Nutrisco & exstinguo - Chapter XXXV
Nutrisco et exstinguo: "I feed from it and extinguish it"
Aequo animo: "with even mind", "calmly"
Warnings: Rating for this chapter is K+.
.
Chapter XXXV: Aequo animo
Save me, by Ingrid Michaelson
oOo
Licking my fingers, cracking my bones
I'm always ready for a fight
But you make it calm down, you got the right sound
And I'll let you win tonight
Mycroft Holmes never had nightmares. One could say that he had no time to bother with them. Sometimes, however, he did get what one may call bad omens. Mycroft never believed in intuition. It was such a silly, inane concept; and yet that was it. A bad feeling. A hunch. Mycroft did not appreciate it in the least.
But what he hated even more than the hunch itself was when the rational part of his brain found reasons to support this negative impression; good reasons to confirm his fears. Dark figures looming over Sherlock, for instance. Shadows moving around him. The Evil Queen. And...
Sebastian Moran.
Mycroft's face darkened. Had the reason, he wondered, that Moriarty had nicknamed him 'the Iceman', been because of his lack of a heart? Or, more likely, because Moriarty had already found him out? Found out not only the fact that Mycroft's only source of any warmth and feelings was his little brother; but also the fact that he would go to great lengths to protect him, even if it implied some dark deeds as well. Even if it implied eliminating any living, threatening shadows around Sherlock.
But thanks to his unnerving, impetuous, proud sibling, Mycroft had no way to know anything about Sherlock's possible secret agenda. If he had been sure that the cardboard paper 'Evil Queen' and Moran were no use whatsoever to Sherlock, they would have been seen to long ago. But that was precisely the problem: Mycroft could not be sure. He did not know whether Sherlock needed them for now; whether he had planned anything for them or with them, at all. In fact, he knew very little about what Sherlock was planning, in details and in general.
Bringing him I.O.U. members on a platter, for one thing. And what else? What did Sherlock plan for himself? What did he plan for people such as Moran, and that Snow White hater? Why hadn't he got rid of them already, considering they had become threats to John Watson? And threats to his bride.
Mary Morstan.
Why had the Evil Queen targeted her? How could they possibly know about her? About John? No, rather... How could they know of Sherlock's attachment to him? Surely by now he must have learnt his lesson. Sherlock was not stupid enough to make his feelings obvious now. If he had any left, that is.
Yet the fact remained. Mary Morstan had been targeted. More importantly, John Watson had been targeted. Miss Morstan - no, Mrs. Watson - was only of interest because of her new name and status. Because she had become John's wife.
Mycroft looked out the window of his office pensively. The sky was clear. No storm seemed to be brewing. And yet...
John Watson did not deserve this. He had not deserved Sherlock's death either. Would he have got close to Sherlock Holmes, had he known what was awaiting him at the end of the road? Loss, and grief. Only darkness. John could not have known. But had he known, would he have moved into Baker Street?
Mycroft frowned the thought away. Useless thinking. Why was he wasting his time with such musings? Life was never about what one deserved. It was about what happened. Facts. There was nothing more to it. And that was quite enough already.
Now the fact was, John had been targeted again. Well, his wife had been. Mycroft certainly had not expected that: for him to remarry. Couldn't he have just waited patiently, if a little gloomily, until Sherlock returned? But no, naturally Dr. Watson could not behave like everyone else. He had to try to commit suicide. He had to remarry with the first eccentric woman he met because he could talk to her about Sherlock and she understood. He had to involve more innocents still in this dreadful business. He just had to create more trouble for Sherlock, and for Mycroft.
Well, at least it wasn't as if he had married the Evil Queen herself or anything of the like. But that idiot had still managed to become rather good friends with none other than the sniper who had been set to kill him the day Sherlock had jumped. Mycroft never shivered; he did not have to repress a shudder at the thought. His expression simply darkened. Since John did not want to see him, there was only one other way.
"Good afternoon, Mrs. Hudson."
"Hello Mycroft. I'm happy you could make it today."
He smiled down at the landlady and caught a glimpse of an excited girl grinning by her side. Woman, he corrected absent-mindedly.
"Hello! I'm Mary," the woman said, extending her hand. He shook it mechanically.
"Mrs. Watson. It is a pleasure to meet you."
"Mary. I'm not going to call you Mr. Holmes. Too awkward."
Awkward? Well, perhaps, he supposed. Amusing, that woman.
"...I see. Well. Mary, then. I brought some scones," he continued, putting the bag on the table.
"Oh, you shouldn't have gone through the trouble," Mrs. Hudson replied happily.
"I really did not."
Mrs. Hudson rolled her eyes as she went to the kitchen with the scones. Mycroft turned to Mary. She was wearing dungarees - orange, pinkish ones. Her hair was rather thin, and so was her entire silhouette. John had had better looking girlfriends in the past; yet for some reason he could not explain, Mycroft found her beautiful. A very strange feeling blossomed in the pit of his stomach as she flashed him an unalloyed, if tired, smile. A feeling very close to pity.
"So. You wish to know more about Sherlock, I heard."
"Not quite," she answered. Mycroft could tell she was teasing him, imitating the way he spoke. Cheeky. She reminded him a little of Sherlock, in a lighter, friendlier way. "John would, though," she added more seriously, looking him in the eye.
"Is that so?" Mycroft replied offhandedly. "Then I wonder why it isn't him sitting here in your place."
Mary frowned.
"Aren't you happy to meet me?"
"Well, it certainly is a pleasure," he retorted, smiling thinly, eliciting a sigh from her.
