You know it's a lie (2/4)
BBC Sherlock
Rating 15 (swearing, violence)
Summary: Sherlock is about to fake Mycroft's death. At least if everything goes to plan.
Betaed by the amazing Second Skin.
Part 1
What Sherlock meant by tomorrow morning, Mycroft realised, as he stared blearily at his watch, was 4.30 am. It was barely dawn yet. But the text was clear.
Get a taxi to Barts immediately. Text me when you get to the Queen Elizabeth II House entrance. S
He was going to his death in yesterday's shirt and without time for a shave. It didn't inspire his spirit. Still, he had to go through with this. He had no better plan. He just hoped Sherlock knew what he was doing. He was relying on him - and there was a truly terrifying thought.
It took Mycroft a frustratingly long while to find a taxi, and when he finally got to Barts, Sherlock looked calm and immaculate, which didn't help his mood. Nor did being dragged hastily into an insalubrious Gents.
"John's asleep in one of the labs," Sherlock announced, leaning against a graffiti-covered wall. "He won't be stirring any time soon. I've arranged to meet Moriarty up on the roof in a couple of hours from now. Except you're going to meet him instead of me. I've got the key code; you can tell him that."
"Where is it?" Mycroft demanded eagerly.
"In my head. In Moriarty's as well, which is the problem. Encoded as a binary sequence; he tapped out the rhythm when he came to visit me."
"If you can transcribe it-"
"I have already, and I've sent copies off to Anthea and Lestrade as backup. But it'll take detailed analysis to see exactly how the code works. And we also have to assume that Moriarty has a backup plan. A threat to make me - or now you - commit suicide. I think we have to presume that you're still going to die." He announced the last statement with relish.
"That was why you chose the roof as a meeting place, was it?" Mycroft said. He could feel his heart racing already at the thought of it. "How...what do I have to do?"
"It should be straightforward enough. We place a lorry below, provided with a box rig. It'll break your fall very effectively. So you fall onto that. Meanwhile, your substitute is dropped from a near-by window onto a pavement."
"And if I miss the rig?"
"You don't. You fall forward and it will be there. I've got friends who know about these things."
"I wish it was them doing this." He hoped he didn't sound as sick from fear as he felt.
"Or even me." Sherlock smiled alarmingly for a moment and then his face grew serious. "But it's fall or be pushed, Mycroft, you're no safer if you go back out on those streets. How long would you last if you didn't have MI5 at your back?"
"A few months," he said, reluctantly. "I've made a lot of enemies. Mutually assured assassination has protected me, but once I'm disgraced..."
"You've got a target stuck on your head. It's better to go like this, Mycroft. If you make a mistake this time, you won't live to regret it." The edge of mockery from last night was back in Sherlock's voice again, and a wave of simple terror swept through Mycroft. He forced his knees not to buckle, and blurted out:
"Do you want me to die?"
Sherlock's smile returned, broadened. "No. I want to be the one who ensures that you live. Can't call me a disappointment after that, can you?"
They had to stop Moriarty, Mycroft told himself. Nothing else mattered. Concentrate on the plan.
"What the next step?" he asked. "I'd prefer not to have meet John again. He might start suspecting something if he sees us together."
"He's worn out," Sherlock said. "We had...a busy time yesterday."
"You nearly got yourself both killed, running in front of a bus like that."
"Oh, you have read yesterday's reports now?" Sherlock said. "Well, don't worry about the fallout from that; it's not your problem any more. I'm going to take you up to the roof and show you where to position yourself for the fall. But before that I'll need your clothes."
"I...I am not jumping naked," Mycroft said, his chin going up.
"Of course not. Why would you think I'd suggest that?" Sherlock replied, shuddering slightly. "But I need to dress the corpse to match you, and you would decide to wear a light grey suit, wouldn't you? Whereas the deceased has a white shirt, no jacket and nasty black polyester trousers. Let me see" - he scrutinised Mycroft carefully - "You can keep your underwear and your shoes; you have bigger feet than him. Give everything else to me, including your wallet and your phone. No, on second thoughts keep your phone, I may need to contact you while you're on the roof."
"You can't," Mycroft said hastily, as he started to undress. "If this is going to work, if Moriarty is going to accept me turning up instead of you, we can't let him know that you're in on the plan. It has to seem like me protecting you. So you can't give me instructions as we go along." He stared hard at Sherlock as he added: "I'm not reading out your lines to Moriarty."
