclusion would have lasting effects. Mycroft looked down at the dead woman's body, imagined how Sherlock would have had to lunge from the chair to snap her neck at that angle. It would have been impulsive, before two weeks of conditioned obedience could override the logical conclusion he had reached while on the phone. Mycroft knelt and delicately drew the stiffening hand to his face, sniffing the tips of her fingers. Shaving cream, of course. He replaced her hand precisely as he had found it, canted towards the grotesque curve of her fractured spine. He rose and left the room.
*
He found Sherlock and Dr. Watson much as he had left left them. Sherlock was bent over the doctor's wrist, his pale, unsteady fingers pressed to the pulse. Dr. Watson silently counted off the seconds, and intermittently he would ask, "How many?" and Sherlock would respond inaudibly. Watching them for a moment, their heads ducked together, Mycroft felt a sour twist of jealousy. He made a note to examine it later, but now simply wasn't the time. The security team would be set up in 221C by now. Dr. Watson had probably better be hospitalized, but Mycroft already knew he would refuse and he had no wish to press the issue. Sherlock needed the familiarity of his flat right now, and though it would be better if Mycroft could remain with him for some time, it just wasn't feasible, not today of all days. The inconvenience of the timing was extraordinary, but Mycroft could hardly begrudge his brother's safety when he had been working relentlessly to secure that very thing. He would have to send them along with Meredith, though, as he expected to be called away at any moment. He interrupted Dr. Watson's count, and surreptitiously assessed his mental condition while he spoke.
"I assume a hospital visit would be unwelcome to you at this time, so I've arranged a private doctor to attend to you both at 221B, if you prefer. I'm afraid I can accompany you no further today, but I most assuredly will be checking in later, this afternoon, or the evening at latest."
Dr. Watson eyed him dully, taking considerable time to process what he had heard. Fatigue, no doubt, and malnutrition. Mycroft continued.
"I've taken the liberty of installing a security team in the C flat. Temporarily, of course," he added, as Dr. Watson's gaze hardened with suspicion. "It's reasonable to assume that whoever is behind your abduction will make a second attempt, and while I would prefer to relocate you altogether, I fear my brother's condition will not allow it. This team will remain unobtrusive unless you should need them, and you will find your flat has been equipped with all supplies necessary for your full physical recovery. I would prefer you to remain indoors until I have rectified this situation, but of course I leave that to your own discretion. However, should you choose to leave the flat, you will be followed, and I will not compromise in that regard."
Sherlock had left off his counting and had seized Dr. Watson's wrist in a grip that must have caused considerable discomfort, given the man's condition, but he took no notice of it.
"How long?" he asked.
Mycroft's lips thinned to a grim line. "I'm afraid it's impossible to tell. Do rest assured, I'm doing everything in my power."
Dr. Watson's demeanor softened. He sagged and looked away. "Of course you are, I'm sorry." He looked back at Mycroft with the candid, careworn look Mycroft was accustomed to see in those eyes. They were rimmed darkly with exhaustion, but nevertheless belonged to John Watson alone. "Thank you. For everything," he said, and meant it. It was so rare an occurrence in Mycroft's life that he wasn't sure how to respond, and he tilted his head in a prim, habitual nod.
"My assistant will see you home."
Dr. Watson coaxed Sherlock away from the ambulance, towards the black car that was waiting. Meredith held the door for them, and then joined the driver in the front. Mycroft's phone vibrated, but he didn't check it just then. He already knew what it said. The black car drove off and a second pulled into its place. Mycroft settled himself into this one, and only then did he check the message.
Target secured. Approaching final destination. ETA 10:00.
Precisely on schedule. Mycroft pocketed his phone once more. He was increasingly uncertain of the role James Moriarty had played in all of this, but he fancied he would have his answers soon enough.
Chapter Three
Chapter Two
Someone was shaking him. He tensed and shrank away. "Sherlock. Sherlock," the person was saying. It was Lestrade. Sherlock clawed his way to the surface of his mind and turned his head minutely.
