Bird's Bone: 5

[thesardine]

Title: Bird's Bone
Warnings: Bondage, Graphic Violence, Stockholm Syndrome, Mild Incestuous Themes, Suicidal Ideation
Characters: Sherlock, John, Mycroft, Moriarty
Summary: When Sherlock and John are recovered from abduction by an unknown agent, Mycroft goes head to head against Moriarty to uncover the evasive truth about the incident.
Thanks, thisprettywren for the beta!

“Jesus believed the Earth belonged to the wicked,” James said pleasantly. He wore the thin blue hospital scrubs that had been provided for him, his suit no doubt hung neatly in the wardrobe. His knees and cuffs were stained a steady ochre. His fingertips too were ragged and dark. The flat smelled overwhelmingly of tea.

“I hadn’t taken you for a religious man,” said Mycroft. James’s dark eyes widened and a skeletal grin split his face.

“Oh, I’m not,” he answered softly.

It was eleven forty-seven on their ninth day home, and John was in his room with the door closed. Not only closed, but locked. Sherlock paced tightly through the living room, one bleeding cuticle between his teeth.

John had every right to be in his room alone. Of course he had every right to be; it was natural. Sherlock understood that John might want time to himself, away from Sherlock, alone, in his room, with the door locked. If Sherlock could get away from himself he would have done so a long time ago.

Aside from that, it was unnecessary to be in John’s presence every hour of every day. It was obnoxious, of course John was irritated. Sherlock only knew the door was locked because he had tried to get in not five minutes ago. Pathetic, noisome, cloying. Unfortunately his awareness that he was all these things did nothing to mitigate the behavior. Think, Sherlock. Think, think.

The more irritating Sherlock was, the less John would want to be around him in the future. Therefore, by delaying his own gratification right now, Sherlock could see more of John later, rather than less and less. There was no point in pretending this was not the desired outcome: the thought of losing John entirely made Sherlock’s stomach seize.

All right then, breathing, slowly. In and out. It was too quiet downstairs without John sitting by the window. Sherlock had to know he was all right. He had to know. He had to know.

With effort, Sherlock stopped himself pacing. He lowered his fingers from his lips - appalling habit, when had that started? He nervously dried his fingertips against his trousers. He knew John was sitting upstairs with a loaded service weapon in his bedside table drawer. He thought of John sitting on the edge of his bed, thumbing off the safety and testing the barrel against his teeth.

With a small, stifled noise, Sherlock crept upstairs.

Two fingers to the handle told him the door was still locked. For a moment his jaw worked uselessly, framing his words without sound.

John was so unhappy. Sherlock had seen it in his eyes and the set of his shoulders, but had been too selfish to do anything about it. He rested his fingers against the door. His sleeve was wet. God, he was crying again. These days he did nothing but cry.

“John,” he finally called. His voice wobbled weakly before dropping off. There was no response. John also had three quarters of a bottle of Diazepam that wouldn’t expire until May of next year. He could have finished the bottle and choked to death on his own vomit by now. As long as Sherlock didn’t break down the door and confirm that he was dead, there was the chance that he was still alive. He hadn’t the strength to break down the door, regardless.

Shaking, Sherlock withdrew to his own bedroom. He fetched his lock picks from atop his bureau and returned to kneel before John’s door. Quietly, he picked the lock, then stood and opened the door a crack. His bare feet were long and pale against the floorboards. His vision swam. Until he confirmed that John was dead, there was the chance that he was still alive. Sherlock pushed open the door. John was watching him, waiting for him, sitting on the edge of the bed. His eyes were sad, but his hands were empty.

Sherlock released a whimpering breath. He wiped his nose across his sleeve. God, he was so pathetic. But he had a job to do. He swept across the room and ransacked the bedside table drawer. Matches, condoms, eye-drops, rubber band, torch, and a small (full) bottle of paracetamol. Sherlock pocketed this last and moved on to the desk. Six pens, a ream of paper, box of military awards, discharge papers, pile of phone bills -

“It’s gone,” John said quietly. Sherlock stopped short, bent over the second desk-drawer. John cleared his throat. “A few days ago. I got rid of it.”

