Bird's Bone: 7
Title: Bird's Bone
Rating: R
Warnings: Bondage, Graphic Violence, Stockholm Syndrome, Mild Incestuous Themes
Characters: Sherlock, John, Mycroft, Moriarty
Summary: "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?"
When Sherlock and John are recovered from abduction, Mycroft goes head to head against Moriarty to uncover the evasive truth about the incident. Locked in a flat in East London, they begin to play a little game...
Sherlock and John, desperate to come to terms with what was done to them, begin to unravel the mystery from the other end, but in the struggle to regain some semblance of their lives, what they discover is devastating.
Thank you lindentreeisleand thisprettywren for beta-reading!
Read from the beginning on AO3
Chapter Seven
No disguise today. Sherlock’s heart was in his throat and his clammy palms were buried deep in his pockets. He and John were strolling as quickly as John’s leg would allow.
“So, I take it,” John said. His breathing was becoming labored and Sherlock slowed down. Slightly. Not too much, not nearly as much as he wanted, but he never would have slowed down at all before, not with the case on, and if he could act like himself, perhaps- “I take it this ‘Liberty’ person can confirm your ear theory? Is Liberty her real name?”
“It’s not a theory, and no,” said Sherlock Holmes, the one who could shave and dress himself.
As John was about to speak, his cane caught a crack in the pavement and he lurched awkwardly. Sherlock resisted the urge to steady him, only just. He resisted the urge to hide inside John’s jacket and beg to be taken home.
“’No’ she can’t confirm it or ‘no’ that’s not her name?”
“First of all it’s not a theory and therefore does not need confirming, and second of all-“ Second of all, what? Sherlock Holmes’s self-righteous outrage dissipated at his pathetic misuse of clichéd phraseology. “No, that’s not her real name.”
“Oh,” said John.
Sherlock cleared his throat and tersely began: "As a medical man, you are aware, John, that there is no part of the body which varies so much as the human ear. Each ear is as a rule quite distinctive and differs from all others.” That was much better. Stick with facts. Information was neutral, safe. “I perceived that ear of one of my captors corresponded exactly with that of Lucretia DeMartinez, though I didn’t recall it until Mrs. Hudson so fortuitously jogged my memory. There was the same shortening of the pinna, the same broad curve of the upper lobe, the same convolution of the inner cartilage. In all essentials it was the same ear.” Sherlock paused. Then, in a voice that was more of a mutter than he would have liked, he added, “I’ve written monographs upon the subject. They’re on my website.”
John chuckled. “Fantastic,” he said simply. “You are fantastic.” Sherlock’s heart clenched and he scanned John’s face for any hint of jest, but John was merely smiling softly. His right shoulder curled forward each time he braced against the cane, compounding his discomfort. Sherlock would fix that limp again, somehow.
They approached the restaurant where Liberty worked, circling around to the kitchen entrance. Mycroft’s men were tailing them at an extremely discrete distance: enough to be comforting (for John, of course,) but not so close they would spook Sherlock’s contact. Liberty Hart had a keen eye when she needed it and was wary of strange men who loitered about doing covert work for the government. She came out soon enough, rubbish bags in both hands and cigarettes perched in the small breast pocket of her shirt.
Sherlock had intended to approach her frankly, to take control of the conversation, find out what he needed, and move on. Instead, he balked, voice frozen in his throat. He hadn’t spoken to anyone outside of John and Mrs. Hudson in nearly two weeks.
Liberty ground to a halt when she saw Sherlock, then eyed John warily. John raised the lid of the skip for her and after a cautious pause she heaved the bags in. She pulled out her pack of cigarettes but then only held them tightly in her hand.
“What do you want?” Her Polish accent was thick despite having lived several years in London. She drew her arms tightly around her waist, thin shoulders hunched against the chill in the air. Her jacket wasn’t enough to keep out the encroaching cold.
“DeMartinez,” Sherlock croaked, then cleared his throat. He forced himself to stand taller, as he would have before.
Liberty shook her head and looked at the pavement. It was littered with butts all stained with her pale pink lipstick. “I don’t know anything.”
“What have you heard?”
“Nothing,” she whispered. They stood in silence for a while. Sherlock clawed desperately for some hint of how to proceed. There was the clanking of pans, deep voices drifting from out of the kitchen. Liberty’s cuffs were frayed where she habitually, anxiously clutched them to her palms. The alley smelled of stale cooking oil and refuse. A month ago Sherlock could have simply bullied the information out of her, and would have. Now, it took six minutes and thirty seven seconds to cross the threshold from 221 out onto Baker Street. It took three minutes to force himself to the curb in order to flag down a cab. He’d had to whisper the address to John, stifling such pointless, pathetic panic, just so they could continue to pursue the case. He wasn’t fantastic. John had utterly no reason to think that anymore.
Sherlock took a steadying breath. He slid his hands into his pockets and changed gears. He could still do this. He dropped back a pace and channeled Eleanor. Eleanor cared about people like Liberty, and perhaps Liberty would respond to that. Sherlock curled his back slightly: smaller, less threatening. He craned an ear forward, tilting his head.
It took time, and when Liberty spoke, her voice was low. “All I know is that they were in some kind of trouble with Martin Clarice.” She glanced at the door to the kitchen, then at John. Her cigarettes were crumpled in her grip. “If you want to know more, talk to Sticky.” She turned and hurried back into the kitchen. Sherlock let her go. He shouldn’t have, but he did, with nothing but relief flooding his body and turning his joints to jelly. He did his best to mask this with a brisk stride back towards the street. Fantastic. You are fantastic. Sherlock could still be that person. He drew his mobile from his pocket and with shaking hands fired off several texts. He could do this.
“Hang on,” John huffed. That pitiful thing inside Sherlock longed to turn to him, to steady himself on John’s shoulders and breath in the comforting scent of his hair. How long could John be expected to tolerate such a clinging, cringing creature? He wasn’t like that. Sherlock wasn’t like that, he was stronger than that. He slowed down the appropriate amount, keeping a shoulder to John. Everything was fine.
“Where are we headed?”
Sherlock reached the curb and scanned the street for a cab. He needed to focus, that was all. He could do this.
“Who’s this Clarice person? Oi.”
Sherlock’s mobile alerted him to an incoming text. He checked it swiftly, confirming Sticky’s whereabouts, then returned it to his pocket. “Distributor,” he said.
“What?”
“Martin Clarice. Drug distributor.” Sherlock was intimately acquainted with his patterns and habits, for various reasons, none of which John needed to know about right now or ever.
