All Souls' Day. Part One. No. 7 of Indestructible Series. Ch 1: Five Surprises
Title: All Souls' Day. Part One
Chapter One: Five Surprises
No. 7 of Indestructible, the Sherlock Case!fic Adventures
Author: ghislainem70
Word count: 3,500
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Mycroft, Lestrade, Sherlock and John race to stop a mysterious terrorist conspiracy
Warnings: explicit sex, graphic violence
Note: This fic is the sequel to "In the Footsteps of the Master."
Readers who enjoy my tracks can listen to the All Souls' Day playlist here:
http://www.youtube.com/playlist?feature=edit_ok&list=PLpHDEpZAuY1-yY3Xl0A1Co999RxbJLSPq
Mycroft Holmes was not an easy man to take by surprise.
In fact, the only person he could recall really surprising him at all in recent memory was Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade.
Mycroft was a cautious man, a man of habit: a man who lived, worked and conducted even his intimate liaisons according to rigorously laid plans.
Until now.
His brother Sherlock had recently advised him to bear in mind the shortness of life. Mycroft had reflected deeply upon that deceptively simple advice. And had concluded that while this was a fact more comfortable to avoid, it was indisputably true; accordingly, it might be advisable to make certain adjustments for such things as. . . spontaneity.
He had thought he was doing rather well. Mycroft had, for example, abandoned his half-formed and (in hindsight) impractical plan to seduce Greg Lestrade over some indeterminate period of time, slowly, subtly, as he had thought befitting for his first and possibly only chance at a great love. Something he had never before felt, nor in truth ever wished to feel.
Instead, he had thrown caution to the winds and made what was for him, an almost unimaginably bold and precipitate declaration: he wanted Lestrade, wanted nothing less than love. Not that he understood at all what that might mean.
The first surprise was, that despite having long nursed an impossible love for John Watson, Lestrade had been willing, more than willing, to open himself to the possibility of another.
The second surprise had just been delivered. A message from his butler and aide, Morris:
PROFOUNDEST REGRET TO REPORT AGENT 009 DEAD. FULL REPORT ATTACHED. LESTRADE INTENDS TO FIND YOU. ADVISE ORDERS.
Mycroft sank into a chair. Agent 009, aka Robert Roussell, was an MI6 operative under Mycroft’s supervision, most recently in Geneva. He had also been Mycroft’s companion in certain encounters that had been amusing - but no more -- to them both. Mycroft sincerely mourned him, but with a clear-eyed practicality that recognized the risks hazarded by all 00 agents. Robert had endured longer than many.
His mourning was all the sharper because, according to Morris’ report, Robert had very likely died trying to get an urgent message to Mycroft.
* * *
Mycroft was undercover in the town of Ascot, near Windsor, investigating the mysterious and troubling appearance there of an ETA terrorist called “Aguirre.” As such, Mycroft- being England’s foremost security expert on ETA and the Basque separatist movement in Spain - had been plucked from behind his desk and ordered back into the field.
Whatever message Robert had been trying to deliver when he died, Mycroft knew it had to do with Aguirre. Mycroft didn’t believe in coincidences. Someone must already be aware of the Government’s nascent effort to uncover Aguirre’s plans.
Mycroft was almost more troubled by the rest of Morris’ message. Lestrade had, through reckless acts of personal heroism, become an enemy of the Russian mafia. Mycroft had secretly disposed of this threat by the most direct of means: assassination. But he still worried ceaselessly about Lestrade’s personal safety, particularly as he couldn’t know when he would be able to return to London. Mycroft had begged Lestrade to stay in his own (heavily armed) house, certain Lestrade would be safest there.
But now, Lestrade was apparently, surprisingly, determined to leave London to try and find him. His heart thudded in his chest, an unusual sensation to the usually imperturbable Mycroft. He had to stop Lestrade. Even though there was surely no risk of him actually succeeding.
But as he picked up one of several disposable mobiles to make the call, he received another message:
PLEASE CALL. TRUST NO ONE. I ARRIVE BILBAO 13:00. I WILL WAIT MUSEUM CLOSING HOUR. EXPLAIN WHEN I SEE YOU. BE CAREFUL FOR ME.
This was the third time Lestrade had surprised him in less than a week.
Bilbao was a Basque city in Spain. The very next place that Mycroft intended to go.
Which meant that somehow - how he could not as yet imagine - Lestrade was aware of his mission. A mission so highly classified, that only a handful of the most highly placed persons in MI6 were aware of it.
Trust no one, Lestrade said.
Classic spycraft required Mycroft at this point to treat Lestrade as a direct threat. This, of course, was quite impossible. Mycroft refused to entertain it for even a moment. Instead, he mused over whether it was at all likely that Lestrade could be persuaded to turn around.