Sherlock frowned for a moment, and then nodded. "Keep your phone, anyhow. I want you to be able to call for help if you have to. I'll be back with your new clothes shortly." He folded up Mycroft's clothes carefully and then left. Mycroft locked himself into a cubicle and stood shivering. Well, at least if this was all an elaborate practical joke by Sherlock to humiliate him, he could, indeed, send for help.
He sat on the toilet seat and tried to breathe deeply. Probably not a good idea in a place like this, but he had to calm down, make his mind start functioning again. See if there were flaws in Sherlock's plan. The problem was that the Kitty Riley fiasco had dented his confidence. Could there be something else he was overlooking? Probably, but Sherlock was right that Moriarty would love the idea of framing Sherlock for his own brother's murder.
And here was Sherlock again, banging on the cubicle door, with a nondescript shirt and a pair of trousers, which were indeed horrible, but fortunately not too tight. Quite black, though.
"Isn't someone going to notice that I started the jump with black trousers and finished them with grey?" he asked.
"Rather than brown, you mean?" Sherlock said. I could do without that kind of crudity, thank you, Mycroft thought, staring down at his nose at his brother. But Sherlock just went on cheerfully: "I'll find you a coat of some kind, and I don't think anyone will notice. Especially since there'll be a fair amount of blood around."
***
"You didn't tell me you had acrophobia," Sherlock announced, as Mycroft stood on the parapet of the roof and sweated.
"I don't," he said. "That is an abnormal fear of heights. Feeling scared about this drop is only sensible."
"If you're not going to be able to do this-," Sherlock began.
"I am," he said. "As you pointed out earlier, there is nothing left for me if I don't." All the complications of his life, suddenly narrowed down to fifty feet of air.
"We'd better go back down," Sherlock said. "Your meeting's at seven thirty. I need to get John out of the way and check all the other arrangements are made."
Mycroft followed him, walking slowly down the roof access stairs to the safety of the building below, miserably conscious of his unsteady legs. Sherlock stood there, scrutinising him through narrowed eyes, and suddenly announced: "You were shivering up there and you need a coat anyhow. Wear mine. If you button it up it'll hide the rest of your clothes."
He took his coat off and handed it to Mycroft. And sure enough, it did fit, if a trifle snugly. Mycroft waited for the usual jibes about his weight.
"Look after it," Sherlock said. "There's some money in the pocket and there's a cafe on the third floor, where you can get some coffee. Horrible stuff, but I want you seen at Barts."
"Where will you be when the meeting's happening?" Mycroft asked.
"Don't worry about that," Sherlock replied. "But put your phone to vibrate, and I'll give you a call if I spot any outside interference. Good luck." He strode away.
***
Mycroft found the cafe and got himself a black coffee. There were Danish pastries on sale as well, but he didn't feel tempted, as he usually did. Fear made a good appetite suppressant, didn't it? He reached down for his pocket watch, and realised he no longer had it. Pulled out his phone instead and checked the time on that. Quarter of an hour to go. Twenty minutes to live, perhaps.
Now he'd seen the drop, he was fatalistic. He probably wasn't going to survive, but he could, at least, perhaps take Moriarty with him. Or if not, hope that Sherlock could block off Moriarty's escape from the roof. Because Mr Richard Brook would have rather a lot of explaining to do, wouldn't he, if found up on a roof from which a man had just fallen to his death?
Mycroft sighed. It couldn't possibly be as simple as that. Moriarty had outplayed him again and again. There would be another complication, there always was.
His phone started to vibrate as a text arrived.
He's up on the roof. The rig's ready. Catch you later. S
He couldn't think of anything to say in reply that Sherlock wouldn't sneer at. And now was not the time for sentiment, but for action. He got up, put his polystyrene cup in the appropriate recycling bin, and went up to the roof.
***
Moriarty was back to the smart-suited joker, sitting on the parapet with some stupid pop song playing on his mobile, staring at nothing. The way he'd stared in his cell, before he'd scrawled "Sherlock" across every surface. And then he opened his mouth and announced:
"Here we are at last - you and me, Sherlock, and our problem - the final problem. Stayin’ alive! It’s so boring, isn’t it?"