"I don't see you making a lot of efforts to see him."
"Considering that the last time I did, your husband pointed a loaded gun at me, I fail to see how I could be perceived as the hostile one here."
She burst out laughing, almost surprising Mycroft. Almost. Her laugh too was strange - rather low pitch, full, direct. Quite charming. "I bet you're not used to it! People pointing a gun at you. John is full of surprises, isn't he?"
"He is. Did you get used to it?"
They exchanged a look. Mrs. Hudson came back with the scones and a third cup.
"John described you well," Mary said as she grabbed a scone.
"Did he?" Mycroft replied playfully. He was enjoying this a little too much.
"Insufferable," she said with an impish smile. Mycroft smirked back.
"I can tell you never met my brother."
"Actually, I did."
Mrs. Hudson almost dropped her cup of tea. Mycroft froze. Met him? Did she say she had met Sherlock?
"In dreams," Mary went on. Mycroft had to refrain from rolling his eyes. Silly girl. He saw Mrs. Hudson give her a pained look, which she missed. That dear landlady was too kind for her own good. She could not take care of every tenant she had. She should not care about them to such an extent.
"How was he?" Mycroft asked, taking a sip of tea.
"He was nice."
"Then I'm afraid it wasn't him, Mrs. Watson."
"Mary."
"Mary," he corrected obligingly. "If it isn't to talk about Sherlock, then, I am not sure of what help I could be."
"Of no help at all," she answered with a grin. He stared. "I just wanted to meet you. To meet a Holmes, of course - I've heard so much about you two that I was getting frustrated. But I wanted to meet you especially."
Mycroft arched an eyebrow.
"You have to talk to John again."
The elder Holmes's mouth twisted into a slightly bitter smile. "Have I been forgiven, then?" he said sarcastically. Mary did not even seem to notice his tone. Or perhaps she ignored it.
"No. He hasn't forgiven you." She brought her cup to her lips. "He never will."
Mycroft just kept staring. This woman was becoming more and more interesting. Maybe he could understand, to some extent, why John had married her even though he was helplessly in love with Sherlock. Mary looked down at her cup of tea.
"He hasn't forgiven himself, either," she said quietly. "And he never will." She bit into a scone decidedly. She really ate a lot, although she was so thin. Unless... Mycroft started observing her more closely. "But he can stand living with himself," she went on. The bags under her eyes were dark. Her complexion, not very healthy. She kept eating relentlessly; automatically. "I'm sure he'd stand seeing you again."
Mycroft chuckled softly.
"I like your scones," Mary commented.
"Mrs. Watson - I'm sorry, Mary. Why did you marry John?"
"Because I loved him."
"Past tense?"
"I married him because I loved him. Past tense. I'm still living with him because I love him. Present tense. You may attend some of my classes if you wish, Mycroft. I'll be happy to teach you conjugation."
The British government pursed his lips.
"I can see why he married you."
"Let me guess. Not because he loved me. Because I am similar to Sherlock, perhaps? Oh, don't act all surprised. It's a waste of time. You knew I knew. We're both too old for games, don't you think, Mycroft? And I dare say neither of us is as fond of 'games' as they are."
"They?"
"John, and Sherlock. Now don't act slow. That's even more insulting."
Mycroft did not think it was necessary to inform Mary that he had been genuinely surprised by her lucidity.
"You don't strike me as old."
"Well, I do like to play. And I like fairy tales."
Mycroft's eyes turned to slits. A coincidence? Again? Seemed like it.
"I enjoy reading them to children."
"You would be a wonderful mother, I am sure."
This time it was Mary's turn to look at Mycroft strangely. He gave her a sweet smile that made her frown a little.
"Even though you like fairy tales, you did not seem to take the references to Snow white very seriously."
"Of course not. Did you see my skin?"
"I beg your pardon?"
Mary rolled her eyes.
"If anyone looked like Snow White, I would rather say it was Sherlock."
Mycroft arched an eyebrow. She quoted: "'White as snow, rosy as blood, and whose hair was as black as ebony.' Now that's not exactly my spitting image, is it?"
"Don't be ridiculous. Many of the victims did not have black hair."
"They were all younger than me."
"Oh, so you did your research."
"Of course." She shrugged.
"Aren't you scared at all?"
"Well, as long as I don't eat any apples, shouldn't it be alright?"
Mycroft blinked, disbelieving. How could she be so... daft? Innocent? He wasn't quite sure what to think of it.
"Plus, it could be only a prank."
Fine. Definitely daft.
"Right," he said. "It could."
"Do you know anything?" she asked suspiciously.
"I am not the police, Mrs. Watson."
"Mary. No, you're much worse than the police."
"How kind for Detective Inspector Lestrade."
"Oh, that's right. He's part of the police but he's a nice guy. I like him."
"Dear, John would be jealous if he heard you say that," Mrs. Hudson teased gently.
"No, he wouldn't," Mary retorted in a falsely dejected tone. "And seriously, he'd be one to talk! He's in love with a dead guy!"
Silence fell over the living-room. Mary glanced at Mycroft, then at Mrs. Hudson, and fidgeted a bit. "Sorry," she grumbled. "Didn't mean to-"
"That's quite fine, Mary."
She looked up at Mycroft and fixed her gaze on him for a moment. He held it up. After a while, she finally asked:
"Say, Mycroft... What truly happened to Sherlock?"
"Excuse me?"