“You think he’s got something to do with it?”
Sherlock spied a cab and stepped assertively into the street to hail it.
“What about this ‘Sticky’ character? Is he - ”
With a quivering feeling, Sherlock snapped. “In order to know what I need to know, it’s important that I know the people who will know the things that I need to know. Does that make sense to you?” He glared at John as the cab pulled up. Please stop, John. Just stop. Please. John was blessedly silent.
More confidently than he felt, Sherlock leaned down to the window. “Horton Bridal, on Lever street,” he told the cabbie, and ushered John into the back, closing the door behind them. Fine. Good. Fine.
Some of these things - if John knew about them- if he knew about these things, he would be so disappointed. Not just now - Sherlock, the way he was now - he could fix that. He could become better, he could be like he’d been before. If John knew about all the ways, the stupid, idiotic, weak, and needy things he’d done -
He knew he had wounded John: it was written in the lines of his face; the way he angled his head away. But it was better if he didn’t know. Better that than he discover that Sherlock wasn’t worth the trouble and never had been.
Sherlock forced his thoughts back to the case. If he could solve the case, John would forget about that. He would forget about how wretched and feeble Sherlock had become. He would think he was spectacular. Fantastic.
Facts. He needed facts. Sherlock rifled through the facts of the case, staring blindly out of the window. He could do this. He could.
They found Ivan Rosicky smoking a cigarette with several young men his age, on the steps outside the bridal shop. His narrow cut suit fit more poorly than ever. He cursed when Sherlock climbed out of the cab, then sent his friends around the corner.
“What the fuck do you want?” he said.
Sherlock played his hand in a single breath, counterfeiting impatience. “Information, as always, Sticky, and I am in a rush, so if you tell me why DeMartinez was in trouble with Clarice, I’ll give you a hundred pounds and I won’t report the details of the burglaries in which you’ve obviously recently taken part.” Sherlock held his ground, conscious of John’s reassuring warmth at his shoulder. (This, despite his churlishness, despite his history, in spite of everything. Why?)
Rosicky took a long, critical drag on his cigarette.
“Two hundred.”
(Because I love you.)
“Done.”
(Because I love you, John would say, and tell him about the insects in Afghanistan. I love you, Sherlock, okay?)
Rosicky dropped the butt on the pavement and ground it beneath his toe. He slipped his hands into his pockets while Sherlock counted out the notes discreetly.
(It’s going to be all right. 18 stone. Inveterate gambler. The man clutched his neck and dropped to his knees.)
Rosicky took the money, craning his neck to peer into the shop. His thin reddish hair stuck up in tufts. “You know how it is with these men, mate.” He dug into his pockets and retrieved another cigarette, mumbling around it as he fumbled with a faulty lighter. “Owed him money, simple as that. Owed us too, the bastard.” He lit the cigarette and took a long drag. “Family’s worth fuck-all since Lucretia went away. She was the only one with any sense.”
(Shortened pinna, broad curve of the upper lobe, the same convolution of the inner cartilage. He struggled beneath Sherlock and then was still. I love you, Sherlock, okay?)
“What did he owe him for?”
(Dry and dim, like radio static. I love you, Sherlock. He could still be that person. He could.)
“This and that. Clarice did him a few favors, did him a few more. Wasn’t a problem until the drug trade blew up a few weeks back, then Eduardo couldn’t make his payments, could he. Had no business getting involved in that anyway. Should have stuck to slots and sluts.”
(Are you still there? John’s voice turning dry and dim. Yes. Yes, I’m here. Drone of the helicopter. Golf-green carpet, stained with blood.)
“What happened to the drug trade?”
Rosicky eyed him incredulously. “Where’ve you been, mate? There’s no drugs in London since the raid on the docks in the summer. What’s here is coming in through fucking Ipswich.”
( They were this iridescent green and...and magenta, or something. I never saw them again. We went there every year.)
“How did he intend to pay his debts?”
(It had blown in all these little fish, about as big as your thumbnail.)
Rosicky shrugged. “Dad said he took up a bit of a side-job, enough to make up the difference. Supposed to have had it by the end of August. Obviously that didn’t happen, did it.”
Sherlock’s stomach began to sour. He could feel John standing steadily at his shoulder.
(I love you, okay? It’s going to be all right. )
“What sort of job?”
(John, please -)
“Dunno. Think Lucretia hooked him up with it.”
“Who was it,” Sherlock demanded.
“Who was what?”
(Helicopter, fading to a distant hum. Blood-soaked, golf-green carpet. It’s going to be all right. )
“Who hired him?” (Shortened pinna, broad curve of the upper lobe -)
Rosicky sucked on his cigarette as he tilted his head to examine the sky. Sherlock wanted to throttle that mottled neck to shake out answers, and at the same time longed to escape to the cab. He found himself hunching his shoulders and commanded, pleaded with himself to stand up straight. Just get the information and go home. It was fine. They were fine. It was going to be all right.
( I love you, Sherlock, okay?)
Rosicky exhaled a long, leisurely plume of smoke. “Bloke by the name of Merchant,” he finally said. “Daniel.”
“Who is that?”
Rosicky shook his head. “Dunno. Just know Eduardo had something in the works so he and Dad could stay friendly, as it were. He’s some sort of big-wig banker or something. Figured he’d be good for it.”
Sherlock’s voice was strangled when he found it. “What sort of work?”
(They were this iridescent green. We went there every year.)
“I told you I don’t know. Obviously bloody fucking dangerous work seeing as he’s dead. From what I hear Merchant’s absolutely fucking livid. We’re none too pleased.”
“What happened?”
“Sherlock,” John said. Shut up, John. Please shut up. (Are you still there?) He could do this. He could be that person.
“Obviously everyone got bloody well fucking murdered, didn’t they? You been on fucking holiday? Merchant’s been on a tear since his little bookkeeper had her neck snapped by some psycho-“
Sherlock raked in a breath and whirled away, back towards the waiting cab. Blood pounded in his ears and he staggered.
“Thank you, um, Sticky, was it?” John was saying.
Sherlock leaned against the cab, cradling his phone, his chest constricting fiercely.
Daniel Merchant, London, Finance. Search.
There it was: D.N. Merchant Company, Inc. Website. Commercial real estate and development.
Directors: Daniel Merchant, CEO. Caucasian, 62-65, liver condition, medicated.
Jim Gaffner: CFO. Irrelevant.
Jack Durburg: irrelevant.
Arlin Groch: irrelevant.
