Teatime (Picking up the Pieces)
by Jolie_Black
based on the BBC "Sherlock" series
Summary:
John is losing it. Mycroft has a cup of tea. Sherlock makes a phone call. - A missing moment from "His Last Vow", set in the aftermath of the Appledore disaster. Can be read as a sequel to "And yet, here I am", or as a stand-alone. Drama, Angst and Holmes Brothers Snark. Rated T for Emotional Cruelty to Younger Brothers.
A/N:
Imagine this to have happend in the aftermath of the Appledore disaster, between Mycroft's meeting with Lady Smallwood and John and Sherlock's goodbye on the tarmac.
The tone of this scene derives from one very short moment in "His Last Vow". Look at Mycroft's face at exactly 1 h 24 mins 16 secs into the episode, and you'll know what I mean.
I don't subscribe to the concept of Evil!Mary, mostly because I don't want Sherlock's sacrifice to have been in vain, or undeserved. But if you prefer to imagine that she's still harbouring all kinds of evil plans behind a smiling facade, by all means do so. She's not the focus of this story, so it won't really make a difference.
The Watson's house. The sitting room. Day time. John and Mary are next to each other on their sofa. John is fully dressed, shoes on his feet, ready to go out at a moment's notice. He is perched on the very edge of his seat, his phone at his ear, looking down at the carpet, listening. Mary is in a comfortable hooded jumper and pyjama bottoms, her hand resting on her baby bump. She is turned sideways, with her legs drawn up, facing John and watching him sympathetically. After a short moment, he lowers the phone and ends the call.
MARY: Still nothing?
JOHN: Nothing.
He looks very tired but extremely tense, his shoulders hunched, his brow deeply furrowed.
MARY: Maybe -
JOHN (short-tempered): Oh, not more maybes, please.
Mary looks slightly hurt.
JOHN (immediately but rather automatically, glancing at her only for the shortest of moments): I'm sorry.
MARY (quietly): John, you're not the only one here who wishes we could turn back the clock.
JOHN (not willing to be comforted): And how far exactly would you turn it back? A day? (With a glance at her bump) Seven and a half months? (He fixes his gaze on her face then, and a note of despair steals into his voice.) Two years? Five years?
Mary doesn't reply. She presses her lips together, and her eyes fill with tears.
JOHN (sincerely this time): I'm sorry.
After a moment's silence, he turns back to his phone, hits a speed dial and waits, not even raising it to his ear this time. The call immediately diverts to an automated reply.
MALE COMPUTER VOICE (over the phone): The person you are trying to call is currently unavailable. If you would like to -
John ends the call with a sigh.
MARY: I wish you'd stop doing that, John.
JOHN (turning fully towards his wife for the first time in the scene): Mary, you don't understand. He never switches his phone off, never. The last time he did – (He pauses, overwhelmed by the memory. He swallows hard. When he continues, his voice is a little shaky.) The last time he did, it remained off for two whole years, and I thought -
MARY (urgently): John, last time, he was fine, he was perfectly alright, but there were good reasons why he could not and did not talk to you. (She leans forward to put a hand on his shoulder, looking him in the eyes.) You didn't know it then, but you know it now.
JOHN (angrily): I know nothing at all now, and it's killing me.
He runs his hand over his eyes.
MARY (leaning back again): Besides, it wasn't he who switched it off last time. It was Mycroft, when he retrieved it from the roof.
John looks at her and sniffs, one side of his face twitching in a determined sort of way.
JOHN: Mycroft, right. It always comes down to Mycroft in the end, doesn't it? I'm calling him, and if he -
MARY: I wouldn't do that.
JOHN (annoyed): And why not, pray?
MARY: You didn't see him. Yesterday, I mean, at his parents'. When he found out where you'd gone. He was – I don't know, it was scary. He scared me.
She gives a little involuntary shudder.
JOHN: I don't care.
He grips his phone more tightly and speed-dials another number. Mary sighs in resignation.