"That day, when he jumped. Or before, even. John said you sold him to Moriarty and that's why the man could trick him in the end, forcing him to kill himself. That's why he hates you. But you're his brother, you couldn't possibly have-"
"I did."
Mary froze.
"What?"
"I did sell him. I sold Sherlock to Jim Moriarty."
"What is this all about?" Mrs. Hudson inquired, trembling. She put her cup down. Mary blinked in surprise.
"I don't know, I... Wait, you sold your own brother to the enemy?"
"Yes," Mycroft replied evenly. "And I let Sherlock know. Indirectly, perhaps. Still, he was well aware."
"You're kidding me."
"Mycroft..." Mrs. Hudson murmured.
For goodness' sake, did that idiotic woman really have to spout all of this now, of all time? Mycroft sighed.
"I did not know it would turn out the way it did. I could never have known. I thought Sherlock would handle it differently. I underestimated Jim Moriarty. No, rather, I misunderstood his true goal." He took a sip of tea, his gaze vaguely thoughtful. "I did not think he would want Sherlock dead."
"What a joke," Mary spat.
"Mycroft, what are you saying?" Mrs. Hudson insisted, her voice quivering.
"Jim Moriarty was arrested... well, abducted by our services. In exchange for the crucial information we needed, he asked about Sherlock's childhood. Obviously he was up to no good, but I warned Sherlock about it. I warned him, and... My mistake was to be blind to the man's true character. His true purpose, too. I did not expect him to kill himself. Only for this reason did he manage to have Sherlock jump."
Mrs. Hudson was trembling, from grief of from rage, Mycroft could not tell. Mary was just staring at him, dumbstruck. She had apparently lost her voice.
"So you did sell him."
"I'm afraid I did," Mycroft confirmed grimly.
"That's awful."
"Well, yes, I-"
"For you, I meant."
"I beg your pardon?"
"How can you sleep?"
I don't, he thought. Well, just a little. Just the necessary. He was not insomniac like Sherlock, mind you. He was just a busy man. All the busier since his little brother's "death".
How would it have been if Sherlock had truly died? he wondered idly. If he too, like John, like Lestrade, like Mrs. Hudson, had had to go through a period of mourning?
"That's what I thought," Mary said softly. She held her steaming tea cup just below her chin, and the vapour was rising in thin volutes in front of her face. "John can be pretty selfish, sometimes. No, that's not right," she amended. "Self-centred, I'd say. Or maybe, rather, Sherlock-centred. You must understand. You lost a brother, and that's horrible. All the more so as you are partly responsible, even if indirectly. But John lost the love of his life. Oh, that sounds cheesy, but surely even you must realize how horrible it is. All the more so as he is partly responsible, even if very indirectly. But he had to deal with the guilt and the pain and the unacceptable loss, too. You two should talk."
Mycroft stared, rather bewildered himself. That woman certainly was something. What, he couldn't quite say. But she spouted such nonsense so easily it was almost dazzling.
"Mrs. Watson... Mary. Why did you marry John Watson?" he inquired again.
"Because I loved him."
"Why are you still staying with him?"
"Because I love him."
"Even though he's in love with Sherlock?"
"Mycroft!" Mrs. Hudson exclaimed. Mary was smiling. Crying, too, Mycroft noticed. He felt no guilt at all. Only pity.
"Even though he's in love with Sherlock. I love him. I want to build a family with him."
Or admiration. Confusion, too. Was she stupid? Or beautiful?
"I see."
"No, you don't. That kind of love means nothing to you. But imagine you could revive Sherlock now. Imagine he came back to life. Wouldn't you want to protect him with everything you had? Wouldn't you want to control his life, like you always used to, but also to spend more time with him, possibly even try to get along? Wouldn't you give your life for his?"
Mycroft just looked at her, baffled.
"Mary, that's cruel," Mrs. Hudson let out in a murmur.
"Wouldn't you?" Mary insisted. "You would," she answered in his stance. "I know you would. You loved Sherlock. You love him." Then, as if the connection was perfectly logical: "I won't leave John for a basket of apples, if that's what you're asking. I'm fine giving up on apples for him."
"That is not what I-"
"And I'm fine letting Sherlock be the love of his life. Though I don't have much of a say in it anyway."
She laughed, of her weird, full, candid laugh. Yes, definitely daft, Mycroft mused. Definitely dazzling.
"Well, Mary, I think you and John are made for each other."
"Hey, what is that supposed to mean?!"
"Why, it is a compliment, naturally."
"Don't you lie to me, Mycroft! John told me the first thing you implied about him was that he was stupid!"
"I think I said brave."
"Same thing, according to you, isn't it?"
Mycroft simply gave her a smile. She snorted.
"Fine. I'll just be brave hence stupid then. I'll let you embody haughtiness all by yourself."
"Kids, kids, calm down," Mrs. Hudson chided fondly. Mycroft noticed her hand was still trembling. "I'll go make some more tea," she added, standing up and going to the kitchen.
"Actually I'm afraid I have to go, now," Mycroft said, standing as well. He followed Mrs. Hudson to the kitchen swiftly and took the tea pot from her, murmuring in her ear: "Should I come back some other day, if you'd like to talk?"
"Oh, you'd better come back, Mycroft," Mrs. Hudson whispered heatedly. Then out loud: "Oh well. Off you go, then."
"Really? It's still early!" Mary protested. She had dried her tears with her sleeve, Mycroft noticed.
"I'm a very busy man," he replied.
Mary scoffed.
"And I, a very busy woman. I'll be off too, then."