Reflecting upon what he knew of Greg Lestrade, he realized it was hopeless.
Under any other circumstance, he would just have Lestrade picked up and forcibly returned to London. But that was unacceptable to him. Mycroft recognized he was violating some pretty fundamental ground rules here. But he had recently made a vow to be more spontaneous.
And life was short.
Be careful for me, Lestrade said.
Mycroft cherished those four short words, almost a sort of declaration in themselves, and then his heart was thudding for a different reason.
He stood up and meticulously cleared his few belongings - dossier, briefcase, duffle, coat, and umbrella - from the ugly house in Ascot that had been his temporary base. Gatwick was nearby. If he hurried, he could be in Bilbao in time. Face to face, he would have to make Lestrade see reason.
On the jet to Spain, Mycroft allowed himself the luxury of spinning elaborate plans for submitting Lestrade to certain unorthodox methods of persuasion.
* * *
Sherlock was pacing 221b like a caged tiger. It was his last day on doctor’s orders to keep his jaw shut - dislocated in a vicious beating at the hands of Russian gangsters.
Gangsters from whom he and John had been delivered by the unexpected appearance of Mycroft, a most interesting circumstance which Sherlock had had the leisure to ponder during the insufferable restrictions of his convalescence.
Sherlock had sent innumerable messages to Mycroft demanding to be informed just what Mycroft thought he was doing blowing up a warehouse full of Russian gangsters and, apparently, personally breaking the neck of their top boss - then disappearing without a word. Mycroft hadn’t done anything like field work in more than five years.
And while he never expected Mycroft to confide in him about his classified work, usually Mycroft contrived to get him at least an indirect message so that their mother, Lady Eugenia Holmes, didn’t worry too much. Mycroft knew that Sherlock himself didn’t particularly worry about him.
Mycroft had answered only with a vague “Don’t worry. I’ll be away for a while. Unavoidable. Take care of Mummy.”
Forbidden to speak while his jaw was healing, Sherlock groped with exasperation for his pen and paper.
LET’S PAY MYCROFT A VISIT.
John shut his laptop. “I thought you didn’t know where Mycroft was?”
HIS HOUSE.
“Why do you say that? Oh, I see. Did you quarrel again? He’s not speaking to you? That doesn’t sound like Mycroft, Sherlock. You, maybe. Look, leave it alone - why are you fretting so over Mycroft? You never have before. He’ll call you when he’s ready.”
Sherlock was already pulling his coat on. He ignored John mainly because John was right. He had to admit he actually didn’t know why he felt so uneasy about Mycroft. But something was afoot.
Because now Sherlock had learned that Detective Inspector Lestrade had been suddenly been sent away from the Yard on a months’ leave of absence - at the same time that Mycroft had disappeared.
And now Lestrade, too, was nowhere to be found.
Despite being perfectly aware of the depth of Mycroft’s regard for Lestrade, Sherlock did not suppose that the men had not run off together for some sort of private affair. Scotland Yard was buried under the twin burdens of the aftermath of the London riots and the ever-expanding phone hacking scandal. It was not a time that Lestrade would willingly have left his duties. And Mycroft; well, Mycroft never left his duties at all.
Sherlock almost never operated on pure intuition. But where his brother was concerned, although he would never admit it, intuition was not something he felt able to ignore.
He gestured impatiently for John to follow, and they went down into Baker Street and hailed a cab to St. John’s Wood.
* * *
There was a new carpet in the front hall of Mycroft’s elegant house in St. John’s Wood. Sherlock noted it immediately and settled his piercing gaze upon Morris. Morris, as always, maintained his rocky impassivity beneath the dramatic scar across his cheek. Sherlock thrust the new carpet aside with his foot. The wood parquet beneath was stained with dark, familiar marks.
“It’s blood, Sherlock,” John said. “That’s amaz - How did you know?”
Sherlock was thoroughly frustrated with writing notes, and growled quietly between clenched teeth: “New carpet. Old one was a gift. From our Mother. Mycroft wouldn’t replace it.” He stared at Morris.
“Mr. Sherlock. You know I am not at liberty to discuss Mr. Holmes’ business. You know I don’t know where he is, anyway,” he said fearfully. He was had always been in awe - even slightly terrified - of Sherlock. “It’s not Mr. Mycroft’s, though. The blood. Nor Mr. Lestrade’s,” he added as an afterthought, wondering whether Mycroft would be displeased at the indiscretion.
“That’s all right, then,” Sherlock said, gently enough. “We’ll just be in the library. Tea, Morris, please.” He ignored John’s protestations to stop speaking. “I’ll speak softly.”
“That's not exactly what I worry about,” John mocked, as they entered Mycroft’s orderly library.
