Bird's Bone
James Moriarty was being kept in a small, secure flat in East London, which Mycroft had had arranged specifically for this purpose. When Mycroft entered, Moriarty was seated in an armchair at the far end of the coffee table, his ankle propped on one knee.
"My my my, " he said, and his dark eyes glittered coldly.
"James," Mycroft replied. He rested his umbrella against the opposite chair. Moriarty's shoes had been removed, of course, along with his personal affects. He had draped his jacket over the back of his chair and appeared to have settled himself in comfortably. Mycroft lowered himself into his own chair. Moriarty's lips slowly stretched into a vicious parody of a smile, revealing a sliver of small even teeth which Mycroft knew to be the work of Dr. Treudeaux, a dentist in Chelsea.
Two weeks ago, when Sherlock had vanished, Mycroft immediately began the arduous task of tracking down James Moriarty. His involvement had been a foregone conclusion, for of all the people Sherlock had infuriated over the years, none would have had the means or even the motive to abduct him, and none were aware of the personal significance he placed on John Watson. Moriarty, of course, being the exception in both cases.
Scanning Sherlock's files, Mycroft had come across a sheaf of meticulous ink sketches; incisors, bicuspids, the faulty alignment of a lower jaw; all neatly labeled in Sherlock’s firm, even hand. Mycroft was unsure of the instance in which Sherlock could have obtained such an intimate view of Moriarty's third molar, though it would not have taken much: a brief glimpse at the pool perhaps. Sherlock differed from Mycroft in his ability to recall, describe, or reproduce in perfect detail the things he had seen, a tedious task which Mycroft eschewed in favor of generalities and intuitive impressions.
Sherlock had narrowed down the list of dental surgeons capable of performing the exact work that he had seen, but at the time of his abduction nothing had come of it. A week later, however, Mycroft's surveillance had picked up Moriarty entering the office of Dr. Treudeaux. In this particular game of cat and mouse, he had committed the fatal error of being genetically predisposed to soft teeth.
"I'll confess you surprised me, Mr. Holmes," Moriarty drawled. "This is the first time I've ever been caught. I underestimated your influence." He gestured to the flat, the beige carpet, the blue-tinted walls. "Of course, your employer doesn't know what you're doing here. I would have known otherwise." The smile vanished. "Aren't you going to offer me tea?"
"Let us not shilly-shally around the point, James. I promise it will be considerably easier for you if you simply tell me what I want to know."
"Easier for me," Moriarty considered. He pressed the tips of his fingers together and settled lower in his chair. He pursed his lips in mock contemplation. "You want to know who's been terrorizing our dear Sherlock. Such nasty business. It wasn't me." He looked at Mycroft with wide, innocent eyes. "But you already know that, or I'd be dead already, wouldn't I." The small smile returned. "But if it wasn't old Jim, then who was it?"
The theatrics were already quite tiresome. Mycroft eyed his opponent evenly.
"Four hundred micrograms of lysergide followed by, oh, I don't know, fifty milligrams of mescaline," Moriarty offered conversationally. "Is that what you were thinking?"
It was, actually. Mycroft had a discreet team of interrogators at his disposal, and Moriarty's disposition seemed to favor chemical and psychological manipulation. Moriarty continued.
"I'm just terrible on hallucinogens, Mr. Holmes. I see the most horrifying things, you can't even imagine." He rolled these last words languidly. "If it were me, I'd throw in some amphetamine. Risky, it's true, there's the risk I might lose my mind, but I would beg you to make it stop. Eventually. I'm afraid I can't give you a time line. Do take it under advisement, though, will you? It seems the longer this takes, the longer I get to live. Is that true?"
"Indeed, James," Mycroft evenly replied. "The use of narcotics has certainly crossed my mind. However, my brother as of today has been recovered, so I am at my leisure to take as long as I need to obtain the required information," he ran his fingernails over the pad of his thumb, "by whatever means necessary."
"I see." Moriarty's face took on a tenser quality. "But to drag on this tiresome charade, Mr. Holmes? How boring. I think we can do better than that." He shifted, settled his tongue as though his mouth had gone dry.
"We'll need a six point restraint, because naturally, I'm going to fight you. With every inch of my being, I will fight you, Mr. Holmes. You'll need a lid speculum, one for each eye, and mount a mirror on the ceiling so I have no choice but to watch the procedure. Use a toothed forceps to loosen the tissue surrounding my eye; either one will do. The mass of the eyeball is much softer than most people believe. Gelatinous, almost. Just jimmy the forceps gently, create a little tent of tissue, and cut it away. There are four rectus muscles which will need to be removed. Use a small hook to lift them from beneath, and cut them away as well. Naturally this may cause some bleeding, Mr. Holmes, but I won't be needing those veins anymore, so cauterize them." Moriarty paused. He was trembling, almost imperceptibly.
"Before you cut the last one, you'll want to clamp it with a hemostat; it will act as a handle to remove my eye. With a little leverage it will pop right out." He paused again and swallowed tightly. His eyes had taken on a feverish quality in his pallid face. "It will still be rooted to the optic nerve, which will be coated with a slick membrane. Press the scissors as close as you can to the root, and then...snip!" he whispered. "Show it to me. Prepare to remove my other eye. I'll tell you everything you want to know." His voice had dissipated to a dry rasp.
Mycroft realized he had been grinding his molars together, and he carefully relaxed his jaw. He had no doubt that Moriarty was telling the truth and had frightened himself in doing so, yet inexplicably Mycroft felt as though he were the one losing the upper hand. Interesting. For one of the very few times in his life, Mycroft did not know where this was headed. He waited for James to continue.
"Once you do this, it's only a matter of time before Sherlock figures it out. Not right away, I don't think, but he is so incorrigible, isn't he? Now, he wouldn't care, of course. He's self centered, compassionless, he has no moral compass at all, no conscience - or wait," Moriarty's voice lilted and the harsh glint returned to his eyes. "Or does he have a little cricket who sits on his shoulder and tells him right from wrong?"