"Say hello to John for me, dear," Mrs. Hudson told her as she saw them to the door. "And you, Mycroft. Take good care of you."
"I will, Mrs. Hudson. You too."
He pressed her hand in his and responded to her smile. Mary was observing them, he could tell. With surprise, perhaps. Then again, Mycroft had quite a special relationship with the good landlady. Once she had closed the door, he turned to Mary, who stopped on the first step of the staircase to look back at him.
"You should tell him, you know," he said simply.
Mary's eyes widened a little. In the dark, she appeared even more exhausted. Yet her eyes shone with something rather unique; a glow so refreshing it was unsettling. But soon her face broke into a cheeky grin.
"Tell him that you're sorry and would love to speak to him again? Sure, Mycroft. Will do."
And with these words she ran up the stairs. A little smile glowed on Mycroft's lips fleetingly before he went out, opened his umbrella, and left under the rain. Soon, night would be falling.
I'll let you save me, save me, save me tonight
Why don't you try to save me, save me tonight
Mycroft never dreamed. But lately he had some useless thoughts that crowded his mind unnecessarily. He knew it was due to the fear. The fear that Sherlock would not come back, after all.
Of course he had many good reasons to come back to London, the first of all being: John. But if he had effectively deleted all feelings he ever had for the doctor, and for everyone who once mattered to him, then all reasons vanished. Even if he decided to resume being a consulting detective, he could do so anywhere in the world. He could remain incognito, too, to a certain extent. Perhaps not to the extent of Mycroft not being able to find him - especially if he did decide to be a consulting detective again - but at least in such a way that John would never hear of him again.
And that was what was torturing Mycroft. Sherlock was weak when it came to his heart. He had a heart, and he had no idea what to do with it, which was the worst possible way of dealing - or rather, of not dealing - with it.
Moriarty too had known. Why would he have broken into such places? Symbolic places, like in fairy tales. But not only. He'd broken into them to show how worthless it was to him. To them. Mycroft had chosen power and comfort. Moriarty had chosen power and thrill. Sherlock... What had Sherlock chosen in the end? The thrill, and the spotlight? No, Mycroft mused gloomily. An audience. And not the safest one, either.
Why the Bank of England?
The Tower of London?
Pentonville Prison?
Money, power, law or penal code. The power of the rich, of the bloodline, of the State. Gold, jewels, a jail opening... Freedom. Dreams and shadows of what man could construe as happiness, or at least as what could make a man happy.
But it wasn't the places that mattered. It was the key. Nothing, nothing in the Bank of England, the Tower of London, or Pentonville Prison could possibly match the value of the key that could get one into all three. And that key was...
...some willing participants. People. Links with people. Relationships. Just like what Jim Moriarty had done with the jury. Connections. That was the key to I.O.U., too. Not any kind of web, but people linked by the oldest link of all. The Gift. Oh, not any kind of gift. The gift of anthropologists. The gift at the base of any society, even primitive. The basic link beyond blood relations. Giving, receiving. Being indebted. Having debtors. Overbidding, always. Those were the "friends" Jim Moriarty had created for himself. "Friends" who owed him so much he could have them fall whenever he wanted.
But Sherlock was different. Oh, Sherlock was different in all respects. Had he even understood, in the end? Certainly he had got the message of the stealing magpie. Like the magpie in Rossini's opera, I.O.U. was something nobody would ever think of. There were the "angels", the "devils", but all were ordinary, often stupid people. The magpie was above all of them. Acting nice, innocent; just a bird, almost an angel, with wings... but black wings. In fact, the perfect culprit. The culprit nobody would ever think of.
The key, the key to the final problem, to their final problem, had been relations. Links with people. What Mycroft and Moriarty had succeeded in doing, and where Sherlock had utterly failed. If his suicide had been so easy to plan, him so easy to be framed, it was because everyone wanted to see it happen. Everybody but Lestrade hated Sherlock at the Met. Everybody wanted his Fall.
Mycroft put his empty glass of brandy back on the table of his large, empty living-room. Everybody, indeed. Well, not exactly everybody. Some clients had stood up for him. And then of course, there was...
John. Mrs. Hudson, too. And Detective Inspector Lestrade.
Lestrade. Mycroft had not expected the D.I. to react so badly. The inspector had gone through a terrible depression, nothing like when his wife had left him for good. He hadn't even reacted when he had been transferred. It seemed he actually considered handing in his resignation. Greg Lestrade had nothing to envy John or Mycroft, as far as guilt was concerned. In fact, he'd probably been the one who had suffered the most from it. Guilt. Because Mycroft did feel it to a certain extent, but he knew Sherlock was not dead, so there was just so much to be feeling guilty about. John had certainly felt responsible for Sherlock's death, but he had known that Mycroft had had a hand in it too, and deeper than John's. He'd had someone to blame.
Detective Inspector Lestrade hadn't had anyone to blame but himself. It got worse when he discovered Sherlock hadn't been the culprit at all, not even in one of the cases he had solved. For a while, Mycroft had thought that Lestrade would be the one most likely to try to off himself, even more than John. He had lost everything. His wife, his job, his life in London, John's friendship, his colleague's respect, Mycroft's trust (or so he thought anyway), his own self-esteem, and the one great man he'd ever known and had hoped to be able to change one day.
Now Mycroft could not let that happen; Lestrade committing suicide. Or being miserable at all, really. First of all because Lestrade had been one of the three people Moriarty had targeted - one of the three people whom Moriarty had deemed worthy of targeting. Lestrade had been one of the happy few to have reached Sherlock's heart.