* * *
Bilbao is a industrial city near the northern coast of Spain, not far from the French border. Its claim to international notoriety was the dazzling organic steel curves of the Guggenheim Museum, a masterpiece of the world-renowned architect Frank Gehry.
For Mycroft’s purposes, it was important as the principal city of the Basque autonomous region of Spain. And it was a known center of operations, particularly financial, for ETA.
He placed himself strategically upon the chic rooftop café of a hotel across the street from the Guggenheim, an hour ahead of the museum closing time. In this way, he could ensure that Lestrade was not being followed before intercepting him. The Guggenheim was on the banks of the Nervion River, and Mycroft pretended to be sketching the museum and the river while nursing his second espresso:
When he finally saw Lestrade’ silvered head coming along the street toward the museum, he almost gasped his relief. He hadn’t realized how afraid he was that Lestrade wouldn’t appear - and what that may have meant. Lestrade was walking casually, snapping photos, making an effort to blend. Mycroft admitted that he was doing very well. While a few passing women, and one man, gave Lestrade second glances, he could see even at this distance it was only because the man was so damnably attractive.
Chiding himself for these frivolous thoughts, he swiftly went downstairs and crossed the street, and began making a circuit of the museum, so that he would meet Lestrade coming the other way. A group of tourists came bustling out of the museum. It was closing time.
And then he rounded the shining metallic folds of the museum’s skin (it couldn’t properly be called a wall), and the last of the departing crowd trickled away. And Lestrade was there.
Their eyes met, and the grim reason for their meeting was forgotten for a moment as they were flooded with a kind of joy just to be together again. Mycroft made a small gesture for Lestrade to follow him down the stair to the riverbank, where he allowed Lestrade to catch up to him, and they stood side by side and looked across the river.
“Don’t look at me, just speak, look as if we’re admiring the view,” Mycroft said softly. “Greg, why did you do it? Do you know - how worried I’ve been?”
“Why did I do it? Because your man Robert died in my arms on the floor of your house last night,” Lestrade whispered fiercely. “Because he warned me that it was ‘someone inside’. Because he wanted me to warn you. Here I am.”
“Morris told me. But - how did you know to come here? Morris doesn’t know. Almost no one knows.”
“Robert . . . he gave me something. I didn’t know what to do except bring it to you. But not here,” Lestrade said. “No one knows we’re here, right? Let’s go now, let’s find somewhere we can be alone.”
“Do you see the hotel across the street from the museum? Go there. Get a room. Go to the bar and have a drink. Take your time. If anyone asks, tell them you’re here for -“
“It’s already arranged,” Lestrade said. “I called in a favor. I’m giving a lecture to the local police on urban riot control. Day after tomorrow.”
This was the fourth time Lestrade had surprised him.
“Mycroft. Jesus. Do you think we in the Yard are idiots? Do you think I’ve never been undercover before? Relax.”
But Mycroft was already walking away. “Room 518,” he said over his shoulder.
It was definitely time to turn the tables.
* * *
Sherlock started a slow circuit of Mycroft’s bookshelves, studying them intently.
“What are you looking for?”
“Languages,” Sherlock said. He didn’t seem inclined to elaborate, and John didn’t want him talking.
Morris brought tea and seemed relieved that Sherlock was so innocently employed.
John had a cup. It was delicious. Sherlock declined.
“Any particular language?”
Sherlock shook his head vaguely and continued his study. “A missing one,” he said cryptically.
John started the other direction, looking for books in foreign languages, figuring he might as well try to help. French, Russian, Japanese, German, Chinese, Arabic. . . .he got dizzy just imagining trying to absorb all of those foreign words. Mycroft had to be some sort of linguistic genius. Sherlock himself was quite skilled at several languages, but it appeared that in this, Mycroft excelled even his brilliant younger brother.
Sherlock stopped and was frowning at a high bookshelf. He dragged the rolling ladder over and climbed up a step, pulling down volume after volume.
Then he gulped a cup of now-cold tea.
“Sherlock - are you going to tell me anything about this? It’s the Russians, isn’t it? I deserve to know. I was there, too,” he said, reminding Sherlock of their brief capture by the Russians, from which Mycroft (not without help from John) had unexpectedly rescued them. He figured that this whole affair, if it was anything, had to do with the Russians.
He went to look at the stack of books Sherlock was perusing. They were in a language unknown to him. Sherlock was smiling a little.
“Did you find something?”
Sherlock shook his head.
“Then why are you looking so happy?” It was true. That little smile had been the brightest expression to cross Sherlock’s face in days.
“It’s missing, John. The dictionary for Euskara. English to Euskara. The other books are here, I remember them all. But that one’s missing.”
“What’s Euskara?”
“The language of the Basque people. It is a dying language, although they are trying very hard to preserve it.”
“How do you know that book is missing? There must be over a thousand books in this room.”