Francesca Jarvis: Delicate. Blonde. (I want you to eat your breakfast.)
Deep blue eyes. Investment Officer. Sherlock breathed steadily in and out.
(You understand the situation, don’t you?)
Facebook. Sunset, ocean, sailboat. Gorgeous sunset this evening! Tenerife is absolutely breathtaking! August 27, 7:08pm via mobile. (Wrong.)
Mountain. Sky. Stone. Hiked Montana Blanca today. What a view! August 25, 4:47pm via mobile. (Wrong.)
Francesca Jarvis added five new photos to the album Tenerife 2011. Blue eyes, straight teeth, delicate-
( You understand the situation, don’t you? No. No. No. No. No.)
See you all in September! August 10, 11:10am via mobile.
Wrong.
Wrong.
Wrong.
“Come on. There we go.” John bundled him into the cab.
(She stroked his hair. She held him in her lap while he cried. You’re almost there. You still have time. Cup his face in her hand. You can do this.)
(Are you still there?)
(It’s going to be all right. I love you, Sherlock, okay?)
“Baker Street,” he heard John say.
John followed Sherlock up to the flat, hanging heavily on the banister to favor his leg. Inside, Sherlock climbed onto the far side of the sofa and drew his knees up. He’d been silent during the cab ride back, white lipped and shaking like a leaf. He’d had his mobile clutched to his chest, and when John had finally prised it from him, he’d found the profile of a strange woman, Francesca Jarvis. Thumbing back through the web history, he’d been able to connect the dots.
Sherlock’s arms were folded tightly around him: ensconced in the the dense fabric of his coat. He stared towards the window as John looked helplessly on.
Stifling a sigh, John hung his jacket and leaned his cane beside the door. If he made tea, he knew neither of them would drink it. He thought about trying to coax Sherlock into possibly eating something, but that wouldn’t happen unless John ate something as well, and the thought of eating right now...
John turned towards the kitchen and ran a hand over his face, pressing his palm against his mouth. He looked at the piles of paper and scrapbooks and files that had taken over their kitchen table. He didn’t know if they could give up the case. He knew they should. He knew they had pushed it too far today. He knew Sherlock would never allow himself to back off of this one, though, this one in particular, because it was his bloody fucking autonomy that was at stake, and Sherlock didn’t value anything higher - not even his brain - he didn’t value anything higher than that. It was crushing to see him struggle like this.
Three days ago John had found him in the toilet, crouched on the floor with John’s electric shaver clutched between both hands. It was the same when he brushed his teeth. Their mirror was turned perpetually towards the wall so Sherlock didn’t have to look at himself in the brief moments he rose to rinse his mouth or put the shaver away. That woman - Francesca - had done that to him. That, to Sherlock Holmes. And John didn’t know how to fix it. He didn’t know if he could.
John turned around, lingering in the doorway as he watched his friend. Sherlock’s face remained rigidly set. John crossed the living room and sat gingerly beside him. He wanted desperately to know what he was thinking, and at the same time didn’t think that he could bear to know. He brushed his knuckles down Sherlock’s sleeve. He brushed Sherlock’s hair from the side of his face, and Sherlock jerked away.
“Get away from me,” he snarled. John snatched his hand back, and an ugly silence stretched between them. Sherlock glared at him savagely.
Fear and bewilderment curdled in John’s chest. Please don’t do this to me. Oh God. Please don’t mean that, Sherlock, please.
Sherlock’s gaze didn’t waver, and John found himself shakily rising to his feet. Please take that back, Sherlock. Please.
Sherlock was cold and utterly silent. John retreated. First to the hall. Then up the stairs. Then into his bedroom. He closed the door.
Mycroft sat in the back of the car, reviewing the message from his security team. Meredith was seated beside him, thumbing through her blackberry. Last night Mycroft had been called in to consult on a delicate situation arising in South America. Unable to dedicate the time necessary to ponder out the more esoteric of Jim’s clues, Mycroft had handed off them off to his assistant in hopes that a second set of eyes would prove illuminating.
Sherlock and John were in Hammersmith, his reports read. Heedlessly, selfishly endangering themselves in spite of Mycroft’s efforts. They couldn’t be let to continue. He would have to have a firmer word with them tomorrow, though with Dr. Watson having cast his lot in with Sherlock, it would be considerately more difficult to bring his willful brother to heel. Mycroft tongued his far left molar. He was due at the dentist at the end of the month.
“Hello, Clarice,” said Meredith, suddenly. One side of her mouth quirked into a smile.
“I beg your pardon?”
She ignored him for a moment, then held the mobile out casually, caged between her fingers. A low, cultured, and sinister voice began to speak.
“Is this Clarice? Well hello, Clarice... I have been in a state of hibernation. I need some action, Clarice. I need to come out of retirement and return to public life. I couldn't help noticing on the FBI's rather dull public website that I have been elevated to the more prestigious Ten Most Wanted list. Is this coincidence or are you back on the case? If so, goody, goody.”
The sound clip ended, and Mycroft watched his assistant expectantly.
“Hannibal Lecter,” she explained, and consulted her blackberry again. “Fictional character in a series of horror novels by Thomas Harris and in the films adapted from them. The phrase ‘Hello Clarice’ is among the most misquoted in film and does not appear, as many believe, in Jonathan Demme’s critically acclaimed The Silence of the Lambs, but does appear in the sequel in this particular passage only.”
Mycroft sighed. Jim had said this one was obvious: the salient information - Hello Clarice - omitted for the sole purpose of emphasizing it upon discovery.
Martin Clarice was a recognized but unaccused and presently unconvictable drug distributor who controlled a sizeable portion of the London market. When Sherlock had disrupted the government control of the arms trade, he had simultaneously and inadvertently interfered with the drug traffic. Somehow, Camille’s man Caplan had been involved in this, though obviously his death precluded his involvement in Sherlock’s abduction. When confronted, Camille had refused to surrender a name, so someone under her protection was still involved.
The debacle at the docks would have upset Martin Clarice’s business considerably, but according to Jim’s information, he appeared to be looking on the sunny side. No supply and high demand furnished an excellent opportunity for growth.
Teach a man to fish, and he will eat for life.
Looking to edge out his competition, Clarice would do well to dominate the market from within. Sherlock’s chemical expertise as well as his flair for innovation would come in very handy, were this the objective. It would also neatly avenge him for the havoc wreaked upon his business.
They pulled up outside of the building where Jim was being kept. The sky had once again clouded over, and looked likely to rain.