Very slowly, Sherlock straightened, torn between belief and dread. If the gun was out of the picture, that was good. Good. He raised his sleeve to his nose again but stopped himself in time. He’d got rid of the gun; that was good. He’d felt he had to. That was - that wasn’t - John shouldn’t feel like that. Sherlock wiped his nose on his sleeve. God damn it.

“And the Diazepam?”

“Yeah.”

Sherlock cursed feebly, turning his head away. He wanted to be sick. How long had John been thinking like this? He didn’t even know. He hadn’t been paying attention. When he finally looked back, John was staring at the floor, lacing his fingers together. He hadn’t put on any weight at all since their return.

Sherlock took the paracetamol from his pocket and set it on the desk. He was being silly. If John wanted to kill himself, a bottle of over the counter headache medicine wouldn’t make a bloody difference. Sherlock crossed the room, then stood before John. Neither spoke.

Sherlock settled a hand on John’s shoulder. Then he leaned. After a moment John gave in, lay down, and curled onto his side. Sherlock climbed over him and hugged him tightly from behind, burying his nose in the nape of John’s neck. He should have done this a long time ago. John clutched Sherlock’s wrists to him. His shoulders trembled.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” he said. His voice was wet and hoarse. “I couldn’t do anything. I hurt you.”

If he could have, Sherlock would have folded John into him completely, in between his lungs, beside his heart. There was no reason for John to feel sorry, ever.

“No you didn’t,” Sherlock whispered.

John turned over, tucking his face to Sherlock’s chest as though trying to burrow beneath him. His sobs were soft and desperate. Sherlock squeezed John tighter, then moved one leg over his and pulled him closer still. At Canary Wharf, Sherlock had been given a choice. He had chosen John, and he had chosen correctly. Sherlock reached for the duvet and folded it around them both. For now they would be safe like this, together.

Mycroft retrieved from his breast pocket a small tin with a sliding lid. From it he shook a single blue tablet that was scored down the middle. He set on the coffee table, both eyes steadily on James.

“We don’t want a repeat of yesterday’s performance,” he said.

James’s expression was stark and inscrutable. He held Mycroft’s gaze for a long, silent moment, then leaned forward very slowly, setting both feet flat on the floor. With one hand he reached for the tablet, and with the other he fetched one of two glasses of ice water. (Fresh out of tea, he had chirped.)

Leaning back, James placed the tablet on his tongue, and raised the glass of water to his lips. Eyes never faltering, he swallowed the pill. Mycroft graced him with a small smile.

“Good.”

James set the glass back on the table, then assumed a more casual position, sliding further into his seat. He schooled his face into its habitual mock-pleasantness.

Yesterday, as the surveillance footage revealed, James had indulged a curious behavior; for the first time in his nine days solitary confinement, he had paced anxiously about the bedroom, plucking repeatedly at his sleeves. He had knelt, then curled onto the floor, and spent the next four minutes wracked with epileptic convulsions.

No aid had been administered during this time, of course. For half an hour longer he had lain in a daze, then crawled onto the bed and huddled in a small heap beneath the blankets. Records showed that James Franklin Moriarty of Dalkey Commons had suffered grand mal seizures since childhood. The tablet Mycroft had dispensed was Clonazepam which, prior to his apprehension nine days ago, James had been accustomed to ingest daily. A powerful opportunity, Mycroft surmised. He slid the tin back into his pocket.

“Now,” he said, and inclined his head toward the tea-stained walls. “Perhaps you can tell me a bit about these.”

A swift sequence of emotions played across James’s face, settling on pleased. “Do you like them?” he breathed. The earnestness was an act; the vanity wasn’t.

“Very much,” Mycroft answered honestly. “Your proclivities as well as your talent come quite unexpected. But then, I could hardly know what to expect of you, could I.”

“No, you couldn’t.”

With a contemplative hum, Mycroft looked at the wall.