“Because I know the languages that Mycroft is fluent in. Mycroft is an authority on Euskara. It’s rather obscure. I know he had that dictionary when last I was here because I saw it, Mycroft was going to give a lecture or something to some young agents, I believe. But it’s gone now.”
“So?”
“Isn’t it obvious? He’s taken it with him. Because he needs it. And he would only need it if he were going somewhere Basque is spoken fluently.”
“And where is that?”
“Either Spain or France. Balance of probabilities, Spain.”
“All right, so Mycroft went to Spain. Good for him.”
“Perhaps,” Sherlock said. It gave him a great deal of satisfaction to know that he had penetrated Mycroft’s secret. He knew, in a general way, where Mycroft had to be.
Doubtless it was some sort of classified mission; he understood that.
Given that it apparently was to Basque country, there was only one reasonable probability: something involving the violent separatist group, ETA.
Mycroft hadn’t asked for his help, of course.
But Sherlock didn’t have anything pressing on his hands. Possibly it would be amusing to dig a little deeper. He picked up a stack of books and carried them out the door.
“Mr. Holmes is very particular about his books, sir, I don’t think you should move them,” Morris objected, although respectfully.
“Oh don’t worry, Morris, we’ll take good care of them, won’t we, John?” John shuddered to imagine the condition of the volumes after they had been stored in 221b. He nodded with what he hoped was confidence.
Upon their return to 221b, John took the books from Sherlock and neatly stacked them in a relatively uncluttered corner. He reached up and touched Sherlock’s cheek, the bruising now faded. “How does it feel?”
“Hmmmm....” Sherlock wasn’t paying him any attention, but was eyeing the books.
“Sherlock, you’ve been cooped up for a week reading and watching telly. Forget the books. Shouldn’t we see if there might be something else we can find to occupy you, now you’re better?” Sometimes one had to be rather forceful to get Sherlock’s undivided attention. John grabbed him firmly by the hand and dragged him to the upstairs bedroom, happy that after the first step, Sherlock’s were even more eager than his own.
* * *
Room 518 of the Gran Hotel Domine looked directly over the Guggenheim through a window wall of cantilevered glass. The organic, sensual shapes of the curvilinear steel glowed under spotlights, casting a silver light into the darkened room. There was a knock at the door and Mycroft remembered when it had been he who had come to Lestrade, in the hotel on the Isle of Mann. He opened the door and pulled Lestrade inside and just like that, he didn’t care about ETA, he didn’t care about the Russians, all he cared about was that Lestrade with him, wrapped in his arms almost before he could get into the room. Lestrade just let him hold him, tight, Mycroft sinking his fingers into his hair.
“You can’t stay,” Mycroft finally said.
“You don’t mean that. I know you want me here,” Lestrade said. He pulled him down to sit at the edge of the bed. “But let me show you what I have to show you. And then I’ll leave. If it’s what you really want.”
He pulled a piece of bloodstained, crumpled newspaper from a plastic bag in his pocket and unwrapped the Roman-looking coin that was bundled together with it. “This is what he gave me. Robert. He died, right then.”
They examined it under the light of the lamp. The newspaper had the name of the city, BILBAO, written in the margin. The silver coin bore the head of a Roman senator or emperor, blurred. There were crude letters around the margin of the coin.
“It says, “DIES IRAE,” Lestrade said.
Their eyes met.
“And you know what that means?”
Lestrade nodded. “It’s Latin. It means, ‘Day of Wrath.’”
Mycroft took the items and put them back in the plastic bag, and sequestered it in his duffle.
“Thank you, Greg. Now. . . I think I understand. I’m very grateful. But you know I can’t involve you in this. I can’t even tell you what it’s about. You’ve already put yourself at risk, just bringing this to me.”
Lestrade nodded, resigned. “All right, then. You think we’re safe here tonight?”
“Yes. I don’t think anyone knows I’m here. I’ve not been followed. And I didn’t see any sign of anyone following you.”
“Then don’t make me leave,” Lestrade said, amazing himself with how much it hurt to think he might just have to walk away, this very minute. “Let me stay with you. Just until morning.”
Mycroft nodded, feeling a lump in his throat. Now he knew. This was real. This was happening.
This was love.
And now, for just a few hours, all that was important was to show Lestrade, if he could find a way, what he felt, with kisses that mingled heat with a new tenderness, and he didn’t hold back at all when just the feeling of Lestrade’s mouth on his made him tremble with passion, a passion that Lestrade felt and matched, closing whatever space had remained between then as he held him close and hard. The words Mycroft wanted to say seemed impossible, it was too soon, it was too much, but he was powerless to deny it any longer. They looked at each other wonderingly, and Lestrade finally whispered, “It’s all right. I know, I know. I feel it too.” They glowed together in the silvery light until dawn.