Mycroft's stomach hardened. Moriarty switched tack abruptly, and his tone was once again casual.
"Sherlock is so bright. He's so beautiful, isn't he? But I must confess, that gimpy little doctor of his has caught my eye. Do you agree? He is interesting, in his simpleminded way. Sometimes I wonder how things could have been if I had met him first. Do you think he would be my little lap dog? I can be very masterful."
Mycroft remained carefully calm. At this particular point in time Dr. Watson was essential to Sherlock's recovery.
"But. He's Sherlock's. He's shoot me straight between the eyes given the opportunity. And what a shot! Where did he learn that, I wonder. Peculiar man, John Watson." Moriarty sank into something of a reverie, and he snapped out of it abruptly. He met Mycroft's narrow gaze fiercely, tauntingly, with the thinnest veneer of nonchalance. "What do you think he would do if he knew what you had done? After I told you everything. I feel certain John would disagree most strenuously. He might even walk out, like he does. Could Sherlock ever risk him finding out? When it comes to that, Mr. Holmes, who do you think Sherlock will chose? You, the brother who raised him? Or his grim little doctor."
Moriarty grinned viciously and leaned back, his play complete. Mycroft had lost this round. This, despite his enormous situational advantage. He rose and straightened his jacket, then took up his umbrella. Very well played indeed.
"Then I fear we have reached an impasse," he said, rapidly plotting his new course of action. "You will understand that I cannot allow you to go free. My team is under strict instructions not to enter this area under any circumstances, so please don't overestimate the priority placed on your physical well being. Nevertheless, all potentially injurious objects have been removed for your safety. Aside from that, I believe you will find your accommodations quite...normal."
Moriarty broke into a cold grin. "Then the game is on, Mr. Holmes."
*
The sound of the shower was almost startlingly loud. John turned the fixture towards the wall so that the water wouldn't pound so mercilessly against the basin. He turned to Sherlock, who had followed him into the bathroom.
"You can go first."
Sherlock wavered where he stood, gripping his elbows. He had angry red lesions on the backs of wrists. John wasn't prepared to find out how they had got there.
Sherlock was covered in blood. It was smeared up and down his right arm and stained into his shirt. In the elevator Anthea had warned John about this, that Sherlock had killed three people in his escape. She had said his emotional state was extremely delicate, but it had still turned John's stomach the way Sherlock had sidled up to him in the car, cringed and clung like an animal. John had the irrational idea that if they could simply get the blood off him, then everything else would rinse away: the last two weeks, everything. They were home. It was going to be fine.
Sherlock hadn't moved at all. He was standing in the doorway, his eyes fixed on John's shoulder. John had never seen him look so small.
"You're filthy, Sherlock. Come on."
Sherlock didn’t move. Then he turned towards the wall, hiding his face behind his raised shoulders, which had begun to tremble.
Oh God. Okay. John stifled the fear that knifed through him. It was going to be fine. He shut off the water. He took a small hand towel from the rack, then guided Sherlock to the sink. He wet the towel, pried loose Sherlock's arm, and began scrubbing away the blood in long, firm strokes. He scoured between the fingers. There was a smattering of blood on his face and neck, and John wiped that away. It was going to be fine.
When he was done, John dropped the cloth in the sink and ran hot water over it. He watched the blood pool pink and slowly clear. He hadn't wanted Sherlock to kill anyone. He knew Sherlock had had to; John would have done the same. But it was different. John was there to kill people if they had to. Sherlock shouldn't. It wasn't right. It was too close to what he could have been; what everyone already thought he was. John thought he wanted to either cry or be sick, and he said, "Might as well change out of that." Sherlock didn't leave.
John picked up the cloth and wrung it out. The water had run to burning hot, and he turned the temperature down. He looked at himself in the mirror, his gaunt, hollow face looking pale and bruised beneath a scraggling beard. He fetched the electric shaver from behind the mirror, but Sherlock didn't leave until he had trimmed it down to a thick stubble and then reached for the shaving cream.
When John stepped out of the shower a long time later, Sherlock was seated on the toilet, his head bowed and his hands clasped between his knees. He hadn't changed his clothes.
"You startled me," John said, and wrapped a towel around his waist. He was embarrassed by the way his ribs protruded, and the frail knottiness of his joints beneath his skin. His clothes were in a pile on the floor, but he couldn't put those on. He would throw them away later. Sherlock's as well.
John began the laborious trek up to his bedroom, and heard Sherlock eventually follow. John leaned heavily against the banister and bit back a cry as his leg nearly gave out beneath him. He took the steps one at a time with his shoulder to the wall, dragging the bad leg up to meet the other. When he reached the top his breath was ragged and he felt hot tears pricking at the backs of his eyes. His skin was cold where, in his surprise, he hadn't remembered to dry.
John dressed in a dark hooded jumper and tracksuit bottoms. He was chilled even though he knew the flat was overly warm, and he pulled on socks as well, then retrieved his cane from where it had been blessedly dormant for over a year. That was okay. This was temporary. They were home. John grabbed a pillow and the blanket from his bed, because until things did get better, he couldn't endure the repeated ordeal of navigating the steps. He made to throw these things downstairs when he saw that Sherlock was still standing at the bottom, rocking forward and then turning away as though he couldn't decide whether or not to mount them. John choked around the knot that rose in his throat.
"Sherlock," he said. "Come on. You can't wear that." John breathed in quickly and shuddered on the exhale. It was not going to be alright. He closed his eyes and stood very still, except for his left hand, which spasmed so convulsively it was nearly useless. He heard Sherlock hurry up the steps and felt him brush by into his bedroom. Still, John stood with the bundle of bedding clutched to his waist, eyes shut, willing himself to breathe. This is not your fault, he told himself. It's not your fault. It's not.