If Sherlock continued to run amok the way he so stubbornly insisted, he put himself in increasing danger, not only from Clarice, but from whoever pursued him from within MI5. Mycroft expected a phone call from Camille within the next 48 hours insisting that he yet again rein in his unruly, impetuous, insolent brother. The selfish thing! Couldn’t he see it would be better for everyone involved-
Mycroft took a measured breath. It would be the height of foolishness to face Jim Moriarty while he was this riled. He would press the issue with John tomorrow - alone - and convince him to see reason.
The lift cruised to a stop and the doors opened. Mycroft strode down the carpeted hall.
John was concerned for Sherlock’s mental health. That was honorable and worthy of respect. That his concern manifested in the most brazenly foolish way possible could only be expected, given his history with Sherlock. Mycroft had grown fond of John, but this didn’t blind him to the man’s frankly enabling nature where Sherlock was concerned.
Mycroft brushed purely imaginary dust from his sleeves, straightened his jacket, and paused. He closed his eyes briefly and released an unexpectedly unsteady breath. He would set this to rights and then retreat to the background of his brother’s life once again, emerging only to clean up after his latest disaster. That had always been his role in Sherlock’s life. He’d once been Sherlock’s friend as well; his teacher, his mentor, and protector. Those days were a long time gone. Mycroft unlocked the door to Jim’s flat and entered.
Jim was in the kitchenette, preparing tea. “Just a moment,” he sang. He was thrumming with energy today. Two of his precious tea bags were set in plastic mugs next to a plate of the thin digestive biscuits with which the flat had been stocked. Mycroft appraised his surroundings, noting the expanded murals and the way the sponges had afforded Jim greater precision and tonal control. Yesterday’s broad shapes had filled into more scenes from the New Testament: Mary Magdalene, both at the crucifixion and anointing Christ’s feet with oil. The deft shape of her shoulders as she knelt - Jim truly had extraordinary talent. The thought made Mycroft endlessly weary. He could feel the beginnings of a migraine at the base of his skull and he made a mental note to have Meredith refill his prescriptions. Jim was whistling La Vie en Rose. That had been a favorite of their father’s, though there was no way for Jim to have known that. Mycroft recalled having been allowed to delicately set the stylus to the recording, ever so careful not to scratch. He remembered the velvety quiet before the song began.
Jim entered with the tea and set the mugs on the table, still whistling. Mycroft turned to look at him. “Such a tragic waste,” he said. Jim’s expression closed off immediately and he watched Mycroft with solemnity in his dark eyes. With a small sigh, Mycroft approached and took his seat. He took the tin from his pocket and set Jim’s daily pill before him, then dutifully lined up the next five. His afternoons with Dr. Watson had been the first in many, many years he had simply shared tea with someone, without manipulating or maneuvering around them. They were likely the last as well. He’d enjoyed them, though.
Jim took his pill with his tea, and they sat quietly for a time. Mycroft took up his plastic mug and felt its warmth seep into his hands.
“When I was nine, there was a boy,” Jim said. “I was living with my grandmother in Brighton.” There was another long pause as Jim gazed absently at the table. “The doctors were still experimenting with dosage. I was on Lorazepam, then Tiagabine, Ethosuximide. They hadn’t hadn’t figured out what worked. When I was nine, there was a boy. Who laughed at me.” He looked Mycroft in the eye. “A man like you doesn’t understand what helplessness feels like. Mycroft. But I stopped him laughing. And then, after that, I never felt helpless again.”
Another long silence descended. A police siren wailed on the street below, only just audible in the soundproofed room.
“You’re making good progress, I trust,” Jim said. Mycroft didn’t bother to answer.
“Sherlock as well. I imagine he’s making progress. In his recovery, of course.”
Mycroft was sick to death of talking about Sherlock. He couldn’t be sure he had kept that thought from his expression just now. It was like a physical weight on his shoulders, and he longed simply to speak of something else. Those afternoons; he and John had exchanged stories that had nothing to do with Sherlock, his head-strong, impulsive, worrying brother who seemed determined to ignore all measures taken for his own safety, who was adamantly independent in all the most dangerous and self-destructive ways. Mycroft was sick of it, and he was tired. He had been counting on John to see reason. He had thought John would be sensible. That he had sided with Sherlock over a matter of physical safety when such an obvious and agreeable solution was available - it had come like a betrayal. Mycroft pushed these thoughts from his mind.
“Everything used to be so boring,” Jim sighed. “Modesty aside, I’m really quite good at what I do. But when you’re as good as I am, it gets lonely, and it gets dull. Sherlock was such a splash of color, it was thrilling. It was finally having a peer, an adversary. I imagine you felt that way too, Mycroft, once. Before you realized you would spend the rest of your life chasing after him. Protecting him from himself, or people like me. Although, that’s really one and the same, isn’t it.
“I could tell you who it was, and you could kill me right now. But do you honestly think that would solve your problem?”
“It would certainly solve one of many,” Mycroft said with unfeigned impatience. Everything Jim had said was true. The young man cautiously sipped his tea, blowing across the top to cool it.
“We’re so alike, he and I, we really are. But he needs direction. He’s so unfocused, so easy to toy with. I love making him dance, seeing how far he’ll go. He and I would be so fabulous together, don’t you agree? We could rule the world.” Jim paused and shrugged with his habitual flair. “But then again, I already do. And it’s a pity, but I always break my toys.”
Mycroft carefully unclenched his teeth and said, “And yet you seem perfectly willing to allow someone else to break him, and so intimately. One would think that, having had full knowledge of the situation as you did, you wouldn’t have allowed such a thing to pass.”
Jim drew very still and his gaze grew vacant. Then he seemed to flip a switch, and he fixed his face in a grim facsimile of a smile. He set his tea down on the table, and at the last moment his hand trembled so violently he nearly upset the mug. His face was sick and pallid as he reached across the table and pushed one pill towards Mycroft. The rest he swept into his palm.
“I didn’t,” he hissed, his breath unsteady. “We’ve come to know each other quite well, haven’t we, Mycroft? Do you really think that I would have overlooked a helicopter?”
Mycroft’s blood went cold.
Through his pallor and fear, Jim’s expression turned vicious. “Sherlock Holmes is mine,” he said. His fist clenched around the tablets in his palm. “I promised him, and I promise you, Mr. Holmes, that I will burn the heart out of him.” He held Mycroft’s eye defiantly. Mycroft picked up the remaining pill and returned it to the tin.
“Be seeing you,” Jim said. Mycroft gathered his umbrella and left.