To be continued . . .
Listen to 'Take A Chance With Me' HERE"
next: Two:Legoland.
.
Chapter One: Five Surprises
No. 7 of Indestructible, the Sherlock Case!fic Adventures
Author: ghislainem70
Word count: 3,500
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Mycroft, Lestrade, Sherlock and John race to stop a mysterious terrorist conspiracy
Warnings: explicit sex, graphic violence
Note: This fic is the sequel to "In the Footsteps of the Master."
Readers who enjoy my tracks can listen to the All Souls' Day playlist here:
http://www.youtube.com/playlist?feature=edit_ok&list=PLpHDEpZAuY1-yY3Xl0A1Co999RxbJLSPq
Mycroft Holmes was not an easy man to take by surprise.
In fact, the only person he could recall really surprising him at all in recent memory was Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade.
Mycroft was a cautious man, a man of habit: a man who lived, worked and conducted even his intimate liaisons according to rigorously laid plans.
Until now.
His brother Sherlock had recently advised him to bear in mind the shortness of life. Mycroft had reflected deeply upon that deceptively simple advice. And had concluded that while this was a fact more comfortable to avoid, it was indisputably true; accordingly, it might be advisable to make certain adjustments for such things as. . . spontaneity.
He had thought he was doing rather well. Mycroft had, for example, abandoned his half-formed and (in hindsight) impractical plan to seduce Greg Lestrade over some indeterminate period of time, slowly, subtly, as he had thought befitting for his first and possibly only chance at a great love. Something he had never before felt, nor in truth ever wished to feel.
Instead, he had thrown caution to the winds and made what was for him, an almost unimaginably bold and precipitate declaration: he wanted Lestrade, wanted nothing less than love. Not that he understood at all what that might mean.
The first surprise was, that despite having long nursed an impossible love for John Watson, Lestrade had been willing, more than willing, to open himself to the possibility of another.
The second surprise had just been delivered. A message from his butler and aide, Morris:
PROFOUNDEST REGRET TO REPORT AGENT 009 DEAD. FULL REPORT ATTACHED. LESTRADE INTENDS TO FIND YOU. ADVISE ORDERS.
Mycroft sank into a chair. Agent 009, aka Robert Roussell, was an MI6 operative under Mycroft’s supervision, most recently in Geneva. He had also been Mycroft’s companion in certain encounters that had been amusing - but no more -- to them both. Mycroft sincerely mourned him, but with a clear-eyed practicality that recognized the risks hazarded by all 00 agents. Robert had endured longer than many.
His mourning was all the sharper because, according to Morris’ report, Robert had very likely died trying to get an urgent message to Mycroft.
* * *
Mycroft was undercover in the town of Ascot, near Windsor, investigating the mysterious and troubling appearance there of an ETA terrorist called “Aguirre.” As such, Mycroft- being England’s foremost security expert on ETA and the Basque separatist movement in Spain - had been plucked from behind his desk and ordered back into the field.
Whatever message Robert had been trying to deliver when he died, Mycroft knew it had to do with Aguirre. Mycroft didn’t believe in coincidences. Someone must already be aware of the Government’s nascent effort to uncover Aguirre’s plans.
Mycroft was almost more troubled by the rest of Morris’ message. Lestrade had, through reckless acts of personal heroism, become an enemy of the Russian mafia. Mycroft had secretly disposed of this threat by the most direct of means: assassination. But he still worried ceaselessly about Lestrade’s personal safety, particularly as he couldn’t know when he would be able to return to London. Mycroft had begged Lestrade to stay in his own (heavily armed) house, certain Lestrade would be safest there.
But now, Lestrade was apparently, surprisingly, determined to leave London to try and find him. His heart thudded in his chest, an unusual sensation to the usually imperturbable Mycroft. He had to stop Lestrade. Even though there was surely no risk of him actually succeeding.
But as he picked up one of several disposable mobiles to make the call, he received another message:
PLEASE CALL. TRUST NO ONE. I ARRIVE BILBAO 13:00. I WILL WAIT MUSEUM CLOSING HOUR. EXPLAIN WHEN I SEE YOU. BE CAREFUL FOR ME.
This was the third time Lestrade had surprised him in less than a week.
Bilbao was a Basque city in Spain. The very next place that Mycroft intended to go.
Which meant that somehow - how he could not as yet imagine - Lestrade was aware of his mission. A mission so highly classified, that only a handful of the most highly placed persons in MI6 were aware of it.
Trust no one, Lestrade said.
Classic spycraft required Mycroft at this point to treat Lestrade as a direct threat. This, of course, was quite impossible. Mycroft refused to entertain it for even a moment. Instead, he mused over whether it was at all likely that Lestrade could be persuaded to turn around.
Reflecting upon what he knew of Greg Lestrade, he realized it was hopeless.