He hadn't known what was happening. Day after day he had sat in that room watching the shadows move across the wall, counting how long he could survive on his dwindling water. He sat on the far side, away from the corner he had used for a loo, while such a thing had still been relevant. It was tucked beneath his jacket to contain the stench. Every morning the phone would ring, and God help him, but he had lived for those calls. His heart had hammered in his chest as he waited for that low voice to say his name. After awhile that was all Sherlock would say. He had never said what they were doing to him, but John knew these calls were part of it.
Since Sherlock wouldn't, John would just talk. He would talk and talk, and sometimes the tone would sound and he would realize the call had been disconnected long ago, and still he would just keep talking. He would tell Sherlock then how sorry he was, and how scared, and please do something, please help him, get me out of here, I'm sorry. Then gasping, John would reign himself in. He would stop crying because it wasted water. He would wait for the day to end and think of things to tell Sherlock, and things he would say only after Sherlock had gone. He would watch the square patch of muted sunlight crawl slowly over the wall, the floor, the door that was always locked. Whatever had been done to Sherlock, John was a part of it, and God help him, but he had needed those calls.
John opened his eyes. He dropped the bedding and watched it tumble down the steps. Then he turned around and checked on Sherlock because he was taking a very long time. Sherlock was standing in front of his dresser, stripped completely bare. He was gripping a folded shirt to his chest and staring into the open drawer, whispering frantically to himself. John turned away and rested his head against the door jamb. Someone had painted over the strike plate so that it no longer matched the brass door handle. John fitted his finger into the latch hole. He wasn't going to cry. He told himself this as a tear slipped down the edge of his nose and dropped warm onto his hand. This is not your fault, as another tear joined the first. This is not your fault. It's not your fault.
John hastily wiped his nose on his sleeve. Alright. He went into the room. He fetched Sherlock a set of pyjamas from out of the drawer. "Put these on. Come on," he said, and waited while Sherlock pull them on over his angular form. There was a spot of blood on the inside of his elbow that John had missed.
*
When Mycroft arrived, both Sherlock and Dr. Watson were in the living room. Sherlock was facing the wall by the door, tracing the patterned flock wallpaper with the tips of his fingers. Dr. Watson was sitting rigidly in the armchair near the kitchen. He appeared to be staring out the window, but his manner suggested he was seeing nothing. Mycroft entered the room and set his books on the table; some crosswords for Dr. Watson, comprehensive books on spiders and birds for Sherlock. Dr. Watson was looking at him now, his tense expression unchanged. Sherlock stilled but didn't turn around. Mycroft went into the kitchen and procured a glass of water. He returned with it and a small white pill in hand, and he gave the pill to Sherlock.
"Take this," he instructed. Sherlock held the pill cautiously between two fingers. "Go on."
Sherlock took it in his teeth, and Mycroft handed him the water. Once Sherlock swallowed the pill, Mycroft took back the glass.
"Good. Now go lie down."
Sherlock hesitated only a moment before heading towards the sofa. Mycroft waited until he had curled onto it with his back to the room, then he turned to Dr. Watson, who had watched the exchange with something approaching horror. Mycroft took a seat in the opposite chair and set the empty glass on the coffee table.
"Rohypnol," he explained, which assuaged Dr. Watson's anxiety not even slightly. Mycroft took up one of the crossword booklets he had brought. It would be fifteen minutes before the drug took effect, and it wouldn't do to speak until then. At the end of that time he set the booklet down to find Dr. Watson glaring at him with all the steel left to him in his weakened condition.
"What you must understand, Dr. Watson, is that my brother is not in his right mind. If he seems amenable to my suggestions it is because he trusts me to know what is best for him when he is unable to make those decisions for himself." Mycroft held Dr. Watson's gaze until the other man looked away. "Sherlock killed three people today. He did it because the situation presented no acceptable alternative, but I must warn you that, falsely constructed as it may have been, he felt a great deal of attachment to one of them. He made a decision. He weighed your life in favor of hers, and while this was necessary, it will nevertheless wreak severe repercussions upon his psyche." The blood visibly drained from Dr. Watson's face. Mycroft continued. "Rather than allow him to dwell on it any further today, I believe it essential that he rest thoroughly in an environment in which he feels secure."
A moment passed between them. When Dr. Watson finally spoke, his voice was dim and hoarse. "What do you mean, falsely constructed?"
Mycroft spoke carefully, determining what was necessary to reveal. "He underwent a conditioning process comprised of long periods of sensory deprivation, broken by intervals of physical and mental stimulation. This established a false sense of trust between him and his captor, which was reinforced through daily repetition." Mycroft paused. "I suspect he recognizes the perverse nature of his attachment, but that doesn't make it any less real."
Dr. Watson looked as though he were about to be ill. "And why did they do this?" he asked.
Mycroft frowned. He had broken up his contemplations to come here this evening, but it was with mounting apprehension that he had watched the variables collapse in favor of one very grave theory which he had yet to confirm. "The motive remains unclear," he hedged, "As does the objective."
"You don't think it was Moriarty, then."
Again, Mycroft hesitated. "There is no evidence of his involvement."
"Doesn't mean it wasn't him," Dr. Watson muttered.
"No."
Dr. Watson's gaze shifted to rest somewhere between the far window and Sherlock's sleeping form. Bare of face and all but swimming in his jumper, he seemed impossibly frail. The tremor in his hand had returned with a vengeance, and he had buried it between his leg and the arm of the chair.
"Dr. Watson," Mycroft began, unsure if what he was about to offer were true compassion or simply another test. "After what you've experienced, I understand if you wish to take some time, to stay with family, or -"
Dr. Watson shook his head. Of course, he was largely estranged from his family for reasons purely his own. In some ways he was even more alone in this world than Sherlock. It was somewhat sad, really. Dr. Watson managed a small facsimile of a smile, and Mycroft inclined his head politely.