"Sherlock," Lestrade said. "Sherlock, look at me." The hallway was a fury of motion behind him. Employees were being corralled back into the main office while uniformed officers secured the area. Lestrade's radio crackled and blipped, tinny voices relaying messages in coded jargon. It was a hypnotic tempest of information, and Sherlock witnessed it but observed nothing. "Sherlock," Lestrade said. "Come on, look at me." With a monumental effort, Sherlock did. Lestrade had Sherlock's wrist in his hand, was looking him over for external injury, Sherlock dimly noted. Useless, none of the blood was his. Lestrade looked him in the eye. He looked haggard and worn.
"Is there anyone else here, Sherlock," he asked. "Is John here with you?"
Sherlock's gaze slid into the middle distance. A shrinking feeling crept into his fingertips, crawled coldly up his arms.
"Jesus Christ," Lestrade muttered. "Get him out of here, get him to the ambulance."
He had made a mistake. He didn't know where John was. If he had been able to break the code this wouldn't have happened. Wrong, that neglected part of his brain informed him, but wouldn't tell him why. Sherlock was lifted into a wheel chair and a blanket was tucked around his shoulders.
He had been impetuous - that was always his failing. Gloria would have taken care of him, she had believed he would succeed.
Wrong!
If he were smarter he could have cracked the code and saved John, and instead he had acted on impetuous guesswork -
Wrong!
Sherlock pulled the blanket closed around him and sank again, into himself, where the office, the police, all the sounds and the movement clouded into meaningless white noise. He felt the rolling motion of the wheels beneath him, the stiffness of his skin where the blood had dried. People drifted by in waves of scent and color, and then the bright steel doors yawned before him, and Sherlock saw they were going to put him in a box.
Chaos erupted. Sherlock landed hard on one elbow with the wheelchair tipped over him. People were yelling and grabbing his arms and hurting him, and John was dead. Sherlock had failed, and now they were going to put him in a box. As this terror ripped through him, Sherlock did something he hadn't done since he was very small, since he had tracked mud through his bedroom and then thought it was his father, clawed up through the earth and come to sleep in Sherlock's bed. He began to scream, and when he did, he screamed for Mycroft.
*
Meredith was standing outside the building when Mycroft arrived. Several others in Mycroft's employ were there as well, awaiting further instruction.
"He's on the tenth floor," Meredith told him. "You're cleared to examine the crime scene, and John Watson remains unaccounted for."
"Dr. Watson is confined in a single room in an unoccupied wing upwards of the fortieth story. Find him and alert me immediately." Mycroft strode into the building, leaving Meredith to verify his identity with the police. An elevator was being held for him on the ground floor.
Sherlock had specifically mentioned the helicopter landing pad because the knowledge of it's location had been the impetus for whatever had transpired this morning. It meant that Dr. Watson had been used as leverage (predictable) that his location had been unknown until today, and that his relative safety had been verbally verified no later than 8:37 that morning when the news helicopter had been deployed to cover the effects of a collision on the morning traffic. Dr. Watson had been near enough that the noise from the rotor had interfered with his communication with Sherlock, now known to have been detained on the tenth story, close enough to the ground not to have confused the sound with its corresponding transmission. The elevator pinged and its doors slid open.
A large group of people were being detained in the central office. Mycroft was aware that Sherlock's presence had been reported among them, along with a worrying account of hysterical behaviors. Detective Inspector Lestrade was barking into his radio, some little distance up the hall, and when he caught sight of Mycroft, relief flashed visibly across his face. He heaved a brisk but enormous breath and momentarily holstered the radio.
"He's been calling for you," he said. Mycroft felt the beginnings of dread brush clammily along his skin. Lestrade's radio hissed again and he stepped aside. "Alright, well send them up, obviously!" He jerked open the door to a private office and gestured for Mycroft to enter, then was accosted by a uniformed officer on civilian detail. Mycroft could hear their voices rising as he shut the door behind him.