Under any other circumstance, he would just have Lestrade picked up and forcibly returned to London. But that was unacceptable to him. Mycroft recognized he was violating some pretty fundamental ground rules here. But he had recently made a vow to be more spontaneous.
And life was short.
Be careful for me, Lestrade said.
Mycroft cherished those four short words, almost a sort of declaration in themselves, and then his heart was thudding for a different reason.
He stood up and meticulously cleared his few belongings - dossier, briefcase, duffle, coat, and umbrella - from the ugly house in Ascot that had been his temporary base. Gatwick was nearby. If he hurried, he could be in Bilbao in time. Face to face, he would have to make Lestrade see reason.
On the jet to Spain, Mycroft allowed himself the luxury of spinning elaborate plans for submitting Lestrade to certain unorthodox methods of persuasion.
* * *
Sherlock was pacing 221b like a caged tiger. It was his last day on doctor’s orders to keep his jaw shut - dislocated in a vicious beating at the hands of Russian gangsters.
Gangsters from whom he and John had been delivered by the unexpected appearance of Mycroft, a most interesting circumstance which Sherlock had had the leisure to ponder during the insufferable restrictions of his convalescence.
Sherlock had sent innumerable messages to Mycroft demanding to be informed just what Mycroft thought he was doing blowing up a warehouse full of Russian gangsters and, apparently, personally breaking the neck of their top boss - then disappearing without a word. Mycroft hadn’t done anything like field work in more than five years.
And while he never expected Mycroft to confide in him about his classified work, usually Mycroft contrived to get him at least an indirect message so that their mother, Lady Eugenia Holmes, didn’t worry too much. Mycroft knew that Sherlock himself didn’t particularly worry about him.
Mycroft had answered only with a vague “Don’t worry. I’ll be away for a while. Unavoidable. Take care of Mummy.”
Forbidden to speak while his jaw was healing, Sherlock groped with exasperation for his pen and paper.
LET’S PAY MYCROFT A VISIT.
John shut his laptop. “I thought you didn’t know where Mycroft was?”
HIS HOUSE.
“Why do you say that? Oh, I see. Did you quarrel again? He’s not speaking to you? That doesn’t sound like Mycroft, Sherlock. You, maybe. Look, leave it alone - why are you fretting so over Mycroft? You never have before. He’ll call you when he’s ready.”
Sherlock was already pulling his coat on. He ignored John mainly because John was right. He had to admit he actually didn’t know why he felt so uneasy about Mycroft. But something was afoot.
Because now Sherlock had learned that Detective Inspector Lestrade had been suddenly been sent away from the Yard on a months’ leave of absence - at the same time that Mycroft had disappeared.
And now Lestrade, too, was nowhere to be found.
Despite being perfectly aware of the depth of Mycroft’s regard for Lestrade, Sherlock did not suppose that the men had not run off together for some sort of private affair. Scotland Yard was buried under the twin burdens of the aftermath of the London riots and the ever-expanding phone hacking scandal. It was not a time that Lestrade would willingly have left his duties. And Mycroft; well, Mycroft never left his duties at all.
Sherlock almost never operated on pure intuition. But where his brother was concerned, although he would never admit it, intuition was not something he felt able to ignore.
He gestured impatiently for John to follow, and they went down into Baker Street and hailed a cab to St. John’s Wood.
* * *
There was a new carpet in the front hall of Mycroft’s elegant house in St. John’s Wood. Sherlock noted it immediately and settled his piercing gaze upon Morris. Morris, as always, maintained his rocky impassivity beneath the dramatic scar across his cheek. Sherlock thrust the new carpet aside with his foot. The wood parquet beneath was stained with dark, familiar marks.
“It’s blood, Sherlock,” John said. “That’s amaz - How did you know?”
Sherlock was thoroughly frustrated with writing notes, and growled quietly between clenched teeth: “New carpet. Old one was a gift. From our Mother. Mycroft wouldn’t replace it.” He stared at Morris.
“Mr. Sherlock. You know I am not at liberty to discuss Mr. Holmes’ business. You know I don’t know where he is, anyway,” he said fearfully. He was had always been in awe - even slightly terrified - of Sherlock. “It’s not Mr. Mycroft’s, though. The blood. Nor Mr. Lestrade’s,” he added as an afterthought, wondering whether Mycroft would be displeased at the indiscretion.
“That’s all right, then,” Sherlock said, gently enough. “We’ll just be in the library. Tea, Morris, please.” He ignored John’s protestations to stop speaking. “I’ll speak softly.”
“That's not exactly what I worry about,” John mocked, as they entered Mycroft’s orderly library.
* * *
Bilbao is a industrial city near the northern coast of Spain, not far from the French border. Its claim to international notoriety was the dazzling organic steel curves of the Guggenheim Museum, a masterpiece of the world-renowned architect Frank Gehry.