He had been a good nanny, too. He had helped Sherlock get over the drugs. He had helped him through withdrawal with cases, had given him a good reason to come back to the world and to feel worth something. Useful, and (greatly) appreciated. All in all, Mycroft Holmes felt rather indebted to Greg Lestrade. And it was high time he paid his debt to him.
So just a few weeks after he had been transferred far from London, Mycroft had gone to visit him. Yes, he actually went through the trouble of going there himself. He had found Lestrade as destroyed and broken as ever, not even beginning to get better. He had offered him his job back, and had given him a reason to come back to the world. To feel worth something. He had asked him to clear Sherlock's name.
Not that it mattered to Mycroft in the least. He had much more important matters to attend - like making sure Sherlock was still alive, and as safe as he could be, and would come back home one day.
Home. Because that idiot did have a home. Mycroft closed his eyes in annoyance. That idiot.
Do you even remember, Sherlock? Do you remember that you have one?
I thought I knew the answer was you
But now I know it's always me
So I'll take it down, I want to be found out
Everybody needs to be
Recently, Mycroft had come to highly doubt it. Sherlock seemed to have conveniently deleted any "unnecessary" information about London, Baker Street, and John. Not only John, of course; but his entire past life here, in 221B, since he had moved in with John.
Admittedly, he had no time to bother thinking about his past. He must have been busy enough with the present, and perhaps the (close) future. And then? Then...
Mycroft shook his head. He would not let his baby brother go back to his first mistress - namely, cocaine - just because he had thought it good to delete everything and everyone that had mattered to him and which had made a difference. People who had changed him.
Well, perhaps other people were changing him now. Mycroft's brow clouded. Sebastian Moran. He did not like Moriarty's lapdog hovering over Sherlock, especially when said lapdog was rather fierce; deathly, even.
The last time Sherlock had been spotted, it was in a small village in Bohemia, in the Czech Republic. Karlštejn, right at the foot of the castle. Casimir Brown and his partner Jude White had stayed for three nights in four-star hotel Karlštejn to attend the wedding of a friend at the castle, Michael Lewis, marrying Lucy Hupaetos. In fact, during this weekend, all the hotels in the area had been booked by either friends or family of the couple.
Mycroft was quite confused about Sherlock's reason for being there at such a time. He had identified his brother as being Casimir Brown, and his "partner" of course had been none other than Moran. But Mycroft had looked into the lives of all other individuals present in the village or at the wedding, and he had found no connection with I.O.U. whatsoever. Sherlock's presence in Karlštejn was incomprehensible. It remained a mystery.
It was conceivable that he had merely attended the wedding to have a safe address to give Wiggins for his next message - which was how Mycroft had found out about it in the first place. Still, it seemed overly complicated just to receive some news from his informants in London. Mycroft was quite certain Sherlock had had another reason to be there.
But none among the guests had been linked to his current situation, nor to his past. Furthermore, nothing extraordinary had happened: no murder, no crime had been reported to anyone. If something had happened in Karlštejn during that weekend, it had remained a well-kept secret.
What could have brought Sherlock - no, Moriarty - to such a God-forsaken place? Beautiful, mind you, but still just a village in the forest, 40 kilometres away from Prague. He hadn't even stopped in Prague, either before or after the wedding.
Mycroft had considered several possibilities, naturally. First of all, perhaps what truly mattered had not been where Sherlock had been at that time, but rather where he had not been. Considering Moran had been with him, it might well be that Sherlock had simply wanted Moran away from a certain place - London, for instance - at this specific time. The wedding might have simply been a convenient opportunity.
But Sherlock had had time to tell Wiggins about it so he could write to him there. He had planned it. Which means it had not just come up as a last minute, welcome opportunity. He had planned it.
Perhaps, then, he had met someone there, someone who had nothing to do with the wedding. A mere visitor, perhaps, whose name would not appear anywhere. Or maybe someone there had a fake identity, just like Mr. Brown and Mr. White. Such idiotic aliases, Mycroft mused darkly. What was Sherlock playing at?
Mycroft closed his eyes. In Hotel Karlštejn, Sherlock and Moran had shared a double superior room - that is, a deluxe room with one double bed. Mycroft frowned. He really did not like this. The hotel offered eleven rooms. The ten other rooms had been occupied during those nights by the groom's parents, three of his cousins, his childhood friend and best man, the bride's brother and his wife, the bride's colleague and matron of honour with her husband, two friends from schools with their husbands, and then three couples of friends (including Brown and White) of the bride and groom. Finally, the bride and groom themselves. It seems the groom was not as well-off as the bride, and considering the wealth of her family, it was almost amusing to see they had chosen such a location for their wedding. But Michael Lewis had moved to Prague when he was but a child, his parents had bought a mansion in the countryside, and apparently it had always been his dream to marry in Karlštejn castle. This was all fine. Still Mycroft could not fathom what these people could have to do with his little brother.
The guest list of other near-by accommodation had not been any more conclusive. Nor had been the staff. Unless, of course, one of them had been one of Sherlock's informants. In the end, there was no way to know, and for once that he had managed to locate Sherlock, Mycroft was quite upset about not being able to get more out of it.
One element that worried him most was the nature of Sherlock's relationship with Moran. According to what Mycroft knew, this was not the first time they shared a room. Of course, in all likelihood, Sherlock did not trust Moran, and wanted him by his side at all times whenever he could manage. Still there was something disturbing about the fact. Something that gave Mycroft a bad feeling. Even if that had been the original reason for Sherlock to keep Moran near him, the sniper was like poison. He had been Moriarty's henchman. He had been Moriarty's John Watson. There was no doubt where his allegiance lay. It was understandable that Sherlock would want him far from John as often as possible; but the only way to make sure of this was to have him by his own side. And who knew what damage Moran could do, living in the same room as Sherlock?