Rating: R
Warnings: Bondage, Graphic Violence, Stockholm Syndrome, Mild Incestuous Themes
Characters: Sherlock, John, Mycroft, Moriarty
Summary: "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?"
When Sherlock and John are recovered from abduction, Mycroft goes head to head against Moriarty to uncover the evasive truth about the incident. Locked in a flat in East London, they begin to play a little game...
Sherlock and John, desperate to come to terms with what was done to them, begin to unravel the mystery from the other end, but in the struggle to regain some semblance of their lives, what they discover is devastating.
Thank you lindentreeisleand thisprettywren for beta-reading!
Read from the beginning on AO3
Chapter Seven
No disguise today. Sherlock’s heart was in his throat and his clammy palms were buried deep in his pockets. He and John were strolling as quickly as John’s leg would allow.
“So, I take it,” John said. His breathing was becoming labored and Sherlock slowed down. Slightly. Not too much, not nearly as much as he wanted, but he never would have slowed down at all before, not with the case on, and if he could act like himself, perhaps- “I take it this ‘Liberty’ person can confirm your ear theory? Is Liberty her real name?”
“It’s not a theory, and no,” said Sherlock Holmes, the one who could shave and dress himself.
As John was about to speak, his cane caught a crack in the pavement and he lurched awkwardly. Sherlock resisted the urge to steady him, only just. He resisted the urge to hide inside John’s jacket and beg to be taken home.
“’No’ she can’t confirm it or ‘no’ that’s not her name?”
“First of all it’s not a theory and therefore does not need confirming, and second of all-“ Second of all, what? Sherlock Holmes’s self-righteous outrage dissipated at his pathetic misuse of clichéd phraseology. “No, that’s not her real name.”
“Oh,” said John.
Sherlock cleared his throat and tersely began: "As a medical man, you are aware, John, that there is no part of the body which varies so much as the human ear. Each ear is as a rule quite distinctive and differs from all others.” That was much better. Stick with facts. Information was neutral, safe. “I perceived that ear of one of my captors corresponded exactly with that of Lucretia DeMartinez, though I didn’t recall it until Mrs. Hudson so fortuitously jogged my memory. There was the same shortening of the pinna, the same broad curve of the upper lobe, the same convolution of the inner cartilage. In all essentials it was the same ear.” Sherlock paused. Then, in a voice that was more of a mutter than he would have liked, he added, “I’ve written monographs upon the subject. They’re on my website.”
John chuckled. “Fantastic,” he said simply. “You are fantastic.” Sherlock’s heart clenched and he scanned John’s face for any hint of jest, but John was merely smiling softly. His right shoulder curled forward each time he braced against the cane, compounding his discomfort. Sherlock would fix that limp again, somehow.
They approached the restaurant where Liberty worked, circling around to the kitchen entrance. Mycroft’s men were tailing them at an extremely discrete distance: enough to be comforting (for John, of course,) but not so close they would spook Sherlock’s contact. Liberty Hart had a keen eye when she needed it and was wary of strange men who loitered about doing covert work for the government. She came out soon enough, rubbish bags in both hands and cigarettes perched in the small breast pocket of her shirt.
Sherlock had intended to approach her frankly, to take control of the conversation, find out what he needed, and move on. Instead, he balked, voice frozen in his throat. He hadn’t spoken to anyone outside of John and Mrs. Hudson in nearly two weeks.
Liberty ground to a halt when she saw Sherlock, then eyed John warily. John raised the lid of the skip for her and after a cautious pause she heaved the bags in. She pulled out her pack of cigarettes but then only held them tightly in her hand.
“What do you want?” Her Polish accent was thick despite having lived several years in London. She drew her arms tightly around her waist, thin shoulders hunched against the chill in the air. Her jacket wasn’t enough to keep out the encroaching cold.
“DeMartinez,” Sherlock croaked, then cleared his throat. He forced himself to stand taller, as he would have before.
Liberty shook her head and looked at the pavement. It was littered with butts all stained with her pale pink lipstick. “I don’t know anything.”
“What have you heard?”
“Nothing,” she whispered. They stood in silence for a while. Sherlock clawed desperately for some hint of how to proceed. There was the clanking of pans, deep voices drifting from out of the kitchen. Liberty’s cuffs were frayed where she habitually, anxiously clutched them to her palms. The alley smelled of stale cooking oil and refuse. A month ago Sherlock could have simply bullied the information out of her, and would have. Now, it took six minutes and thirty seven seconds to cross the threshold from 221 out onto Baker Street. It took three minutes to force himself to the curb in order to flag down a cab. He’d had to whisper the address to John, stifling such pointless, pathetic panic, just so they could continue to pursue the case. He wasn’t fantastic. John had utterly no reason to think that anymore.
Sherlock took a steadying breath. He slid his hands into his pockets and changed gears. He could still do this. He dropped back a pace and channeled Eleanor. Eleanor cared about people like Liberty, and perhaps Liberty would respond to that. Sherlock curled his back slightly: smaller, less threatening. He craned an ear forward, tilting his head.
It took time, and when Liberty spoke, her voice was low. “All I know is that they were in some kind of trouble with Martin Clarice.” She glanced at the door to the kitchen, then at John. Her cigarettes were crumpled in her grip. “If you want to know more, talk to Sticky.” She turned and hurried back into the kitchen. Sherlock let her go. He shouldn’t have, but he did, with nothing but relief flooding his body and turning his joints to jelly. He did his best to mask this with a brisk stride back towards the street. Fantastic. You are fantastic. Sherlock could still be that person. He drew his mobile from his pocket and with shaking hands fired off several texts. He could do this.
“Hang on,” John huffed. That pitiful thing inside Sherlock longed to turn to him, to steady himself on John’s shoulders and breath in the comforting scent of his hair. How long could John be expected to tolerate such a clinging, cringing creature? He wasn’t like that. Sherlock wasn’t like that, he was stronger than that. He slowed down the appropriate amount, keeping a shoulder to John. Everything was fine.
“Where are we headed?”
Sherlock reached the curb and scanned the street for a cab. He needed to focus, that was all. He could do this.
“Who’s this Clarice person? Oi.”
Sherlock’s mobile alerted him to an incoming text. He checked it swiftly, confirming Sticky’s whereabouts, then returned it to his pocket. “Distributor,” he said.
“What?”
“Martin Clarice. Drug distributor.” Sherlock was intimately acquainted with his patterns and habits, for various reasons, none of which John needed to know about right now or ever.