The paintings were lovingly rendered, the monotone pallet only enhancing the solemnity of the work. The thinnest layers were luminous gold; the shadows layered, deep, and nuanced. They depicted scenes from the New Testament; Jesus Christ amongst the sinning masses. Folds of cloth were done in broad washes of color, and each face was unerringly human and unique; deftly portrayed with a confidence that belied a singular talent, especially given the fragility of the medium. It would have taken extraordinary diligence, and they were, in a word, exquisite.

James shifted, drawing one bare foot onto his chair. His eyes were alight as he looked upon his work. “I admire his composure most of all,” he said, and then laughed lightly. “But then I would, wouldn’t I, since I’ve hardly any. His disciples were so stupid.”

Mycroft said nothing. He was regarding the furthest painting, the one nearest the door to the bedroom, which showed Christ upon a precipice with a shadowy figure beside him, overlooking a city. The economical use of light and shadow gave the impression of far more detail than technically had been conveyed. All this power will I give thee, and the glory of them: for that is delivered unto me; and to whomever I will I give it. Of course Mycroft was familiar with the scene.

James continued. “They’re oblivious to the forces at work, all those tiny little people. They’re like ants. They’re so small they’re beyond good and evil. And yet Jesus thought he could save the ants.” James rested his chin in one hand, smiling softly. “I like that. It’s whimsical.”

Mycroft watched him from the corner of his eye. “In your line of work, one might assume you supported the opposing force.” James looked at him then.

“One would be in error, then, wouldn’t one.”

There was a pregnant pause, then James energetically returned both feet to the floor, sitting upright. “It’s art, Mr. Holmes,” he exclaimed. “Good and evil have nothing to do with it. This is all just a game.”

“Be that as it may, you’re well aware of how unpleasant it is to lose.”

“Truly, I can only imagine.”

Mycroft pressed his lips into a smile.

“And how is Dr. Watson,” James asked abruptly.

“Better,” Mycroft lied. It was James’s turn to smile.

“Le pauvre,” he said. “Solitary confinement can do such funny things to a man, even one as steady as our dear Doctor.” He settled back into his chair again, drawing one arm around his waist. His fingers seized like claws into the fabric of his shirt. “You’re quite biblical yourself, Mr. Holmes; an eye for an eye.”

Mycroft contemplated him for a long, steady moment. The terms of John’s confinement had never been disclosed. James laughed.

“Of course I knew, you silly sausage! I know every crime committed in this city. Well,” he amended, “every crime worth knowing.”

Mycroft maintained his silence. Sherlock would inevitably stalemate a silence, but against James it was proving to be Mycroft’s strongest hand. Predictably, James caved first.

“Do you want a hint? Oh, say you want a hint. What will you give me in exchange?”

Mycroft tapped his breast pocket, and James stilled.

“Very well,” he said then, lightly; “Riddle-dee riddle-dee-dee, I see something you can’t see, and the color of it is white.”

White. Mycroft had considered this possibility, but it would require further investigation. He retrieved the tin and set five blue tablets in a careful row. James watched him narrowly until he sat back, his move complete.

Deliberating, James remained as impenetrable as he had often proven capable, eyes lost beneath dark lashes. Finally, in a voice that cracked before it steadied, he recited, “What always runs but never walks, often murmurs, never talks, has a bed but never sleeps, has a mouth but never eats?”

Mycroft carefully retrieved one tablet and returned it to the tin. James hunched over his knees, thin shoulders tense. His hands were clasped before him, white knuckled. He was really such a slight young man.

“Round and round the garden, like a teddy bear,” he said in a hushed voice. Mycroft retrieved one more tablet as James shivered, muttering the rest of the rhyme noiselessly.

After a very long time, James swept the remaining tablets into his palm, closing his thin, stained fingers tightly around them. He didn’t look at Mycroft as he did so. Mycroft rose, slipping the tin back into his pocket. He turned to leave.

“Mycroft,” James called out. His face was ashen, but he flashed a sharp smile when Mycroft looked back. “I’ll be waiting,” he sang.