Mycroft had come to fear the worst. Sebastian Moran was, after all, the only one Sherlock could truly count on. And Mycroft hated him. Hated him for having that role when it should have been his. Naturally Mycroft could not go with Sherlock. But he could have been there for him, had Sherlock requested it. Had he accepted it.
But more than anyone, it was Jim Moriarty whom Mycroft hated the most. For having caught Sherlock's interest. For having replaced Mycroft as Sherlock's "archenemy". For having taken Sherlock from him. For having considered John a rival, and not Mycroft - as if telling him he was not worth being considered a rival, since Sherlock cared so little for him. He is your heart, Mr. Holmes. He is your heart, but you're not his. I will use him against you. But I cannot use you against him. You belong to his past.
I'll let you save me, save me, save me tonight
Why don't you try to save me, save me tonight
"Snow White. 'White as snow, rosy as blood, and whose hair was as black as ebony.' Isn't it just your portrait?" Salome asked Casimir with a smile.
"His spitting image," Jude commented.
"Salome, why are you not with your husband?"
"He is in the sauna with Lizzie."
"Oh."
"Miss Elizabeth? Who would have guessed?" Jude said, laughing.
"I encouraged her, of course."
"Are you sleeping with her husband?"
Salome glared at Jude.
"Did you see him?" she asked disdainfully. Then, turning to Casimir: "Why is he here? I thought we could spend some time alone, just the two of us."
"Yeah, that's why I'm here."
"What an unpleasant man."
"Aw, that's tough, Mrs. Hupaetos."
"Where are you going?" she asked Casimir as he stood up and walked to the door.
"Far from you two. You're giving me a headache."
"Don't be so nervous, Casimir," Jude cooed. "We're not going to lay you forcefully or anything."
Casimir sent him an icy look which silenced him effectively. "May I suggest you visit the sauna to quench your sexual urge, White, and come back when you have cooled down?"
"That would be nice," Salome chimed in with a smile.
"And why don't you go as well, Mrs. Hupaetos?" Casimir added coldly. "Surely it wouldn't be right for us to stay together alone in the same room."
"Oh, I see. You want to write to London. Come on, Mrs. Hupaetos, he won't want us around for that. He writes poems, you see."
"Poems?" she echoed, disbelieving. "To whom?"
"Not to the one he would like, I'm afraid."
"Out, the two of you. Why don't you go and accidentally drown in the whirlpool?"
"Now, now, don't be a twat, Casi. You need us. You know you do," Jude said with a Cheshire cat-like smile as he put his hand on the door handle.
"For now, yes."
"The whirlpool does sound nice. There mustn't be anyone in at this hour. I'll be right there with you, Mr. White."
Salome and Jude exchanged a look, and for one second one might have thought that White would not go out and leave the woman and his 'partner' alone. Eventually, he sighed, shrugged, and left the room. Once his footsteps had quieted down the corridor, Salome spoke again, still facing the door.
"Did you hear?"
"What?"
"He is having a child."
"Are you talking about John Watson?"
Irene turned to Sherlock and stared.
"Who else?"
"It could have been a number of other people."
She decided to ignore that last answer and went to open the window.
"So you knew," she said, looking out at the night.
"I heard, yes."
They fell silent. She lit a cigarette as he started scribbling something on a piece of paper.
"Wouldn't you want a child?" she asked.
"You are not seriously asking, are you."
He certainly wasn't. She glanced at him.
"I don't either. Still, doesn't it feel weird?"
"What?"
"That soon he will be a father."
"I don't have time for this. Won't you leave me alone?"
"I don't want to."
He looked up from his paper and met her gaze. She extended her hand, handing him the cigarette. He focused on what he was writing again and finished scribbling something on the piece of paper before folding it and putting it into an envelope which he pocketed. Then he took the letter he had received from Wiggins and joined the Woman at the window.
"Do you have a lighter?"
Without answering or even nodding, she took her lighter out. He held his hand out of the window, still holding Wiggins' letter. Without a word, she extended her hand as well, and set light to it. They watched it burn in the silence of the night. He held it until the flames had completely consumed it, ignoring how his fingers reddened and darkened. Then he rubbed his hands to get rid of the traces of ashes.
In the room, only the desk lamp was casting some light and shadows. Irene's cigarette shone bright at the window, a small dot of red light in the black of the night. Her eyes were still fixed where the letter had been just a minute before.
"Not everything can burn as easily," she murmured. She gave the man her cigarette. This time, he took it. Then she turned, leaving the night behind her, walking to the door in a swirl of ivory and sea-green fabric.
The man did not turn when she left the room, closing the door behind her. He simply gazed out the window, smoking into the silent night.
I feel nothing you feel everything
And you give me something that I can defend
In the end
Mycroft closed the window to his room, not drawing the curtains, letting the moon light cast a silvery trapezium on the carpet. Mary Morstan - no, Mrs. Watson - had mentioned it when he had texted her about her dreams concerning Sherlock. The moon.
Mycroft never texted, but for this very reason, he thought this was less likely to catch John's attention. Had he called Mrs. Watson, the doctor would certainly have found out eventually, even if she did not tell him directly. This way, however, Mary could answer him freely, whenever she felt like it.