"I will admit to some selfishness in wishing you to remain," Mycroft said, then selected his next words. "I'm not sure you're aware of how very dear you are to my brother. Your presence will be reassuring both to him and to me."
Dr. Watson looked at him squarely, the exhaustion in his expression bordering on despair. "I don't know what to do."
Mycroft felt a tightness in his chest that seemed to have taken up residence there. He had no solid answer. Dr. Watson dropped his head into his hands and cursed feebly. Then he wiped his nose on the back of his hand and tucked his arm around his waist. He took several steadying breaths.
"Okay," he said. "Okay." He took one more breath and looked at Mycroft again. "What about you?" he asked. "What will you do?"
"I'll try to be here at least once a day. Sorting this out may take some time."
Dr. Watson nodded. He stared for a moment at the books on the table, moved the one on spiders aside to look at the birds. He flipped the book open and began leafing through it. "Does he like all this?"
"As a hobby."
It was a beautifully printed tome, filled with colored photographs, exacting diagrams and information. "I didn't know," Dr. Watson said.
"Well. Very little survives his enthusiasm for forensic science."
Dr. Watson breathed a semblance of a laugh. He toyed with the corner of a page, and Mycroft realized he wanted to ask something, but wasn't sure his question would be welcome.
"Birds were one of his earliest obsessions," Mycroft offered. "Then insects, and spiders. He didn't discover forensics until early adolescence." He had Dr. Watson's full attention now. Though Sherlock certainly would certainly object if he were able, Mycroft was loathe to allow the subject to drop. It had lightened Dr. Watson's demeanor remarkably already, and it was seldom Mycroft had the opportunity to speak on any subject but business; rarer still that he felt inclined to do so.
"For a time his room was filled dessicated exoskeletons. We had a large garden, but he quickly exhausted its resources. No scorpions at all, to his eternal disappointment." Mycroft regarded his brother, shoulders broad and flat beneath the t-shirt. It had been a very long time since Sherlock needed him like he had today. "But humans are his favorite, above all other creatures." He turned back to Dr. Watson. "I believe it was through his research in this area - well, I say 'research.' He liked to spy on the neighbors. He developed a fascination with human ingenuity that has prevailed above all else. As for the emphasis on criminal capacity, one can only guess."
"The thrill," Dr. Watson suggested, smiling.
"Ah, of course."
They lapsed into easy silence, and Dr. Watson again took on that hesitant quality, his tongue poised at the edge of his teeth.
"You can ask whatever you like, doctor."
Dr. Watson glanced away. "You don't have to call me that. Um. No, I just, I wonder. It doesn't seem like he could have ever been..."
"A child?"
"Small, yeah."
Mycroft considered this. "His personality has not changed a great deal, but he is rather larger, yes."
Dr. Watson laughed. "I mean, like...what was it like?" A lilting curiosity had crept into his voice that was refreshing to hear.
"It was very trying," Mycroft said emphatically. "But it was also rewarding. He was an apt pupil, as you can imagine. Very bright, very creative, with me, at least. His teachers wanted to put him in remedial classes. He refused to learn his basic facts."
"Earth goes round the sun, all that."
'Precisely. He refused to learn anything that did not present an immediate, practical application, and he was very selective in his definition of 'practical.' But once he chose to learn something, he did so thoroughly and comprehensively. He often surprised even me with the depth of his understanding."
"So did you teach him a lot, then? I mean, if his teachers were..." Dr. Watson's expression could only be described as rapt.
"My dear Dr. Watson, I taught him everything." Mycroft waited for these words to take effect and then said, almost coyly, "Where do you think he learned the science of deduction?"
Dr. Watson's lips parted in an awed little sliver of a smile. It was easy to see why Sherlock liked him so much.
"There is a difference of seven years between us, so I had a notable advantage, but there was such a time as he considered me the authority in matters of detection."
Ruefully, Dr. Watson shook his head, leaning back in his chair. "I shouldn't be asking. He'll be furious."
"I'm not so sure," Mycroft said, allowing a hint of irony to creep into his voice. "It's possible he simply hasn't found a situation in which the information would be immediately and practically applicable. That isn't to say he wouldn't want you to know."
Still, Dr. Watson shook his head. "If he thought I thought he was...he had anything but sprung fully formed from the head of Zeus, it would probably devastate his ego."
"Hm. It may reduce it to a human level. He would manage, I think."
Dr. Watson's gaze drifted back to Sherlock, still curled on the sofa. The soles of his feet were black from the flat having been let to accumulate dust. The silence this time was somber and heavy. Reluctantly, Mycroft rose from his chair.
"I must be getting back," he said, and crossed over to Dr. Watson. He held out his hand and the doctor clasped it firmly. How quickly that hollow look had returned to his eyes.
"Thanks for stopping by," he said. "I really, um, thanks."
"It's been a pleasure," Mycroft said sincerely.
On his way downstairs, Mycroft paused on the landing. Right now, Dr. Watson would be laboring to his feet. He would contemplate leaving his cane, but would need it to move even the small distance across the room. Mycroft heard the rhythmic thump as it hit the floor. Now he would be gathering the pillow and blanket that had been discarded near the sofa. He would be settling in at the opposite end, making room and lifting his bad leg to rest over Sherlock's knees. Then he would arrange the blanket over them, although it wasn't cold. He would resign himself to insomnia, but would succumb unexpectedly to sleep with Sherlock's reassuring warmth beneath him. Mycroft heard the cane slide from the sofa and clatter to the floor. He descended the rest of the steps and, unbidden, wondered how things could have been if he had met John first. Outside the car was waiting for him. Mycroft would spend the rest of the evening examining data, closing in on his brother's assailant from the silent solitude of his elegant and empty home.