For Mycroft’s purposes, it was important as the principal city of the Basque autonomous region of Spain. And it was a known center of operations, particularly financial, for ETA.
He placed himself strategically upon the chic rooftop café of a hotel across the street from the Guggenheim, an hour ahead of the museum closing time. In this way, he could ensure that Lestrade was not being followed before intercepting him. The Guggenheim was on the banks of the Nervion River, and Mycroft pretended to be sketching the museum and the river while nursing his second espresso:
When he finally saw Lestrade’ silvered head coming along the street toward the museum, he almost gasped his relief. He hadn’t realized how afraid he was that Lestrade wouldn’t appear - and what that may have meant. Lestrade was walking casually, snapping photos, making an effort to blend. Mycroft admitted that he was doing very well. While a few passing women, and one man, gave Lestrade second glances, he could see even at this distance it was only because the man was so damnably attractive.
Chiding himself for these frivolous thoughts, he swiftly went downstairs and crossed the street, and began making a circuit of the museum, so that he would meet Lestrade coming the other way. A group of tourists came bustling out of the museum. It was closing time.
And then he rounded the shining metallic folds of the museum’s skin (it couldn’t properly be called a wall), and the last of the departing crowd trickled away. And Lestrade was there.
Their eyes met, and the grim reason for their meeting was forgotten for a moment as they were flooded with a kind of joy just to be together again. Mycroft made a small gesture for Lestrade to follow him down the stair to the riverbank, where he allowed Lestrade to catch up to him, and they stood side by side and looked across the river.
“Don’t look at me, just speak, look as if we’re admiring the view,” Mycroft said softly. “Greg, why did you do it? Do you know - how worried I’ve been?”
“Why did I do it? Because your man Robert died in my arms on the floor of your house last night,” Lestrade whispered fiercely. “Because he warned me that it was ‘someone inside’. Because he wanted me to warn you. Here I am.”
“Morris told me. But - how did you know to come here? Morris doesn’t know. Almost no one knows.”
“Robert . . . he gave me something. I didn’t know what to do except bring it to you. But not here,” Lestrade said. “No one knows we’re here, right? Let’s go now, let’s find somewhere we can be alone.”
“Do you see the hotel across the street from the museum? Go there. Get a room. Go to the bar and have a drink. Take your time. If anyone asks, tell them you’re here for -“
“It’s already arranged,” Lestrade said. “I called in a favor. I’m giving a lecture to the local police on urban riot control. Day after tomorrow.”
This was the fourth time Lestrade had surprised him.
“Mycroft. Jesus. Do you think we in the Yard are idiots? Do you think I’ve never been undercover before? Relax.”
But Mycroft was already walking away. “Room 518,” he said over his shoulder.
It was definitely time to turn the tables.
* * *
Sherlock started a slow circuit of Mycroft’s bookshelves, studying them intently.
“What are you looking for?”
“Languages,” Sherlock said. He didn’t seem inclined to elaborate, and John didn’t want him talking.
Morris brought tea and seemed relieved that Sherlock was so innocently employed.
John had a cup. It was delicious. Sherlock declined.
“Any particular language?”
Sherlock shook his head vaguely and continued his study. “A missing one,” he said cryptically.
John started the other direction, looking for books in foreign languages, figuring he might as well try to help. French, Russian, Japanese, German, Chinese, Arabic. . . .he got dizzy just imagining trying to absorb all of those foreign words. Mycroft had to be some sort of linguistic genius. Sherlock himself was quite skilled at several languages, but it appeared that in this, Mycroft excelled even his brilliant younger brother.
Sherlock stopped and was frowning at a high bookshelf. He dragged the rolling ladder over and climbed up a step, pulling down volume after volume.
Then he gulped a cup of now-cold tea.
“Sherlock - are you going to tell me anything about this? It’s the Russians, isn’t it? I deserve to know. I was there, too,” he said, reminding Sherlock of their brief capture by the Russians, from which Mycroft (not without help from John) had unexpectedly rescued them. He figured that this whole affair, if it was anything, had to do with the Russians.
He went to look at the stack of books Sherlock was perusing. They were in a language unknown to him. Sherlock was smiling a little.
“Did you find something?”
Sherlock shook his head.
“Then why are you looking so happy?” It was true. That little smile had been the brightest expression to cross Sherlock’s face in days.
“It’s missing, John. The dictionary for Euskara. English to Euskara. The other books are here, I remember them all. But that one’s missing.”
“What’s Euskara?”
“The language of the Basque people. It is a dying language, although they are trying very hard to preserve it.”
“How do you know that book is missing? There must be over a thousand books in this room.”