“You think he’s got something to do with it?”
Sherlock spied a cab and stepped assertively into the street to hail it.
“What about this ‘Sticky’ character? Is he - ”
With a quivering feeling, Sherlock snapped. “In order to know what I need to know, it’s important that I know the people who will know the things that I need to know. Does that make sense to you?” He glared at John as the cab pulled up. Please stop, John. Just stop. Please. John was blessedly silent.
More confidently than he felt, Sherlock leaned down to the window. “Horton Bridal, on Lever street,” he told the cabbie, and ushered John into the back, closing the door behind them. Fine. Good. Fine.
Some of these things - if John knew about them- if he knew about these things, he would be so disappointed. Not just now - Sherlock, the way he was now - he could fix that. He could become better, he could be like he’d been before. If John knew about all the ways, the stupid, idiotic, weak, and needy things he’d done -
He knew he had wounded John: it was written in the lines of his face; the way he angled his head away. But it was better if he didn’t know. Better that than he discover that Sherlock wasn’t worth the trouble and never had been.
Sherlock forced his thoughts back to the case. If he could solve the case, John would forget about that. He would forget about how wretched and feeble Sherlock had become. He would think he was spectacular. Fantastic.
Facts. He needed facts. Sherlock rifled through the facts of the case, staring blindly out of the window. He could do this. He could.
They found Ivan Rosicky smoking a cigarette with several young men his age, on the steps outside the bridal shop. His narrow cut suit fit more poorly than ever. He cursed when Sherlock climbed out of the cab, then sent his friends around the corner.
“What the fuck do you want?” he said.
Sherlock played his hand in a single breath, counterfeiting impatience. “Information, as always, Sticky, and I am in a rush, so if you tell me why DeMartinez was in trouble with Clarice, I’ll give you a hundred pounds and I won’t report the details of the burglaries in which you’ve obviously recently taken part.” Sherlock held his ground, conscious of John’s reassuring warmth at his shoulder. (This, despite his churlishness, despite his history, in spite of everything. Why?)
Rosicky took a long, critical drag on his cigarette.
“Two hundred.”
(Because I love you.)
“Done.”
(Because I love you, John would say, and tell him about the insects in Afghanistan. I love you, Sherlock, okay?)
Rosicky dropped the butt on the pavement and ground it beneath his toe. He slipped his hands into his pockets while Sherlock counted out the notes discreetly.
(It’s going to be all right. 18 stone. Inveterate gambler. The man clutched his neck and dropped to his knees.)
Rosicky took the money, craning his neck to peer into the shop. His thin reddish hair stuck up in tufts. “You know how it is with these men, mate.” He dug into his pockets and retrieved another cigarette, mumbling around it as he fumbled with a faulty lighter. “Owed him money, simple as that. Owed us too, the bastard.” He lit the cigarette and took a long drag. “Family’s worth fuck-all since Lucretia went away. She was the only one with any sense.”
(Shortened pinna, broad curve of the upper lobe, the same convolution of the inner cartilage. He struggled beneath Sherlock and then was still. I love you, Sherlock, okay?)
“What did he owe him for?”
(Dry and dim, like radio static. I love you, Sherlock. He could still be that person. He could.)
“This and that. Clarice did him a few favors, did him a few more. Wasn’t a problem until the drug trade blew up a few weeks back, then Eduardo couldn’t make his payments, could he. Had no business getting involved in that anyway. Should have stuck to slots and sluts.”
(Are you still there? John’s voice turning dry and dim. Yes. Yes, I’m here. Drone of the helicopter. Golf-green carpet, stained with blood.)
“What happened to the drug trade?”
Rosicky eyed him incredulously. “Where’ve you been, mate? There’s no drugs in London since the raid on the docks in the summer. What’s here is coming in through fucking Ipswich.”
( They were this iridescent green and...and magenta, or something. I never saw them again. We went there every year.)
“How did he intend to pay his debts?”
(It had blown in all these little fish, about as big as your thumbnail.)
Rosicky shrugged. “Dad said he took up a bit of a side-job, enough to make up the difference. Supposed to have had it by the end of August. Obviously that didn’t happen, did it.”
Sherlock’s stomach began to sour. He could feel John standing steadily at his shoulder.
(I love you, okay? It’s going to be all right. )
“What sort of job?”
(John, please -)
“Dunno. Think Lucretia hooked him up with it.”
“Who was it,” Sherlock demanded.
“Who was what?”
(Helicopter, fading to a distant hum. Blood-soaked, golf-green carpet. It’s going to be all right. )
“Who hired him?” (Shortened pinna, broad curve of the upper lobe -)
Rosicky sucked on his cigarette as he tilted his head to examine the sky. Sherlock wanted to throttle that mottled neck to shake out answers, and at the same time longed to escape to the cab. He found himself hunching his shoulders and commanded, pleaded with himself to stand up straight. Just get the information and go home. It was fine. They were fine. It was going to be all right.
( I love you, Sherlock, okay?)
Rosicky exhaled a long, leisurely plume of smoke. “Bloke by the name of Merchant,” he finally said. “Daniel.”
“Who is that?”
Rosicky shook his head. “Dunno. Just know Eduardo had something in the works so he and Dad could stay friendly, as it were. He’s some sort of big-wig banker or something. Figured he’d be good for it.”
Sherlock’s voice was strangled when he found it. “What sort of work?”
(They were this iridescent green. We went there every year.)
“I told you I don’t know. Obviously bloody fucking dangerous work seeing as he’s dead. From what I hear Merchant’s absolutely fucking livid. We’re none too pleased.”
“What happened?”
“Sherlock,” John said. Shut up, John. Please shut up. (Are you still there?) He could do this. He could be that person.
“Obviously everyone got bloody well fucking murdered, didn’t they? You been on fucking holiday? Merchant’s been on a tear since his little bookkeeper had her neck snapped by some psycho-“
Sherlock raked in a breath and whirled away, back towards the waiting cab. Blood pounded in his ears and he staggered.
“Thank you, um, Sticky, was it?” John was saying.
Sherlock leaned against the cab, cradling his phone, his chest constricting fiercely.
Daniel Merchant, London, Finance. Search.
There it was: D.N. Merchant Company, Inc. Website. Commercial real estate and development.
Directors: Daniel Merchant, CEO. Caucasian, 62-65, liver condition, medicated.
Jim Gaffner: CFO. Irrelevant.
Jack Durburg: irrelevant.
Arlin Groch: irrelevant.