Chapter Four
"My my my, " he said, and his dark eyes glittered coldly.
"James," Mycroft replied. He rested his umbrella against the opposite chair. Moriarty's shoes had been removed, of course, along with his personal affects. He had draped his jacket over the back of his chair and appeared to have settled himself in comfortably. Mycroft lowered himself into his own chair. Moriarty's lips slowly stretched into a vicious parody of a smile, revealing a sliver of small even teeth which Mycroft knew to be the work of Dr. Treudeaux, a dentist in Chelsea.
Two weeks ago, when Sherlock had vanished, Mycroft immediately began the arduous task of tracking down James Moriarty. His involvement had been a foregone conclusion, for of all the people Sherlock had infuriated over the years, none would have had the means or even the motive to abduct him, and none were aware of the personal significance he placed on John Watson. Moriarty, of course, being the exception in both cases.
Scanning Sherlock's files, Mycroft had come across a sheaf of meticulous ink sketches; incisors, bicuspids, the faulty alignment of a lower jaw; all neatly labeled in Sherlock’s firm, even hand. Mycroft was unsure of the instance in which Sherlock could have obtained such an intimate view of Moriarty's third molar, though it would not have taken much: a brief glimpse at the pool perhaps. Sherlock differed from Mycroft in his ability to recall, describe, or reproduce in perfect detail the things he had seen, a tedious task which Mycroft eschewed in favor of generalities and intuitive impressions.
Sherlock had narrowed down the list of dental surgeons capable of performing the exact work that he had seen, but at the time of his abduction nothing had come of it. A week later, however, Mycroft's surveillance had picked up Moriarty entering the office of Dr. Treudeaux. In this particular game of cat and mouse, he had committed the fatal error of being genetically predisposed to soft teeth.
"I'll confess you surprised me, Mr. Holmes," Moriarty drawled. "This is the first time I've ever been caught. I underestimated your influence." He gestured to the flat, the beige carpet, the blue-tinted walls. "Of course, your employer doesn't know what you're doing here. I would have known otherwise." The smile vanished. "Aren't you going to offer me tea?"
"Let us not shilly-shally around the point, James. I promise it will be considerably easier for you if you simply tell me what I want to know."
"Easier for me," Moriarty considered. He pressed the tips of his fingers together and settled lower in his chair. He pursed his lips in mock contemplation. "You want to know who's been terrorizing our dear Sherlock. Such nasty business. It wasn't me." He looked at Mycroft with wide, innocent eyes. "But you already know that, or I'd be dead already, wouldn't I." The small smile returned. "But if it wasn't old Jim, then who was it?"
The theatrics were already quite tiresome. Mycroft eyed his opponent evenly.
"Four hundred micrograms of lysergide followed by, oh, I don't know, fifty milligrams of mescaline," Moriarty offered conversationally. "Is that what you were thinking?"
It was, actually. Mycroft had a discreet team of interrogators at his disposal, and Moriarty's disposition seemed to favor chemical and psychological manipulation. Moriarty continued.
"I'm just terrible on hallucinogens, Mr. Holmes. I see the most horrifying things, you can't even imagine." He rolled these last words languidly. "If it were me, I'd throw in some amphetamine. Risky, it's true, there's the risk I might lose my mind, but I would beg you to make it stop. Eventually. I'm afraid I can't give you a time line. Do take it under advisement, though, will you? It seems the longer this takes, the longer I get to live. Is that true?"
"Indeed, James," Mycroft evenly replied. "The use of narcotics has certainly crossed my mind. However, my brother as of today has been recovered, so I am at my leisure to take as long as I need to obtain the required information," he ran his fingernails over the pad of his thumb, "by whatever means necessary."
"I see." Moriarty's face took on a tenser quality. "But to drag on this tiresome charade, Mr. Holmes? How boring. I think we can do better than that." He shifted, settled his tongue as though his mouth had gone dry.
"We'll need a six point restraint, because naturally, I'm going to fight you. With every inch of my being, I will fight you, Mr. Holmes. You'll need a lid speculum, one for each eye, and mount a mirror on the ceiling so I have no choice but to watch the procedure. Use a toothed forceps to loosen the tissue surrounding my eye; either one will do. The mass of the eyeball is much softer than most people believe. Gelatinous, almost. Just jimmy the forceps gently, create a little tent of tissue, and cut it away. There are four rectus muscles which will need to be removed. Use a small hook to lift them from beneath, and cut them away as well. Naturally this may cause some bleeding, Mr. Holmes, but I won't be needing those veins anymore, so cauterize them." Moriarty paused. He was trembling, almost imperceptibly.
"Before you cut the last one, you'll want to clamp it with a hemostat; it will act as a handle to remove my eye. With a little leverage it will pop right out." He paused again and swallowed tightly. His eyes had taken on a feverish quality in his pallid face. "It will still be rooted to the optic nerve, which will be coated with a slick membrane. Press the scissors as close as you can to the root, and then...snip!" he whispered. "Show it to me. Prepare to remove my other eye. I'll tell you everything you want to know." His voice had dissipated to a dry rasp.
Mycroft realized he had been grinding his molars together, and he carefully relaxed his jaw. He had no doubt that Moriarty was telling the truth and had frightened himself in doing so, yet inexplicably Mycroft felt as though he were the one losing the upper hand. Interesting. For one of the very few times in his life, Mycroft did not know where this was headed. He waited for James to continue.
"Once you do this, it's only a matter of time before Sherlock figures it out. Not right away, I don't think, but he is so incorrigible, isn't he? Now, he wouldn't care, of course. He's self centered, compassionless, he has no moral compass at all, no conscience - or wait," Moriarty's voice lilted and the harsh glint returned to his eyes. "Or does he have a little cricket who sits on his shoulder and tells him right from wrong?"