"Some of us are quite content with boring," Mycroft replied, and Moriarty switched off the music, as if he'd suddenly registered him as more than a tall shape in Sherlock's coat.
"Big Brother to the rescue?" Moriarty said, laughing. "Oh, this is more fun. Sherly came running to you for help, did he, even though you were the one who stitched him up? It's so touching. My brother's an army officer and he's no help at all to me."
"Sherlock doesn't know I'm here," Mycroft replied, and it came out more coolly than expected. He was used to verbal duels, after all. "Or indeed that you are. Despite what his texts may have suggested."
"Hijacking his phone messages? Neat. So what have you done with him, Mycroft?"
"He's investigating Battersea Power Station, where you summoned him. Allegedly. I'll let him know when I've finished with you."
"You're such a little team now!" Moriarty announced, and then his head went down for a moment, as if he'd lost interest. Mycroft stood in silence and watched him, wishing he had his umbrella to play with. Wait and see what came next, see if his silence could somehow disconcert Moriarty. But when Moriarty spoke again, he simply sounded despairing.
"All my life I’ve been searching for distractions. You two were the best distraction and now I don’t even have you. Because I’ve beaten you both. And you know what? In the end it was easy."
Mycroft put his hands behind him, tapping out beats and waited for the madman to go on.
"It was easy. Now I’ve got to go back to playing with the ordinary people. And it turns out you’re ordinary, just like all of them," Moriarty said, standing up, starting to walk around Mycroft. Time to respond now.
"As ordinary as Rich Brook? A pure coincidence, doubtless, that the name's a translation of Reichenbach, the case that made my brother's name." He'd worked it out last night, far, far too late.
"Just trying to have some fun," Moriarty drawled in reply, "You got the joke, but not soon enough. Just like you simply haven't got rhythm. You're not doing that thing with the fingers right."
"You tapped out your message when you went to visit Sherlock," Mycroft replied. "The binary code version of the computer key. You hid it in Sherlock's memory and then you set your assassins on him."
"I told all my clients: last one to Sherlock is a sissy."
How did you fight someone like this? Keep him talking, Mycroft told himself, and maybe I'll spot a weakness. He'll open up to me again, I'm sure of it.
"But the secret wasn't just hidden in Sherlock's mind," he announced, coolly. "You didn't think you were the only one bugging 221B, did you? I don't need to memorise the computer code or understand it. I have people I employ to do that sort of thing for me. And now we have it, we simply alter reality again, reverse your little manoeuvre. Farewell Rich Brook, hello again, Jim. No, in fact, we probably don't need to bother with the second part. A man locked in Guantanamo Bay for life doesn't need a name, after all. You've lost your immunity, I'm afraid, Mr Moriarty."
For a moment Moriarty was staring at him, the way he'd done in the cell, and then he turned away, and muttered:
"No, no, no, this is too easy."
And then suddenly, he turned back, screaming: "There is no key, doofus!" And stretched his hands out and added quietly. "Those digits are meaningless, utterly meaningless. You don't know anything about anything, do you, Mycroft? You thought you'd spotted something that your brother had missed. But you're even more ordinary than Sherlock."
"The rhythm-" Mycroft began. Had Sherlock somehow been wrong about that? Securing the computer code was the absolute priority; maybe he should abort the whole mission...
"Johann Sebastian Bach's Partita number one," Moriarty announced. "Do you know why I didn't tell you the key code, Mycroft, when you were beating me up? Because there's no such thing. I'm disappointed in you - and Sherlock too - for believing there is." He was yelling again. "I broke into the Bank, the Tower, the Prison, with nothing more than a few willing participants."
Mycroft should have thought of that, of course. All these systems were only as strong as their weakest links, the pairs of eyes and hands watching over all the fancy locks and cameras.
"Bribery," he said, and he could feel his body slumping. "Security guards, prison wardens, junior bank staff, they're all relatively badly paid, aren't they? What wouldn't they be willing to do for a few thousand pounds, if there's no real harm done?"
"Too ordinary, isn't it? You both always want everything to be clever. That's why you're so easy to fool. Now, shall we finish the game?" Moriarty said as he headed towards the edge of the roof. "One final act. Though it was supposed to be Sherlock who took the leading role."
"What do you mean?" Mycroft said, and he didn't need to fake the tension in his voice. Sherlock had been right about this, at least. And then, as if it had only just occurred to him, he forced himself to look at Moriarty, and said, in a choked voice: "Sherlock was supposed to commit suicide, wasn't he?" He walked slowly towards the parapet.