The office was sparsely decorated with framed snapshots, a mid-ranking employee of the mortgaging company that rented this floor. When Mycroft had closed the door he found his brother huddled behind it, a garish shock blanket pulled tightly around him and fisted over his eyes. Mycroft's breath caught painfully. He swallowed through the dryness in his throat, and then said softly, "Sherlock."
Sherlock drew very still. Then with a light rocking motion he leaned away from the wall, tilted until his head rested against Mycroft's knee. Mycroft lowered himself to the floor and gingerly began to look him over. Sherlock allowed him to peel away the blanket, and Mycroft observed the splatter patterns from two arterial punctures across his arm and the front of his shirt. Sherlock had friction burns on the backs of his wrists and on the protruding bones of his elbows. They were beginning to fester, and had been treated with a clear, glistening ointment. The skin at the corners of his mouth was red and flaking.
A churning sensation took up in the pit of Mycroft's stomach, which he ignored. Something was distinctly amiss. His phone vibrated again and Mycroft checked the message.
Target sighted at Bow and Long Acre.
Mycroft pocketed the phone and ran a hand over Sherlock's hair. It was still thick, but coarser than it had been in childhood. He had shaved recently, Mycroft noted. In fact, he looked quite well trimmed, and was very nearly making weight. Physically, he appeared healthier than Mycroft had seen him since childhood.
Mycroft considered the scenario, adapted to include all current information. He had of course maneuvered against James Moriarty the instant Dr. Watson had been confirmed missing. Sherlock, being of the erratic habits he had entertained in youth, often disappeared unexpectedly for days on end, though this behavior had been curbed somewhat in the last eighteen months. This change could be attributed, no doubt, to the good Doctor himself.
Mycroft had pulled every string available to him, as well as indebted himself dangerously to several people in order to weave the web that was currently closing in around Moriarty. Obviously none of today's three corpses belonged to him.
Sherlock was high-strung and deceptively sensitive, and had always responded poorly to corporal punishment. Whoever had set about breaking him had done so in the quickest and most thoroughly effective manner, displaying intimate knowledge of his psychological vulnerabilities. However, Moriarty had not been present at the scene today, nor could he in these last two weeks have invested the time it would take to reduce Sherlock to his current state. There were of course gaps in Mycroft's surveillance, but none of that magnitude. It was also highly unlikely that he would overlook a 100 decibel helicopter routinely deployed from the direct vicinity of his second captive on the upper stories.
Mycroft needed more data. If Sherlock had been let to escape with such moderate resistance, it was unlikely Dr. Watson had been under direct surveillance, so he was probably still alive. Mycroft did not yet want to consider what would need to be done for Sherlock if that were not the case. He fixed the blanket back over his brother and encouraged him to stand. He wouldn't be able to investigate the crime scene until Dr. Watson was accounted for. If he were in adequate condition, Mycroft would hand Sherlock over to him. If not, or if he were deceased, Sherlock would have to be sedated while Mycroft cleaned up by far the worst mess he had gotten himself into yet. Sherlock tucked himself under Mycroft's arm and allowed himself to be led out of the office, through the chaotic throngs of people outside, and onto the elevator. The steel doors glided closed and blissfully erased the rest of the world. Sherlock dropped his head to Mycroft's shoulder, buried his face against the lapel. Mycroft surrendered briefly to a surge of relief and fondness, and turned his nose to his brother's hair. He was going to fix this. That was his role in Sherlock's life.
The elevator eased to a stop, and Mycroft guided Sherlock out of the building. It would be easier to wait in the car, and the hot morning was waxing towards a sweltering midday. Sherlock made a small noise and balked when his bare feet hit the burning pavement. An emergency medic, spotting the red blanket, hurried towards them, which nearly sent Sherlock careening into hysterics. Mycroft held onto him firmly, and a curt dismissal sent the medic backing away. His phone vibrated. Expecting Meredith with news of Dr. Watson, Mycroft swung Sherlock somewhat roughly into the shade of the ambulance, and checked the message.