Mycroft's stomach hardened. Moriarty switched tack abruptly, and his tone was once again casual.
"Sherlock is so bright. He's so beautiful, isn't he? But I must confess, that gimpy little doctor of his has caught my eye. Do you agree? He is interesting, in his simpleminded way. Sometimes I wonder how things could have been if I had met him first. Do you think he would be my little lap dog? I can be very masterful."
Mycroft remained carefully calm. At this particular point in time Dr. Watson was essential to Sherlock's recovery.
"But. He's Sherlock's. He's shoot me straight between the eyes given the opportunity. And what a shot! Where did he learn that, I wonder. Peculiar man, John Watson." Moriarty sank into something of a reverie, and he snapped out of it abruptly. He met Mycroft's narrow gaze fiercely, tauntingly, with the thinnest veneer of nonchalance. "What do you think he would do if he knew what you had done? After I told you everything. I feel certain John would disagree most strenuously. He might even walk out, like he does. Could Sherlock ever risk him finding out? When it comes to that, Mr. Holmes, who do you think Sherlock will chose? You, the brother who raised him? Or his grim little doctor."
Moriarty grinned viciously and leaned back, his play complete. Mycroft had lost this round. This, despite his enormous situational advantage. He rose and straightened his jacket, then took up his umbrella. Very well played indeed.
"Then I fear we have reached an impasse," he said, rapidly plotting his new course of action. "You will understand that I cannot allow you to go free. My team is under strict instructions not to enter this area under any circumstances, so please don't overestimate the priority placed on your physical well being. Nevertheless, all potentially injurious objects have been removed for your safety. Aside from that, I believe you will find your accommodations quite...normal."
Moriarty broke into a cold grin. "Then the game is on, Mr. Holmes."
*
The sound of the shower was almost startlingly loud. John turned the fixture towards the wall so that the water wouldn't pound so mercilessly against the basin. He turned to Sherlock, who had followed him into the bathroom.
"You can go first."
Sherlock wavered where he stood, gripping his elbows. He had angry red lesions on the backs of wrists. John wasn't prepared to find out how they had got there.
Sherlock was covered in blood. It was smeared up and down his right arm and stained into his shirt. In the elevator Anthea had warned John about this, that Sherlock had killed three people in his escape. She had said his emotional state was extremely delicate, but it had still turned John's stomach the way Sherlock had sidled up to him in the car, cringed and clung like an animal. John had the irrational idea that if they could simply get the blood off him, then everything else would rinse away: the last two weeks, everything. They were home. It was going to be fine.
Sherlock hadn't moved at all. He was standing in the doorway, his eyes fixed on John's shoulder. John had never seen him look so small.
"You're filthy, Sherlock. Come on."
Sherlock didn’t move. Then he turned towards the wall, hiding his face behind his raised shoulders, which had begun to tremble.
Oh God. Okay. John stifled the fear that knifed through him. It was going to be fine. He shut off the water. He took a small hand towel from the rack, then guided Sherlock to the sink. He wet the towel, pried loose Sherlock's arm, and began scrubbing away the blood in long, firm strokes. He scoured between the fingers. There was a smattering of blood on his face and neck, and John wiped that away. It was going to be fine.
When he was done, John dropped the cloth in the sink and ran hot water over it. He watched the blood pool pink and slowly clear. He hadn't wanted Sherlock to kill anyone. He knew Sherlock had had to; John would have done the same. But it was different. John was there to kill people if they had to. Sherlock shouldn't. It wasn't right. It was too close to what he could have been; what everyone already thought he was. John thought he wanted to either cry or be sick, and he said, "Might as well change out of that." Sherlock didn't leave.
John picked up the cloth and wrung it out. The water had run to burning hot, and he turned the temperature down. He looked at himself in the mirror, his gaunt, hollow face looking pale and bruised beneath a scraggling beard. He fetched the electric shaver from behind the mirror, but Sherlock didn't leave until he had trimmed it down to a thick stubble and then reached for the shaving cream.
When John stepped out of the shower a long time later, Sherlock was seated on the toilet, his head bowed and his hands clasped between his knees. He hadn't changed his clothes.
"You startled me," John said, and wrapped a towel around his waist. He was embarrassed by the way his ribs protruded, and the frail knottiness of his joints beneath his skin. His clothes were in a pile on the floor, but he couldn't put those on. He would throw them away later. Sherlock's as well.
John began the laborious trek up to his bedroom, and heard Sherlock eventually follow. John leaned heavily against the banister and bit back a cry as his leg nearly gave out beneath him. He took the steps one at a time with his shoulder to the wall, dragging the bad leg up to meet the other. When he reached the top his breath was ragged and he felt hot tears pricking at the backs of his eyes. His skin was cold where, in his surprise, he hadn't remembered to dry.
John dressed in a dark hooded jumper and tracksuit bottoms. He was chilled even though he knew the flat was overly warm, and he pulled on socks as well, then retrieved his cane from where it had been blessedly dormant for over a year. That was okay. This was temporary. They were home. John grabbed a pillow and the blanket from his bed, because until things did get better, he couldn't endure the repeated ordeal of navigating the steps. He made to throw these things downstairs when he saw that Sherlock was still standing at the bottom, rocking forward and then turning away as though he couldn't decide whether or not to mount them. John choked around the knot that rose in his throat.
"Sherlock," he said. "Come on. You can't wear that." John breathed in quickly and shuddered on the exhale. It was not going to be alright. He closed his eyes and stood very still, except for his left hand, which spasmed so convulsively it was nearly useless. He heard Sherlock hurry up the steps and felt him brush by into his bedroom. Still, John stood with the bundle of bedding clutched to his waist, eyes shut, willing himself to breathe. This is not your fault, he told himself. It's not your fault. It's not.