" 'Genius detective proved to be a fraud.' I read it in the paper, so it must be true. I love newspapers. Fairytales," Moriarty was in full flight now, almost deliriously happy. "But I'll tell you another story, an even older one, they told me when I was a kid at school. About two brothers. One day one of them got very angry with the other one, because people liked him more, and he took him out into the fields on his own and then he killed him. Only I thought it was Sherlock going to be the sacrificial lamb, not you."
Mycroft looked down cautiously over the edge. He could see the mark of where he had to jump, a reminder that Sherlock had anticipated all of this. Most of this, rather. They'd been wrong to think Sherlock's suicide was ever going to be enough for Moriarty. Not even Sherlock's suicide and his brother's disgrace would be enough. Right from the start, Moriarty had wanted Mycroft in a cell too. Make the punishment fit the crime. Would people believe I could harm Sherlock, kill him? Do I seem so ruthless to them? But the man in the Sun article certainly would. The puppet-master behind Sherlock the fraud, who'd then turned on his own creation, tried to destroy the evidence.
That didn't matter, because there was a new plan now, in which he jumped instead. But would Moriarty allow that? He looked across at the other man, who now stared sullenly back at him. Don't throw me into the briar patch, Brer Fox. Moriarty's nickname for him was "The Iceman", was it? Time to pretend there was ice-water in his veins, not blood.
He stepped away from the parapet, and said, as calmly as he could. "I don't fancy being Abel myself. Heroic self-sacrifice is rather above my pay grade. So what I suggest is that I phone Sherlock, tell him that while he's been wasting his time running round handcuffed to Dr Watson, I've struck a deal with you. I'm sure he'll want to stick his nose in, see exactly what I'm offering you. Unfortunate when he finds out it's him."
"Oh my," Moriarty replied, smiling. "You're really something, aren't you? All this high-minded government service lark and then you'll sell out your own brother. Not once, but twice. But you know what? That would be boring. I think you should just kill yourself. It’s a lot less effort. Go on, just for me. Please?"
"You're insane!" Mycroft snapped in his haughtiest manner. The seed was there in Moriarty's mind now, but he was so changeable, he couldn't be sure it would stay.
"You're just getting that now?" Moriarty's voice became conversational, but there was still something terrifying in those brown eyes. Whatever Moriarty's original plan, only one of them was going to walk away from this rooftop, Mycroft felt sure of it. But he's smaller than me, maybe I could push him over the edge? Literally, not just figuratively.
He wasn't sure he was strong enough, skilful enough to be able to do that. Not when he felt sick every time he got too near the edge of the roof. If it had been Sherlock, he would have been able to do that to Moriarty. He knew how to fight, even if Mycroft didn't.
But Moriarty had expected Sherlock to meet him, so there must be something more than that, something that meant it didn't reduce to a simple physical struggle. There was another trap, of course; nothing for it, but to spring it.
"You may be insane, but I'm not," he said, folding his arms, "If there's no key code, and therefore nothing to do a deal about, then I suggest that concludes today's agenda. I feel a Caribbean holiday calling me. A very long holiday. Good job I know where all MI5's bodies are buried."
"Oh, I think you should add yourself to their number," Moriarty said casually. "Or other people will die."
"You can chase after Sherlock if you want to," Mycroft said, and managed to smile. "You and he are such pals, aren't you? You'll be the death of him yet."
"If you don't die, it's not his grave you'll be standing by. It his friends' graves."
"You're threatening John Watson's life again, are you? Now it's you being boring." Was the tone of indifference right? What would an iceman do faced with threats to others?
"Not just John. Everyone."
The next name was inevitable.
"Mrs Hudson," Mycroft said.
"Everyone," Moriarty replied, and his smile was enormous now.
Who else would Sherlock be prepared to sacrifice himself for? And why did Moriarty think it was this name that would be the clincher for him? And then he saw it.
"Gregory Lestrade," he croaked, his stomach knotting.
"Three bullets; three gunmen; three victims. There’s no stopping them now. Unless they see you jump."
"Unless they see Sherlock jump, you mean. Which is not going to happen today, obviously. So I suggest you call your gunmen off."