Francesca Jarvis: Delicate. Blonde. (I want you to eat your breakfast.)
Deep blue eyes. Investment Officer. Sherlock breathed steadily in and out.
(You understand the situation, don’t you?)
Facebook. Sunset, ocean, sailboat. Gorgeous sunset this evening! Tenerife is absolutely breathtaking! August 27, 7:08pm via mobile. (Wrong.)
Mountain. Sky. Stone. Hiked Montana Blanca today. What a view! August 25, 4:47pm via mobile. (Wrong.)
Francesca Jarvis added five new photos to the album Tenerife 2011. Blue eyes, straight teeth, delicate-
( You understand the situation, don’t you? No. No. No. No. No.)
See you all in September! August 10, 11:10am via mobile.
Wrong.
Wrong.
Wrong.
“Come on. There we go.” John bundled him into the cab.
(She stroked his hair. She held him in her lap while he cried. You’re almost there. You still have time. Cup his face in her hand. You can do this.)
(Are you still there?)
(It’s going to be all right. I love you, Sherlock, okay?)
“Baker Street,” he heard John say.
John followed Sherlock up to the flat, hanging heavily on the banister to favor his leg. Inside, Sherlock climbed onto the far side of the sofa and drew his knees up. He’d been silent during the cab ride back, white lipped and shaking like a leaf. He’d had his mobile clutched to his chest, and when John had finally prised it from him, he’d found the profile of a strange woman, Francesca Jarvis. Thumbing back through the web history, he’d been able to connect the dots.
Sherlock’s arms were folded tightly around him: ensconced in the the dense fabric of his coat. He stared towards the window as John looked helplessly on.
Stifling a sigh, John hung his jacket and leaned his cane beside the door. If he made tea, he knew neither of them would drink it. He thought about trying to coax Sherlock into possibly eating something, but that wouldn’t happen unless John ate something as well, and the thought of eating right now...
John turned towards the kitchen and ran a hand over his face, pressing his palm against his mouth. He looked at the piles of paper and scrapbooks and files that had taken over their kitchen table. He didn’t know if they could give up the case. He knew they should. He knew they had pushed it too far today. He knew Sherlock would never allow himself to back off of this one, though, this one in particular, because it was his bloody fucking autonomy that was at stake, and Sherlock didn’t value anything higher - not even his brain - he didn’t value anything higher than that. It was crushing to see him struggle like this.
Three days ago John had found him in the toilet, crouched on the floor with John’s electric shaver clutched between both hands. It was the same when he brushed his teeth. Their mirror was turned perpetually towards the wall so Sherlock didn’t have to look at himself in the brief moments he rose to rinse his mouth or put the shaver away. That woman - Francesca - had done that to him. That, to Sherlock Holmes. And John didn’t know how to fix it. He didn’t know if he could.
John turned around, lingering in the doorway as he watched his friend. Sherlock’s face remained rigidly set. John crossed the living room and sat gingerly beside him. He wanted desperately to know what he was thinking, and at the same time didn’t think that he could bear to know. He brushed his knuckles down Sherlock’s sleeve. He brushed Sherlock’s hair from the side of his face, and Sherlock jerked away.
“Get away from me,” he snarled. John snatched his hand back, and an ugly silence stretched between them. Sherlock glared at him savagely.
Fear and bewilderment curdled in John’s chest. Please don’t do this to me. Oh God. Please don’t mean that, Sherlock, please.
Sherlock’s gaze didn’t waver, and John found himself shakily rising to his feet. Please take that back, Sherlock. Please.
Sherlock was cold and utterly silent. John retreated. First to the hall. Then up the stairs. Then into his bedroom. He closed the door.
Mycroft sat in the back of the car, reviewing the message from his security team. Meredith was seated beside him, thumbing through her blackberry. Last night Mycroft had been called in to consult on a delicate situation arising in South America. Unable to dedicate the time necessary to ponder out the more esoteric of Jim’s clues, Mycroft had handed off them off to his assistant in hopes that a second set of eyes would prove illuminating.
Sherlock and John were in Hammersmith, his reports read. Heedlessly, selfishly endangering themselves in spite of Mycroft’s efforts. They couldn’t be let to continue. He would have to have a firmer word with them tomorrow, though with Dr. Watson having cast his lot in with Sherlock, it would be considerately more difficult to bring his willful brother to heel. Mycroft tongued his far left molar. He was due at the dentist at the end of the month.
“Hello, Clarice,” said Meredith, suddenly. One side of her mouth quirked into a smile.
“I beg your pardon?”
She ignored him for a moment, then held the mobile out casually, caged between her fingers. A low, cultured, and sinister voice began to speak.
“Is this Clarice? Well hello, Clarice... I have been in a state of hibernation. I need some action, Clarice. I need to come out of retirement and return to public life. I couldn't help noticing on the FBI's rather dull public website that I have been elevated to the more prestigious Ten Most Wanted list. Is this coincidence or are you back on the case? If so, goody, goody.”
The sound clip ended, and Mycroft watched his assistant expectantly.
“Hannibal Lecter,” she explained, and consulted her blackberry again. “Fictional character in a series of horror novels by Thomas Harris and in the films adapted from them. The phrase ‘Hello Clarice’ is among the most misquoted in film and does not appear, as many believe, in Jonathan Demme’s critically acclaimed The Silence of the Lambs, but does appear in the sequel in this particular passage only.”
Mycroft sighed. Jim had said this one was obvious: the salient information - Hello Clarice - omitted for the sole purpose of emphasizing it upon discovery.
Martin Clarice was a recognized but unaccused and presently unconvictable drug distributor who controlled a sizeable portion of the London market. When Sherlock had disrupted the government control of the arms trade, he had simultaneously and inadvertently interfered with the drug traffic. Somehow, Camille’s man Caplan had been involved in this, though obviously his death precluded his involvement in Sherlock’s abduction. When confronted, Camille had refused to surrender a name, so someone under her protection was still involved.
The debacle at the docks would have upset Martin Clarice’s business considerably, but according to Jim’s information, he appeared to be looking on the sunny side. No supply and high demand furnished an excellent opportunity for growth.
Teach a man to fish, and he will eat for life.
Looking to edge out his competition, Clarice would do well to dominate the market from within. Sherlock’s chemical expertise as well as his flair for innovation would come in very handy, were this the objective. It would also neatly avenge him for the havoc wreaked upon his business.
They pulled up outside of the building where Jim was being kept. The sky had once again clouded over, and looked likely to rain.