He hadn't known what was happening. Day after day he had sat in that room watching the shadows move across the wall, counting how long he could survive on his dwindling water. He sat on the far side, away from the corner he had used for a loo, while such a thing had still been relevant. It was tucked beneath his jacket to contain the stench. Every morning the phone would ring, and God help him, but he had lived for those calls. His heart had hammered in his chest as he waited for that low voice to say his name. After awhile that was all Sherlock would say. He had never said what they were doing to him, but John knew these calls were part of it.
Since Sherlock wouldn't, John would just talk. He would talk and talk, and sometimes the tone would sound and he would realize the call had been disconnected long ago, and still he would just keep talking. He would tell Sherlock then how sorry he was, and how scared, and please do something, please help him, get me out of here, I'm sorry. Then gasping, John would reign himself in. He would stop crying because it wasted water. He would wait for the day to end and think of things to tell Sherlock, and things he would say only after Sherlock had gone. He would watch the square patch of muted sunlight crawl slowly over the wall, the floor, the door that was always locked. Whatever had been done to Sherlock, John was a part of it, and God help him, but he had needed those calls.
John opened his eyes. He dropped the bedding and watched it tumble down the steps. Then he turned around and checked on Sherlock because he was taking a very long time. Sherlock was standing in front of his dresser, stripped completely bare. He was gripping a folded shirt to his chest and staring into the open drawer, whispering frantically to himself. John turned away and rested his head against the door jamb. Someone had painted over the strike plate so that it no longer matched the brass door handle. John fitted his finger into the latch hole. He wasn't going to cry. He told himself this as a tear slipped down the edge of his nose and dropped warm onto his hand. This is not your fault, as another tear joined the first. This is not your fault. It's not your fault.
John hastily wiped his nose on his sleeve. Alright. He went into the room. He fetched Sherlock a set of pyjamas from out of the drawer. "Put these on. Come on," he said, and waited while Sherlock pull them on over his angular form. There was a spot of blood on the inside of his elbow that John had missed.
*
When Mycroft arrived, both Sherlock and Dr. Watson were in the living room. Sherlock was facing the wall by the door, tracing the patterned flock wallpaper with the tips of his fingers. Dr. Watson was sitting rigidly in the armchair near the kitchen. He appeared to be staring out the window, but his manner suggested he was seeing nothing. Mycroft entered the room and set his books on the table; some crosswords for Dr. Watson, comprehensive books on spiders and birds for Sherlock. Dr. Watson was looking at him now, his tense expression unchanged. Sherlock stilled but didn't turn around. Mycroft went into the kitchen and procured a glass of water. He returned with it and a small white pill in hand, and he gave the pill to Sherlock.
"Take this," he instructed. Sherlock held the pill cautiously between two fingers. "Go on."
Sherlock took it in his teeth, and Mycroft handed him the water. Once Sherlock swallowed the pill, Mycroft took back the glass.
"Good. Now go lie down."
Sherlock hesitated only a moment before heading towards the sofa. Mycroft waited until he had curled onto it with his back to the room, then he turned to Dr. Watson, who had watched the exchange with something approaching horror. Mycroft took a seat in the opposite chair and set the empty glass on the coffee table.
"Rohypnol," he explained, which assuaged Dr. Watson's anxiety not even slightly. Mycroft took up one of the crossword booklets he had brought. It would be fifteen minutes before the drug took effect, and it wouldn't do to speak until then. At the end of that time he set the booklet down to find Dr. Watson glaring at him with all the steel left to him in his weakened condition.
"What you must understand, Dr. Watson, is that my brother is not in his right mind. If he seems amenable to my suggestions it is because he trusts me to know what is best for him when he is unable to make those decisions for himself." Mycroft held Dr. Watson's gaze until the other man looked away. "Sherlock killed three people today. He did it because the situation presented no acceptable alternative, but I must warn you that, falsely constructed as it may have been, he felt a great deal of attachment to one of them. He made a decision. He weighed your life in favor of hers, and while this was necessary, it will nevertheless wreak severe repercussions upon his psyche." The blood visibly drained from Dr. Watson's face. Mycroft continued. "Rather than allow him to dwell on it any further today, I believe it essential that he rest thoroughly in an environment in which he feels secure."
A moment passed between them. When Dr. Watson finally spoke, his voice was dim and hoarse. "What do you mean, falsely constructed?"
Mycroft spoke carefully, determining what was necessary to reveal. "He underwent a conditioning process comprised of long periods of sensory deprivation, broken by intervals of physical and mental stimulation. This established a false sense of trust between him and his captor, which was reinforced through daily repetition." Mycroft paused. "I suspect he recognizes the perverse nature of his attachment, but that doesn't make it any less real."
Dr. Watson looked as though he were about to be ill. "And why did they do this?" he asked.
Mycroft frowned. He had broken up his contemplations to come here this evening, but it was with mounting apprehension that he had watched the variables collapse in favor of one very grave theory which he had yet to confirm. "The motive remains unclear," he hedged, "As does the objective."
"You don't think it was Moriarty, then."
Again, Mycroft hesitated. "There is no evidence of his involvement."
"Doesn't mean it wasn't him," Dr. Watson muttered.
"No."
Dr. Watson's gaze shifted to rest somewhere between the far window and Sherlock's sleeping form. Bare of face and all but swimming in his jumper, he seemed impossibly frail. The tremor in his hand had returned with a vengeance, and he had buried it between his leg and the arm of the chair.
"Dr. Watson," Mycroft began, unsure if what he was about to offer were true compassion or simply another test. "After what you've experienced, I understand if you wish to take some time, to stay with family, or -"
Dr. Watson shook his head. Of course, he was largely estranged from his family for reasons purely his own. In some ways he was even more alone in this world than Sherlock. It was somewhat sad, really. Dr. Watson managed a small facsimile of a smile, and Mycroft inclined his head politely.