We cut to Mycroft's house. Mycroft, in the same suit that he wore to his meeting with Lady Smallwood and her advisors earlier in the day, is sitting in an armchair in a wood-panelled sitting room on the ground floor of his house. Next to his chair is a small side table with a cup of tea and a tea pot on it, sugar and cream, and a folded newspaper. Mycroft is just about to raise the tea cup to his lips when the phone in his pocket rings. He puts the cup down again, takes out his phone and checks the caller ID.
MYCROFT: About time, too.
He takes the call, but does not raise the phone to his ear. Instead, he hits the loudspeaker button and puts his hand down on the armrest of his chair, holding his phone up and looking at it as he speaks.
MYCROFT: Yes?
JOHN (over the phone, his voice - slightly distorted by the loudspeaker - filling the room): Mycroft? It's John. I want to know what's going on.
MYCROFT (urbanely): Well, put to me, that question covers rather a broad field. Could you be more specific?
During the following conversation, we continually cut back and forth between the two speakers.
JOHN (impatiently): God, you know what I mean. (Slowly, over-articulating as if talking to an idiot) Where is Sherlock, and is he OK?
MYCROFT (unfazed): Ah, much better. Well, as for the first part, I wouldn't advise you to go looking for him. It would only end in frustration. As for the second part - (He glances up ahead for a moment, towards the other side of the room.) The last time I saw him, he looked just fine to me.
JOHN (exasperated, getting louder and louder): Mycroft, the last time I saw him, he was face down on the ground with a muzzle at the back of his head, someone's boot on his shoulder, his hands twisted into flex-cuffs, and he barely four days out of hospital. Do you seriously believe that „just fine" is -
MYCROFT: John, please don't shout at me. I know I must make allowances for the fact that you've just witnessed a harrowing suicide, but -
JOHN (completely taken aback): A what?
MYCROFT: You heard me. A harrowing suicide. Please do be upset about it by all means, but no more than is necessary to make it look authentic.
JOHN (momentarily distracted): What are you talking about?
MYCROFT (with a sigh): And please also make sure you check all the papers so you don't get any of the details wrong, in case anyone asks.
JOHN (after a pause, choosing his words with care, making a great effort to keep his temper in check): OK, I suppose I don't have to understand all this. I would just like to know whether Sherlock is alright, whether someone's looked after his medical needs, and whether, if at all possible, I might speak to him.
MYCROFT (frostily polite): And I can tell you that yes, someone has been looking after him, but you can't talk to him. He's busy packing.
JOHN (in a tone of utter disbelief): Packing?
MYCROFT: Yes, and I'm sure he'll send you a postcard. Now if you will excuse me, my tea is getting cold. (He ends the call, letting the phone dangle from his hand. Then he looks up towards the other side of the room again.) And so is yours, by the way.
We follow Mycroft's gaze across the room. There is another armchair, placed vis-á-vis to his own, empty, with its own small side table and cup of tea on it, untouched. Beyond the chair, at a diamond-paned window overlooking the well-tended garden, with his back to it and his arms folded, stands his brother, looking murderous.
SHERLOCK (after a moment's pause): God, you're a bastard.
MYCROFT (smoothly): And what are you, again?
Sherlock gives him a long look of utter disgust. Mycroft stands his ground for quite a while, then puts his phone down on the table with a sigh.
MYCROFT: Sherlock, I know you don't appreciate it, but while you've been kicking your heels at Her Majesty's expense, I have spent a considerable part of the past twenty-four hours in a frenzy of picking up the pieces of an impressive mound of broken china. And I'm sure you can understand that I'm not willing to have all my efforts wrecked at the last moment by some ill-advised act of sentimentalism.
Sherlock is still looking daggers at him, not deigning to reply.
MYCROFT: Remember, last time, we agreed that he would ruin everything if he knew.
SHERLOCK: No. We agreed that he couldn't know because his grief would make our story ring true. This is different.
Mycroft wordlessly picks up the newspaper from his side table and holds it up. It is The Sun, with a portrait photograph of Charles Augustus Magnussen on the front page, and a huge headline: CHRISTMAS TRAGEDY - CONTROVERSIAL MEDIA TYCOON TAKES HIS OWN LIFE.
SHERLOCK: That is not my story.