If Sherlock continued to run amok the way he so stubbornly insisted, he put himself in increasing danger, not only from Clarice, but from whoever pursued him from within MI5. Mycroft expected a phone call from Camille within the next 48 hours insisting that he yet again rein in his unruly, impetuous, insolent brother. The selfish thing! Couldn’t he see it would be better for everyone involved-
Mycroft took a measured breath. It would be the height of foolishness to face Jim Moriarty while he was this riled. He would press the issue with John tomorrow - alone - and convince him to see reason.
The lift cruised to a stop and the doors opened. Mycroft strode down the carpeted hall.
John was concerned for Sherlock’s mental health. That was honorable and worthy of respect. That his concern manifested in the most brazenly foolish way possible could only be expected, given his history with Sherlock. Mycroft had grown fond of John, but this didn’t blind him to the man’s frankly enabling nature where Sherlock was concerned.
Mycroft brushed purely imaginary dust from his sleeves, straightened his jacket, and paused. He closed his eyes briefly and released an unexpectedly unsteady breath. He would set this to rights and then retreat to the background of his brother’s life once again, emerging only to clean up after his latest disaster. That had always been his role in Sherlock’s life. He’d once been Sherlock’s friend as well; his teacher, his mentor, and protector. Those days were a long time gone. Mycroft unlocked the door to Jim’s flat and entered.
Jim was in the kitchenette, preparing tea. “Just a moment,” he sang. He was thrumming with energy today. Two of his precious tea bags were set in plastic mugs next to a plate of the thin digestive biscuits with which the flat had been stocked. Mycroft appraised his surroundings, noting the expanded murals and the way the sponges had afforded Jim greater precision and tonal control. Yesterday’s broad shapes had filled into more scenes from the New Testament: Mary Magdalene, both at the crucifixion and anointing Christ’s feet with oil. The deft shape of her shoulders as she knelt - Jim truly had extraordinary talent. The thought made Mycroft endlessly weary. He could feel the beginnings of a migraine at the base of his skull and he made a mental note to have Meredith refill his prescriptions. Jim was whistling La Vie en Rose. That had been a favorite of their father’s, though there was no way for Jim to have known that. Mycroft recalled having been allowed to delicately set the stylus to the recording, ever so careful not to scratch. He remembered the velvety quiet before the song began.
Jim entered with the tea and set the mugs on the table, still whistling. Mycroft turned to look at him. “Such a tragic waste,” he said. Jim’s expression closed off immediately and he watched Mycroft with solemnity in his dark eyes. With a small sigh, Mycroft approached and took his seat. He took the tin from his pocket and set Jim’s daily pill before him, then dutifully lined up the next five. His afternoons with Dr. Watson had been the first in many, many years he had simply shared tea with someone, without manipulating or maneuvering around them. They were likely the last as well. He’d enjoyed them, though.
Jim took his pill with his tea, and they sat quietly for a time. Mycroft took up his plastic mug and felt its warmth seep into his hands.
“When I was nine, there was a boy,” Jim said. “I was living with my grandmother in Brighton.” There was another long pause as Jim gazed absently at the table. “The doctors were still experimenting with dosage. I was on Lorazepam, then Tiagabine, Ethosuximide. They hadn’t hadn’t figured out what worked. When I was nine, there was a boy. Who laughed at me.” He looked Mycroft in the eye. “A man like you doesn’t understand what helplessness feels like. Mycroft. But I stopped him laughing. And then, after that, I never felt helpless again.”
Another long silence descended. A police siren wailed on the street below, only just audible in the soundproofed room.
“You’re making good progress, I trust,” Jim said. Mycroft didn’t bother to answer.
“Sherlock as well. I imagine he’s making progress. In his recovery, of course.”
Mycroft was sick to death of talking about Sherlock. He couldn’t be sure he had kept that thought from his expression just now. It was like a physical weight on his shoulders, and he longed simply to speak of something else. Those afternoons; he and John had exchanged stories that had nothing to do with Sherlock, his head-strong, impulsive, worrying brother who seemed determined to ignore all measures taken for his own safety, who was adamantly independent in all the most dangerous and self-destructive ways. Mycroft was sick of it, and he was tired. He had been counting on John to see reason. He had thought John would be sensible. That he had sided with Sherlock over a matter of physical safety when such an obvious and agreeable solution was available - it had come like a betrayal. Mycroft pushed these thoughts from his mind.
“Everything used to be so boring,” Jim sighed. “Modesty aside, I’m really quite good at what I do. But when you’re as good as I am, it gets lonely, and it gets dull. Sherlock was such a splash of color, it was thrilling. It was finally having a peer, an adversary. I imagine you felt that way too, Mycroft, once. Before you realized you would spend the rest of your life chasing after him. Protecting him from himself, or people like me. Although, that’s really one and the same, isn’t it.
“I could tell you who it was, and you could kill me right now. But do you honestly think that would solve your problem?”
“It would certainly solve one of many,” Mycroft said with unfeigned impatience. Everything Jim had said was true. The young man cautiously sipped his tea, blowing across the top to cool it.
“We’re so alike, he and I, we really are. But he needs direction. He’s so unfocused, so easy to toy with. I love making him dance, seeing how far he’ll go. He and I would be so fabulous together, don’t you agree? We could rule the world.” Jim paused and shrugged with his habitual flair. “But then again, I already do. And it’s a pity, but I always break my toys.”
Mycroft carefully unclenched his teeth and said, “And yet you seem perfectly willing to allow someone else to break him, and so intimately. One would think that, having had full knowledge of the situation as you did, you wouldn’t have allowed such a thing to pass.”
Jim drew very still and his gaze grew vacant. Then he seemed to flip a switch, and he fixed his face in a grim facsimile of a smile. He set his tea down on the table, and at the last moment his hand trembled so violently he nearly upset the mug. His face was sick and pallid as he reached across the table and pushed one pill towards Mycroft. The rest he swept into his palm.
“I didn’t,” he hissed, his breath unsteady. “We’ve come to know each other quite well, haven’t we, Mycroft? Do you really think that I would have overlooked a helicopter?”
Mycroft’s blood went cold.
Through his pallor and fear, Jim’s expression turned vicious. “Sherlock Holmes is mine,” he said. His fist clenched around the tablets in his palm. “I promised him, and I promise you, Mr. Holmes, that I will burn the heart out of him.” He held Mycroft’s eye defiantly. Mycroft picked up the remaining pill and returned it to the tin.
“Be seeing you,” Jim said. Mycroft gathered his umbrella and left.