"I will admit to some selfishness in wishing you to remain," Mycroft said, then selected his next words. "I'm not sure you're aware of how very dear you are to my brother. Your presence will be reassuring both to him and to me."
Dr. Watson looked at him squarely, the exhaustion in his expression bordering on despair. "I don't know what to do."
Mycroft felt a tightness in his chest that seemed to have taken up residence there. He had no solid answer. Dr. Watson dropped his head into his hands and cursed feebly. Then he wiped his nose on the back of his hand and tucked his arm around his waist. He took several steadying breaths.
"Okay," he said. "Okay." He took one more breath and looked at Mycroft again. "What about you?" he asked. "What will you do?"
"I'll try to be here at least once a day. Sorting this out may take some time."
Dr. Watson nodded. He stared for a moment at the books on the table, moved the one on spiders aside to look at the birds. He flipped the book open and began leafing through it. "Does he like all this?"
"As a hobby."
It was a beautifully printed tome, filled with colored photographs, exacting diagrams and information. "I didn't know," Dr. Watson said.
"Well. Very little survives his enthusiasm for forensic science."
Dr. Watson breathed a semblance of a laugh. He toyed with the corner of a page, and Mycroft realized he wanted to ask something, but wasn't sure his question would be welcome.
"Birds were one of his earliest obsessions," Mycroft offered. "Then insects, and spiders. He didn't discover forensics until early adolescence." He had Dr. Watson's full attention now. Though Sherlock certainly would certainly object if he were able, Mycroft was loathe to allow the subject to drop. It had lightened Dr. Watson's demeanor remarkably already, and it was seldom Mycroft had the opportunity to speak on any subject but business; rarer still that he felt inclined to do so.
"For a time his room was filled dessicated exoskeletons. We had a large garden, but he quickly exhausted its resources. No scorpions at all, to his eternal disappointment." Mycroft regarded his brother, shoulders broad and flat beneath the t-shirt. It had been a very long time since Sherlock needed him like he had today. "But humans are his favorite, above all other creatures." He turned back to Dr. Watson. "I believe it was through his research in this area - well, I say 'research.' He liked to spy on the neighbors. He developed a fascination with human ingenuity that has prevailed above all else. As for the emphasis on criminal capacity, one can only guess."
"The thrill," Dr. Watson suggested, smiling.
"Ah, of course."
They lapsed into easy silence, and Dr. Watson again took on that hesitant quality, his tongue poised at the edge of his teeth.
"You can ask whatever you like, doctor."
Dr. Watson glanced away. "You don't have to call me that. Um. No, I just, I wonder. It doesn't seem like he could have ever been..."
"A child?"
"Small, yeah."
Mycroft considered this. "His personality has not changed a great deal, but he is rather larger, yes."
Dr. Watson laughed. "I mean, like...what was it like?" A lilting curiosity had crept into his voice that was refreshing to hear.
"It was very trying," Mycroft said emphatically. "But it was also rewarding. He was an apt pupil, as you can imagine. Very bright, very creative, with me, at least. His teachers wanted to put him in remedial classes. He refused to learn his basic facts."
"Earth goes round the sun, all that."
'Precisely. He refused to learn anything that did not present an immediate, practical application, and he was very selective in his definition of 'practical.' But once he chose to learn something, he did so thoroughly and comprehensively. He often surprised even me with the depth of his understanding."
"So did you teach him a lot, then? I mean, if his teachers were..." Dr. Watson's expression could only be described as rapt.
"My dear Dr. Watson, I taught him everything." Mycroft waited for these words to take effect and then said, almost coyly, "Where do you think he learned the science of deduction?"
Dr. Watson's lips parted in an awed little sliver of a smile. It was easy to see why Sherlock liked him so much.
"There is a difference of seven years between us, so I had a notable advantage, but there was such a time as he considered me the authority in matters of detection."
Ruefully, Dr. Watson shook his head, leaning back in his chair. "I shouldn't be asking. He'll be furious."
"I'm not so sure," Mycroft said, allowing a hint of irony to creep into his voice. "It's possible he simply hasn't found a situation in which the information would be immediately and practically applicable. That isn't to say he wouldn't want you to know."
Still, Dr. Watson shook his head. "If he thought I thought he was...he had anything but sprung fully formed from the head of Zeus, it would probably devastate his ego."
"Hm. It may reduce it to a human level. He would manage, I think."
Dr. Watson's gaze drifted back to Sherlock, still curled on the sofa. The soles of his feet were black from the flat having been let to accumulate dust. The silence this time was somber and heavy. Reluctantly, Mycroft rose from his chair.
"I must be getting back," he said, and crossed over to Dr. Watson. He held out his hand and the doctor clasped it firmly. How quickly that hollow look had returned to his eyes.
"Thanks for stopping by," he said. "I really, um, thanks."
"It's been a pleasure," Mycroft said sincerely.
On his way downstairs, Mycroft paused on the landing. Right now, Dr. Watson would be laboring to his feet. He would contemplate leaving his cane, but would need it to move even the small distance across the room. Mycroft heard the rhythmic thump as it hit the floor. Now he would be gathering the pillow and blanket that had been discarded near the sofa. He would be settling in at the opposite end, making room and lifting his bad leg to rest over Sherlock's knees. Then he would arrange the blanket over them, although it wasn't cold. He would resign himself to insomnia, but would succumb unexpectedly to sleep with Sherlock's reassuring warmth beneath him. Mycroft heard the cane slide from the sofa and clatter to the floor. He descended the rest of the steps and, unbidden, wondered how things could have been if he had met John first. Outside the car was waiting for him. Mycroft would spend the rest of the evening examining data, closing in on his brother's assailant from the silent solitude of his elegant and empty home.
Chapter Four