“Because I know the languages that Mycroft is fluent in. Mycroft is an authority on Euskara. It’s rather obscure. I know he had that dictionary when last I was here because I saw it, Mycroft was going to give a lecture or something to some young agents, I believe. But it’s gone now.”
“So?”
“Isn’t it obvious? He’s taken it with him. Because he needs it. And he would only need it if he were going somewhere Basque is spoken fluently.”
“And where is that?”
“Either Spain or France. Balance of probabilities, Spain.”
“All right, so Mycroft went to Spain. Good for him.”
“Perhaps,” Sherlock said. It gave him a great deal of satisfaction to know that he had penetrated Mycroft’s secret. He knew, in a general way, where Mycroft had to be.
Doubtless it was some sort of classified mission; he understood that.
Given that it apparently was to Basque country, there was only one reasonable probability: something involving the violent separatist group, ETA.
Mycroft hadn’t asked for his help, of course.
But Sherlock didn’t have anything pressing on his hands. Possibly it would be amusing to dig a little deeper. He picked up a stack of books and carried them out the door.
“Mr. Holmes is very particular about his books, sir, I don’t think you should move them,” Morris objected, although respectfully.
“Oh don’t worry, Morris, we’ll take good care of them, won’t we, John?” John shuddered to imagine the condition of the volumes after they had been stored in 221b. He nodded with what he hoped was confidence.
Upon their return to 221b, John took the books from Sherlock and neatly stacked them in a relatively uncluttered corner. He reached up and touched Sherlock’s cheek, the bruising now faded. “How does it feel?”
“Hmmmm....” Sherlock wasn’t paying him any attention, but was eyeing the books.
“Sherlock, you’ve been cooped up for a week reading and watching telly. Forget the books. Shouldn’t we see if there might be something else we can find to occupy you, now you’re better?” Sometimes one had to be rather forceful to get Sherlock’s undivided attention. John grabbed him firmly by the hand and dragged him to the upstairs bedroom, happy that after the first step, Sherlock’s were even more eager than his own.
* * *
Room 518 of the Gran Hotel Domine looked directly over the Guggenheim through a window wall of cantilevered glass. The organic, sensual shapes of the curvilinear steel glowed under spotlights, casting a silver light into the darkened room. There was a knock at the door and Mycroft remembered when it had been he who had come to Lestrade, in the hotel on the Isle of Mann. He opened the door and pulled Lestrade inside and just like that, he didn’t care about ETA, he didn’t care about the Russians, all he cared about was that Lestrade with him, wrapped in his arms almost before he could get into the room. Lestrade just let him hold him, tight, Mycroft sinking his fingers into his hair.
“You can’t stay,” Mycroft finally said.
“You don’t mean that. I know you want me here,” Lestrade said. He pulled him down to sit at the edge of the bed. “But let me show you what I have to show you. And then I’ll leave. If it’s what you really want.”
He pulled a piece of bloodstained, crumpled newspaper from a plastic bag in his pocket and unwrapped the Roman-looking coin that was bundled together with it. “This is what he gave me. Robert. He died, right then.”
They examined it under the light of the lamp. The newspaper had the name of the city, BILBAO, written in the margin. The silver coin bore the head of a Roman senator or emperor, blurred. There were crude letters around the margin of the coin.
“It says, “DIES IRAE,” Lestrade said.
Their eyes met.
“And you know what that means?”
Lestrade nodded. “It’s Latin. It means, ‘Day of Wrath.’”
Mycroft took the items and put them back in the plastic bag, and sequestered it in his duffle.
“Thank you, Greg. Now. . . I think I understand. I’m very grateful. But you know I can’t involve you in this. I can’t even tell you what it’s about. You’ve already put yourself at risk, just bringing this to me.”
Lestrade nodded, resigned. “All right, then. You think we’re safe here tonight?”
“Yes. I don’t think anyone knows I’m here. I’ve not been followed. And I didn’t see any sign of anyone following you.”
“Then don’t make me leave,” Lestrade said, amazing himself with how much it hurt to think he might just have to walk away, this very minute. “Let me stay with you. Just until morning.”
Mycroft nodded, feeling a lump in his throat. Now he knew. This was real. This was happening.
This was love.
And now, for just a few hours, all that was important was to show Lestrade, if he could find a way, what he felt, with kisses that mingled heat with a new tenderness, and he didn’t hold back at all when just the feeling of Lestrade’s mouth on his made him tremble with passion, a passion that Lestrade felt and matched, closing whatever space had remained between then as he held him close and hard. The words Mycroft wanted to say seemed impossible, it was too soon, it was too much, but he was powerless to deny it any longer. They looked at each other wonderingly, and Lestrade finally whispered, “It’s all right. I know, I know. I feel it too.” They glowed together in the silvery light until dawn.
To be continued . . .
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next: Two:Legoland.
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