"Why should I?" Moriarty said, grinning up at him. "This is more fun, now I come to think of it." He started to walk away, as if he found Mycroft's very existence too tedious to notice, but the flexible voice kept on: "If I framed you for Sherlock's murder, you'd just run away and hide somewhere forever, and you might even manage it. But If I frame him for your murder, he'll stay and try and clear his name, and just bring his friends down with him. I mean, Dr Watson's a fugitive and DI Lestrade's in trouble already, and we've barely started."
He's taken the bait. Now I just have to sham reluctance. Point out the flaws in the plan.
"Even if all this came to trial, Sherlock might get off."
"Oh, I'll enjoy watching Mr Crayhill or whoever it is trying to find a defence for him," Moriarty replied, "but I have a very persuasive way with juries. And then imagine Sherlock sitting in a prison with a thousand angry criminals for the rest of his life. Reading the headlines about himself whenever the papers need some extra space to fill." He paused and then shouted: "The fraudulent, fratricidal Freak!"
"Are you finished?" Mycroft asked. Moriarty walked back towards him again, as if he couldn't bear to be still.
"No, but you are," he said. "You can arrest me and torture me again; you can do anything you like with me; but nothing’s gonna prevent them from pulling the trigger. Dr Watson, Mrs Hudson, DI Lestrade will die, unless ..."
"Unless I complete your story, by killing myself, and allowing you to frame my brother."
"The brothers Grimm. I love a good fairytale."
"My life and my brother's disgrace against the lives of three rather...ordinary people," Mycroft said, and if he didn't sound quite normal, how would Moriarty know what was normal anyhow? "Not much of a choice is it, really?"
"If you allow John Watson or Mrs Hudson to die, how long do you think Sherlock will let you live?" Moriarty said. "There's no way out for you, Mycroft. You're dead at Sherlock's hands whatever happens."
"Very well," Mycroft said, straightening himself, and stepping onto the parapet. And then he turned to face Moriarty, praying he wouldn't slip, and called out: "Contact your gunmen and tell them it's me jumping rather than Sherlock. I don't want any mistakes made."
Moriarty's eyes flicked, and there was a tiny movement of his hand towards his pocket, and suddenly Mycroft knew. He smiled at Moriarty, and stepped down hastily. Time to invade Moriarty's personal space now, try and imitate Sherlock's style.
"There's some kind of recall code, isn't there, to call off your killers?" he said smugly, advancing on Moriarty, till he was so close he could see the laugh lines on that sleek, hateful face. "Nobody has to die, because I will make you stop the order."
"You think you can do that, do you, Mycroft? All your little games to get the key code and you still think you can make me do a thing I don’t want to?"
"You've given me a weapon I didn't have then," Mycroft said, and he narrowed his eyes, the way Sherlock did at his harshest. "The sharpest weapon of them all. I have bent the rules to get information from you, but I'll hand you over to a man who doesn't understand what those rules mean. Sherlock's just been playing games with you up to now, but you've gone too far. You've threatened his only three friends. I will give him to you and there is nothing he will not do to you to get that recall code." He had Moriarty's full attention now; the man was staring at him with unwavering fascination. Time to wipe that smile off your face, Mr Moriarty.
"Because there was one thing I didn't tell you about my brother," Mycroft went on. "He is prepared to do what ordinary people won’t do. What even I won't do. I'm no angel, but he would head straight for hell if it'd stop you. He will work out how to break you, because he is you."
Moriarty looked down, blinking, as if he had the sun in his eyes. Or as if he'd seen something that he recognised. And then he smiled beatifically up at Mycroft.
"Oh, you're right," he said. "You've got it at last. Your brother and I are made for one another. Thank you, thank you for recognising that." Suddenly there seemed to be tears in his eyes, as he reached out his hand: "Mycroft Holmes."
Mycroft took his hand, almost without thinking, trying to read a message from the confident grip, even as he was conscious of his own sweaty palm. What was happening? Was this all just the start of another round of Moriarty's infernal games?
"While I'm alive," Moriarty said, shaking his head and blinking again, "Sherlock and his friends are safe. There's still a way out. Pity about what's going to happen next."
Moriarty's mouth gaped, as if in shock, and his left hand came out of his pocket. Mycroft instinctively stepped back, as the barrel of Moriarty's gun swept not towards him, but into the hole of Moriarty's own mouth...
Part 3