Target now entering perimeter.
Mycroft gritted his teeth and pressed delete. Sherlock was beginning to hyperventilate, and Mycroft forced him to sit on the back of the ambulance, where he pulled his feet up onto the edge and drew thin, quick, rabbit-like breaths. He would probably need to be sedated regardless of circumstance. Again, Mycroft's phone vibrated and he answered it, keeping one hand planted on the back of Sherlock's neck. It was beastly hot, and Mycroft was beginning to lose his temper.
"Dr. Watson is confirmed, room 4606," Meredith said. "He's a bit worse for wear, but unharmed."
Mycroft's grip went a bit tight and Sherlock cringed. He loosened his hold and smoothed his brother's hair in vague apology.
"Send him down immediately. We'll wait at the ambulance."
Mycroft ended the call and checked on Sherlock, who had hidden his face in the blanket again. A sick, cold fury which he had heretofore ignored began to harden in his chest. He needed to see the crime scene. Mycroft kept his sharp eyes on the door, waiting for Dr. Watson to emerge.
When he finally pushed through the door, Mycroft experienced a brief but intense surge of relief. It was clear that Dr. Watson had received no similar treatment to Sherlock, and Mycroft wouldn't need to see his room to know it contained little but dessicated human waste and recycled water bottles filled with urine. He was utterly emaciated beneath his darkly stained clothes and matted beard. The limp he had brought home from Afghanistan was so pronounced as to appear debilitating. When he spotted Sherlock, his pace quickened to a lopsided gait in which half of his body refused to cooperate. His face contorted with the visceral dissipation of two weeks' relentless anxiety and fear.
"Thank God," he gasped, and clutched Sherlock in a desperate embrace. "Oh, thank God." He climbed onto the edge of the ambulance, pulling his game leg up behind him. He drew Sherlock nearly into his lap and pressed his cheek to the back of his head. He was crying, Mycroft saw. Sherlock's hand snaked from beneath the blanket and latched white-knuckled into the leg of John's trousers. John rocked them back and forth and that was how Mycroft left them, under the distant supervision of his assistant, curled together against some horror only they would ever know.
*
Mycroft was permitted into the crime scene with minimal fuss. He donned the blue scrubs and fitted the gloves on snugly. The room in which Sherlock had been kept was down the hall, and when Mycroft entered the forensics team stood aside, though not without some chagrin. He didn't know what Meredith had told them, or what forms she'd had forged, but it was sufficient to keep them out of his way for the time he needed.
The lay of the bodies suggested the woman had been killed first, and the comparative lack of physical trauma showed she had been the recipient of some emotional attachment. As expected, there was no video surveillance, which could indicate a small operation wary of potentially damning evidence. Mycroft eyed the straight jacket laid out in the closet, the blindfold and gag. The events more or less slotted into place, but the motive was unclear. Moriarty's obsession with Sherlock was far too personal for him to have delegated the intimate task of breaking him in this manner. It was clear that whoever had orchestrated this wished to make Sherlock amenable to instruction while preserving his intellect.
Mycroft examined the papers spread out on the desk: an extensive series of numbers, and this also was curious. Of course Sherlock was quite good with numbers, but he had no particular talent with them, not like Mycroft. Someone with a merely peripheral knowledge of Sherlock's abilities might set him to breaking codes, but Mycroft doubted that was the true objective. Given all other factors of the abduction, it was likely the numbers were a blind, a sidetrack to keep Sherlock from too closely analyzing what was being done to him, to perpetuate the illusion that he was responsible for the final outcome of his situation and his inevitable failure.