She had told him about the moon, trains, flowers, and snow. White as snow, rosy as blood, and whose hair was as black as ebony. Mycroft closed his eyes.
In his office now his eyes stopped just a little too long on white sheets of paper. They lingered just a little too much on the red curtains. They drifted in the blackness of ink and shoes and shadows.
Mycroft was, of course, busy as ever. He had put under surveillance the flat Sebastian Moran occupied when he was in London. To no avail. Moran must have known it would be bugged, and although he acted very freely, not bothering to put clothes on when he went from his bed to his shower or to make coffee in the morning, he still did nothing that could be of any interest to Mycroft. He cleaned weapons, sometimes, but never left them in the flat when he was not in himself. He did not have dreams at night, or at least did not appear to have any. He did not call any name. He did not phone anyone. He did not write to anyone.
He read, sometimes. Fairy tales, librettos... and the books Harry Watson, Christiane Davis, or Mary Morstan - no, Mary Watson - read. Mycroft had only found this out because Mary had mentioned her readings in a text when he had asked her where the train and the moon came from. A Passage to India. Then she had deemed interesting to tell him all about the books she read. Mycroft could not care less, but he did not have to answer all of her texts, and he did not want to be rude to her. Some of the books she mentioned had been recommended by Harry or Christiane. All of them had been or were on Sebastian Moran's bedside table.
Other than that, there wasn't much in the sniper's flat. Maps of London, and then a series of decorative books or magazines, just there to give a semblance of life to the rooms. To give the impression that it was inhabited. There was always food in the fridge. Name cards - mostly women's - scattered around for everyone to see, or inside a slightly open drawer. Train or plane tickets to Paris, where his latest girlfriend was supposed to be. Some DVDs. A lot of CDs. Some music he only played on his laptop, and apparently he was keen on leaving no trace of them there either. La gazza ladra. A lot of Bach. The Bee Gees. Lately, he had started playing the guitar, too. He was good enough, and was learning so to speak. Just practising. One day, he had just come into his flat with his usual weapon case, and a guitar.
It seemed they had talked about fairy tales with Mary. She told Mycroft by text that she couldn't possibly talk much about it with John, considering the part it had played in Sherlock's demise. But she liked fairy tales. She'd been reading Angela Carter's Bloody Chamber, and of course that wasn't something she could discuss with her pupils either. So she had lent him the book. Sure enough, it had ended on his bedside table. Mycroft had taken a look at it in a bookshop. He had found it tragically ironic for Mary to be the one to lend such a book to Sebastian Moran. Ironically macabre.
Mycroft was still trying to figure out what had been the point for Sherlock to attend Michael Lewis's wedding in Karlštejn. He could not exclude the possibility that he had been there in a matter related to the Evil Queen herself, but there had been no trace of her in the Czech Republic at this time. Only Moran had been by Sherlock's side.
Again, Mycroft furrowed his brow at the thought as he left the Diogenes Club to head back to his own quarters. Suddenly his phone rang. It wasn't a call, but an alarm. An alert indicating that someone had broken into his flat. He frowned. Now, that was something new. Of course he did not have anything of any value at all, whether sentimental, financial, or professional in his flat. It was merely a place where he slept and sometimes, ate. The Diogenes Club was a much safer place to keep anything. Mycroft's flat simply provided accommodation. He did not have a special security system to prevent robbers or such to break in - such a system would have only betrayed that something valuable was kept inside. He had, however, put it under surveillance, and was presently checking the cameras in his flat on his phone. As he crossed Pall Mall, he saw a light in his living-room and in his kitchen. He viewed the camera of his kitchen on his phone, and frowned when he saw the back of a woman apparently preparing dinner. Her hair was tied in a bun under a kerchief, and for all he knew, she could have been a cook or a cleaning lady.
His eyes turned cold. Nobody knew he, Sherlock's brother, the British Government, lived there. In this flat, he was just Mycroft Holmes, a quiet man with a small position in the government. There was no reason anyone would want to break into his flat. When he pushed the entrance door, he saw the coat of a woman on one of the hall stands. He hung his umbrella before walking down the corridor to the kitchen. On none of the recordings he had seen the woman's face, but he had seen that she could not possibly have had a weapon on her - unless it was poison. But it was not like he intended to actually eat whatever she was preparing.
When he entered the kitchen, it was empty. It smelled like Chinese food - not the one you find in London or anywhere in England, but the one you taste in China alone. The sound of someone setting a table came from the living-room. Slowly, Mycroft went in. The table had indeed been dressed, with a candle in the middle. The woman placed a knife next to the chopsticks near one of the two plates, then turned to Mycroft casually. Her lips were painted red. Blood red. She smiled.
"Good evening, Mr. Holmes."
I'll let you save me, save me, save me tonight
Why don't you save me, save me, save me tonight
"Have you lost your tongue? You look like you've just seen a ghost!"
"Good evening, Ms. Adler," Mycroft finally said.
"I took the liberty to come in early to prepare something to eat. I hope you're hungry. Would you like to have dinner with me, Mr. Holmes?"
"What are you doing here?"
"I came to speak with you, of course. Would you like to have something to drink?"
"I meant in London. Alive. And no thank you."
"Oh." She faked surprise. "Didn't Sherlock tell you? I think he has become a specialist in simulating death."
"I can tell, yes," Mycroft replied rather coldly. "Did he send you here?"
She looked appalled. "Of course not! He has no idea I've come to see you."
"So you are in London alone?" Why hadn't he noticed her? Well, to be fair, he hadn't been looking for her. At all.