In the car, Mycroft thumbed through the messages on his mobile, chagrined. The drug trade, James had told him, at the river.

The weapons trade had been closely controlled; there was little opportunity for any involved government agent to profit from it discreetly. Whoever was operating under Camille had likely proposed Sherlock’s abduction only after his private interests had been disrupted, using the Caplan debacle as a blind. An interruption in the shipment of guns had interrupted the shipment of drugs, which would have widespread repercussions, radiating from the thwarted point of disembarkation at the Thames.

Mycroft dialled his assistant. One step, two step, James’s third rhyme continued. Round and round the garden, indeed. This was going to require legwork.

John’s breath was soft against his chest. The afternoon light had just begun to creep through the window, across the desk, dropping off to catch on the vertical surface of the chair. Sherlock watched it in the wardrobe mirror.

Since the beginning of their partnership, Sherlock had taken it upon himself to heal John. It had happened organically, and as such Sherlock hadn’t been immediately aware that he had claimed this responsibility. Had his self of two years ago been apprised of the situation, he would have thought it ill advised, but his failure to uphold it in recent weeks only made it painfully clear how very much it meant to him, that John be safe and happy.

John’s hair was soft too, against his cheek, but his bones were hard and angular, and Sherlock could feel his ribs beneath his fingertips.

He would kill whoever had done this to John. He would simply eradicate them from the face of the planet. He would not extract revenge. He would not make them suffer. He would simply kill them and move on. Sherlock held John more tightly to him. He breathed.

Gloria had been a pawn. That much was patently obvious. How valuable a pawn was yet to be seen. Looking at the situation objectively it was clear she or whomever she worked for had wished to utilise Sherlock’s intelligence, though the objective remained obscure. Although initially the scenario had had Moriarty written all over it, it had dragged out for too long without an appearance, and Moriarty was nothing if not theatrical to a fault. The possibility of his involvement was not eliminated; merely shelved for now.

Gloria. Sherlock didn’t want to think of Gloria. He thought instead of the two men, one shorter than the other, darker. Sherlock had spent weeks in their company, yet he hadn’t observed a bleeding thing - ah, but he could recall. He breathed in deeply. John’s hair fluttered against his nostrils, smelling comfortingly of cheap shampoo. Everything about John was so practical, down to the generic brand of soap he used. Sherlock loved him without reserve.

The shorter man: he had been of mixed Eastern-European decent, vaguely Mediterranean. He had been for the most part well groomed, with the curious anomaly of an expensive leather jacket, but very old shoes, and the marks of a watch that had been constantly worn and only recently removed. He was a man habituated to marked fluctuations in income: a sudden boon means a new jacket, the impression of wealth when seated, belied by the poor state of his shoes; a man who wants to make an impression. The lines on his wrist told that the skin beneath had seldom if ever seen the light of day, until the watch was removed from the picture, but not replaced: pawned. A gambler. Where?

Sherlock tapped his thumb against John’s shoulder blade. Where? Gingerly he peeled back the blanket and extricated himself from the bed. Lord, he hadn’t used his laptop in weeks. Where was it? He padded downstairs. Not on any of the tables or shelves. He checked beneath the sofa. Aha. The charger was plugged in beneath the window. Sherlock retrieved that as well, and went back upstairs. That particular jacket had been available at Debenhams in Soho for their autumn release, placing the casual shopper (extensive wearing on the soles: by necessity he’d often walked) within range of any number of casinos.

John was awake when Sherlock returned. He silently watched Sherlock plug in the laptop. Sherlock climbed back onto the bed, and with one arm, shucked the duvet from beneath his flatmate, then tucked it around them both. He balanced the laptop against his knees and flipped it open, fingering the trackpad impatiently, then tapping the spacebar until the screen blinked on. John relaxed and curled in closer, then inched himself up on one elbow.

“S’going on?” he asked. Sherlock looked down at him and quirked the beginning of a smile. Turning back to the laptop, he said, “We have a case.”