Mycroft had seen enough. It was fortunate that Sherlock had preserved the presence of mind to extricate himself from the situation when the opportunity arose. However, the repercussions from the event and its violent conclusion would have lasting effects. Mycroft looked down at the dead woman's body, imagined how Sherlock would have had to lunge from the chair to snap her neck at that angle. It would have been impulsive, before two weeks of conditioned obedience could override the logical conclusion he had reached while on the phone. Mycroft knelt and delicately drew the stiffening hand to his face, sniffing the tips of her fingers. Shaving cream, of course. He replaced her hand precisely as he had found it, canted towards the grotesque curve of her fractured spine. He rose and left the room.
*
He found Sherlock and Dr. Watson much as he had left left them. Sherlock was bent over the doctor's wrist, his pale, unsteady fingers pressed to the pulse. Dr. Watson silently counted off the seconds, and intermittently he would ask, "How many?" and Sherlock would respond inaudibly. Watching them for a moment, their heads ducked together, Mycroft felt a sour twist of jealousy. He made a note to examine it later, but now simply wasn't the time. The security team would be set up in 221C by now. Dr. Watson had probably better be hospitalized, but Mycroft already knew he would refuse and he had no wish to press the issue. Sherlock needed the familiarity of his flat right now, and though it would be better if Mycroft could remain with him for some time, it just wasn't feasible, not today of all days. The inconvenience of the timing was extraordinary, but Mycroft could hardly begrudge his brother's safety when he had been working relentlessly to secure that very thing. He would have to send them along with Meredith, though, as he expected to be called away at any moment. He interrupted Dr. Watson's count, and surreptitiously assessed his mental condition while he spoke.
"I assume a hospital visit would be unwelcome to you at this time, so I've arranged a private doctor to attend to you both at 221B, if you prefer. I'm afraid I can accompany you no further today, but I most assuredly will be checking in later, this afternoon, or the evening at latest."
Dr. Watson eyed him dully, taking considerable time to process what he had heard. Fatigue, no doubt, and malnutrition. Mycroft continued.
"I've taken the liberty of installing a security team in the C flat. Temporarily, of course," he added, as Dr. Watson's gaze hardened with suspicion. "It's reasonable to assume that whoever is behind your abduction will make a second attempt, and while I would prefer to relocate you altogether, I fear my brother's condition will not allow it. This team will remain unobtrusive unless you should need them, and you will find your flat has been equipped with all supplies necessary for your full physical recovery. I would prefer you to remain indoors until I have rectified this situation, but of course I leave that to your own discretion. However, should you choose to leave the flat, you will be followed, and I will not compromise in that regard."
Sherlock had left off his counting and had seized Dr. Watson's wrist in a grip that must have caused considerable discomfort, given the man's condition, but he took no notice of it.
"How long?" he asked.
Mycroft's lips thinned to a grim line. "I'm afraid it's impossible to tell. Do rest assured, I'm doing everything in my power."
Dr. Watson's demeanor softened. He sagged and looked away. "Of course you are, I'm sorry." He looked back at Mycroft with the candid, careworn look Mycroft was accustomed to see in those eyes. They were rimmed darkly with exhaustion, but nevertheless belonged to John Watson alone. "Thank you. For everything," he said, and meant it. It was so rare an occurrence in Mycroft's life that he wasn't sure how to respond, and he tilted his head in a prim, habitual nod.
"My assistant will see you home."
Dr. Watson coaxed Sherlock away from the ambulance, towards the black car that was waiting. Meredith held the door for them, and then joined the driver in the front. Mycroft's phone vibrated, but he didn't check it just then. He already knew what it said. The black car drove off and a second pulled into its place. Mycroft settled himself into this one, and only then did he check the message.
Target secured. Approaching final destination. ETA 10:00.
Precisely on schedule. Mycroft pocketed his phone once more. He was increasingly uncertain of the role James Moriarty had played in all of this, but he fancied he would have his answers soon enough.
Chapter Three