"Not exactly. Do you like Chinese food? This is a specialty from Shanghai. My maid gave me the recipe."
"I am not very hungry, but I will sit with you."
"How rude. After I went through the trouble to prepare all of this."
"You broke into my flat."
"Well I didn't have the keys now, did I?"
She went to the kitchen and came back with a divine smelling dish which she put on the hot pad in the centre of the table.
"It's not poisoned, if that's what is worrying you. I wouldn't have gone through the trouble of coming to see you if I only wanted you dead. And why would I?"
"Why did you come?"
"My husband is staying in London on business for a few days."
"Why did you come here?"
She sat at the table and took off her kerchief anther apron. She was wearing a dress the colour other lips. Her face was painted in the same way it had been that night she had believed to have beaten Sherlock Holmes.
"Any news from John?" she asked casually.
"He is fine."
"Good. That's good to hear. His wife?"
"Very well."
"Have you met her? Lovely, isn't she?"
"I suppose you have met her, then?"
"Only once."
"And may I ask who your husband is?"
She smiled thinly as she served him.
"Samuel Hupaetos."
The glimmer in her eyes told Mycroft she knew this was the last piece of the puzzle he needed to make sense of Sherlock's little excursion in Karlštejn. His face became even colder.
"I trust you to be discreet about this. Your brother needs me. You wouldn't want anything bad to happen to me."
"Of course not. What did you want to discuss?"
"Do you know where Sherlock is?"
Mycroft arched an eyebrow.
"Don't you?"
"I do. I am asking if you do, Mr. Holmes."
"Not at the moment," he admitted reluctantly.
"I see. Tell me Mr. Holmes, do you have anything on your mind lately? Something bothering you?"
"You mean apart from Sherlock?"
"What is it about him that bothers you?"
Mycroft stared.
"I'm afraid I do not quite see your point, Ms. Adler."
"Answer me, and you will see it."
Mycroft's eyes turned to slits.
"What do you want from me, Ms. Adler?"
Irene sighed wearily.
"You really are uncooperative. Such a pity."
She put her chopsticks down and stood up to leave. Mycroft looked at her in puzzlement as she truly seemed about to go just like this. His expression became darker.
"His return," he said finally. Irene stopped in her track and turned back.
"See, it wasn't that difficult," she noted. Mycroft remained quiet.
"Is there anything you would like to let me know?" he inquired coolly.
"Mm, where should I begin?" She smirked. Mycroft did not bat an eyelid. Apparently disappointed that her teasing did not strike a chord, Irene went on: "He won't come back, you know. Not as things are."
"As things are?"
She looked at him pointedly.
"He doesn't have anything to come back to."
Mycroft frowned slightly.
"Because 221B is already occupied?"
She shook her head. "Because there is no reason, to him, that he should go back to 221B. Don't you understand?"
"He no longer cares, does he?"
"I don't know. I think not. He won't come back."
They fell silent. Irene kept eating gracefully, and Mycroft was staring at his plate, pensive.
"Why did you come to tell me this?"
"Because maybe you will find a way."
"To make him come back?" Mycroft snorted. "I'm afraid you overestimate my authority upon him, Ms. Adler."
"To make him remember," she corrected smoothly.
"I still fail to see how I would be the best person for such a mission."
"Because he wouldn't expect it. Not from you. Plus, you could lie to him."
"So could you."
"No, Mr. Holmes. You could lie to him, and he believe you."
Mycroft looked out the window of his living-room. The curtains hadn't been drawn. Tonight the moon wasn't visible.
"It isn't time yet."
"If you say so."
She checked her watch.
"I'm afraid I have been here for too long already. I did not expect you to come home so late."
"Well, if you had made your visit known in advance, I-"
"Won't you see me to the door?"
Mycroft stared, rather annoyed at being cut off.
"Certainly," he said, standing.
As he held her coat for her, she slipped a card in his pocket.
"If you absolutely need to contact me, send an email to this address. I cannot guarantee you will get an answer promptly. But this will be the quickest and safest way to reach me."
"Fine. I will send you my contact details, then. Needless to say, it would be better for the both of us if you did not write or came back to this address."
"Needless to say, indeed."
She turned towards him one last time before opening the door.
"You can count on me, Mr. Holmes. I owe him, but unlike everyone else, it is to Sherlock Holmes that I am indebted. It is him I wish to see again someday in London. I hope I will be able to count on you."
And with these words, the Woman was gone.
I'll let you save me, save me, save me tonight
Why don't you try to save me
Mycroft retraced his steps to the living-room, deep in thought. He put the content of his plate back into the dish and took it away, storing it in the refrigerator. In the same mechanic, absent-minded manner, he undressed the table.
Mycroft Holmes never had nightmares. Sometimes, however, he did get what one may call bad omens. A hunch. Mycroft did not appreciate it in the least. What he hated even more than the hunch itself was when the rational part of his brain found good reasons to support this negative impression.
But what was even worse than rationalizing was when the facts themselves confirmed his fears. Not merely dark figures looming over Sherlock; but darkness effectively eating him away from the inside.
Mycroft went back to the living-room, turned off the light and pulled the curtains. Then slowly, he walked to the table and stared at the flame of the candle.
"It isn't time yet," he said to himself. "But soon." He put out the candle. "Soon, Sherlock," he murmured to the darkness.
Mycroft hated bad omens. But what Mycroft hated the most was when bad omens became facts.
Save me tonight
.
.
.
tbc
Previous chapter
Next chapter
Table of contents
Click to view