MYCROFT (sarcastically): Of course it isn't. Someone took great care that it wouldn't be. (Didactically) I don't care what you think, it's a very pretty story, and I don't want it spoiled for any reason. Now, go and make yourself useful. Brush up on your Ukrainian, if you really can't be bothered to pack.
After a moment of silence, Sherlock un-crosses his arms and takes a few steps towards Mycroft's chair.
SHERLOCK (in a voice of dangerous calm): Mycroft, give it to me.
MYCROFT: No.
SHERLOCK (holding out his hand): I need it. Now.
MYCROFT (pulling a face at him): No.
SHERLOCK (getting louder): Why not, for God's sake?
MYCROFT: Because you're nominally still under arrest until your plane leaves British airspace tomorrow, and I don't think you've earned any privileges just yet.
SHERLOCK: Mycroft!
MYCROFT: Yes?
SHERLOCK (bristling with anger): You can't steal my phone!
MYCROFT (raising his eyebrows, very smoothly): And you can't steal my laptop.
He leans back in his armchair and steeples his hands in front of him, waiting. Sherlock stares at him, boiling with rage, but can find nothing to say in reply. After a moment, he masters himself, exhales audibly and lowers his hand. Mycroft shrugs, fishes Sherlock's own phone out of the inner pocket of his jacket and holds it out to him with an air of studied indifference. Sherlock snatches it out of his hand with such a vicious twist that Mycroft grimaces.
SHERLOCK (disdainfully):Talk about picking up the pieces.
He switches his phone on, hits a speed dial and turns his back on Mycroft, wandering back to the window and looking out over the wintery garden as he waits for a reply.
We cut back to the Watson's house. John and Mary are still sitting next to each other on their sofa, John with his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands, Mary with her back against the cushions, watching him. John has put his phone down on the armrest. After a moment, he raises his head.
JOHN (staring straight ahead): You were right. I shouldn't have tried that.
MARY: What did he say?
JOHN: Something about a suicide.
MARY (aghast): What?
She begins to get up in alarm. At that moment, John's phone starts ringing. He grabs it, glances at the caller ID and immediately takes the call, his hand shaking.
JOHN (urgently): Sherlock?
We cut back to Sherlock at the garden window, with his phone at his ear.
SHERLOCK: John.
JOHN (over the phone, his relief audible in his voice): Where are you? Are you – are you OK?
SHERLOCK (after a moment's pause, very curtly): Yes.
JOHN (over the phone): Are you sure?
SHERLOCK: Oh, yes. (He half-turns towards Mycroft in his armchair and gives him an acid smile.) I'm in the best of hands.
Mycroft rolls his eyes, then picks up The Sun and pretends to read the article on Magnussen's death. Sherlock turns back towards the window.
JOHN (over the phone): What's happening? Are you going away? Mycroft said you were packing.
SHERLOCK: Yes. It's for my health. The doctors recommended a change of air.
JOHN (immediately): That's rubbish.
SHERLOCK: Yes, of course it is. (In a low voice, with a note of urgency) John. Can you and Mary be on the airfield at RAF Northolt at 3:45 tomorrow afternoon?
We cut back to John. He's on his feet, pacing, unable to keep still.
JOHN: What? Tomorrow? (Mock-hopefully) Should we pack for a journey, too?
SHERLOCK (over the phone): I'm afraid there's only one ticket.
John knits his brows, a look of sadness passing over his face. He tries to grimace it away, but it won't go.
SHERLOCK (over the phone): RAF Northolt, John, tomorrow, quarter to four.
JOHN (automatically): Alright.
His phone beeps as Sherlock ends the call. John turns back to Mary on the sofa, who silently extends her hand to him.
We cut back to Sherlock looking down pensively at the phone in his hand. Mycroft breaks in on his thoughts.
MYCROFT (folding up the paper, conversationally): So, is there anyone else you'd like to recruit for your guard of honour, or is that it?
Sherlock gives him a look of profound contempt. Then, without the slightest warning, he throws his phone back to Mycroft, who catches it with more luck than skill, and turns away again towards the window.
MYCROFT (pointedly): Thank you. (He pockets the phone neatly.) More tea?
THE END
September 2014