N/A: I would like thank my lovely and ever patient beta: brainlesssepticlock. All mistakes are mine.
HL / WG - SH / JW
After weeks spent in a single, compact cell in psychiatric hospital for dangerous mentally ill criminals, Will still hadn't regained mental clarity, though the doctors concluded that his encephalitis was cured for good. His left arm was wounded painfully once again. Even people whom he considered friends visited him and called him a monster and looked at him with disgust. It didn't really bring him any consolation. Nobody believed his words which he had repeated stubbornly over and over. In fact, he could no longer discern what was truth and what was delusion with his overtired, dazed mind battling with a persistent fever and with drugs that were changed every few days. Despite this, his testimony remained the same.
It was probably considered as a sign of rebellion and the number of visitors quickly reduced to a handful. Chilton began several hours of torture, making a slow and agonizing vivisection of his mind and called it a therapy session. Will tried to fight the as viciously as he could. He was not going to admit it. He was not a killer. Sure, he had the mind of a criminal, but he was not one.
Hannibal Lecter had played it perfectly. Will had to give him that. Of course he was mad at himself that did not stop the development of events and that he had become an obedient puppet in Ripper's hands. The murderer and cannibal. The good doctor Hannibal Lecter. And it was all Will's fault. He had recklessly allowed himself to let Hannibal in.
In retrospect, he saw what had previously eluded him. What had escaped others so far. If anyone was interested in the truth, they did not hear what he had to say. Very effectively silencing him, calling him a disappointment, a monster and a liar. Even though he knew that nothing had reached them, he was still trying to fight as best he could. However quickly, they had deprived him of the best possible weapons and ammunition at the same time, his mind. Under the pretext of the necessary psychiatric treatment prescribed by Chilton, he was given him a number of highly potent drugs and again under the its influence, he was losing time. He was losing himself. It was again like a dark nightmare. Pain and fear. Panic. Nothingness.
The only person who seemed to listen without condemning him and mixing with the mud was, surprisingly, Hannibal Lecter himself. Chilton, with almost perverse pleasure, had recorded and replayed their exchanges in the course of daily therapy, trying to break him. If not for medication in high doses, regular visits of the true murderer and his satisfied, predatory smile as he stood in front of a former FBI special agent, Will would have certainly had many acute anxiety attacks.
Perhaps it had been his goal from the beginning? To build a thick wall around Will's mind, his thoughts, until no one but Hannibal could get to him.
If only he had some false consolation in this nightmare.
Because it was the truth, although Will had tried to prevent this. Only Lecter was able to freely move around the less and less protected area of his mind. Chiton charged ruthlessly brutal and massive attacks, regardless of the consequences, and called this a therapy session.
In his unpleasant dreams he saw a deer with raven feathers. And when he did not sleep, the dull clatter of hooves were incredible, haunting him, still echoing in his ears. The deer walked slowly, majestically watching him from a distance, as if mocking him. Or perhaps taking pity on him.
Even he did not know. He could not interpret the meaning of his delusions. Because it was a hallucination, right?
"I do not think it's necessary, Agent Crawford. I'm taking him. From now on I decide about his possible further treatment. Please open the cell."
"It's a dangerous serial killer and cannibalistic-"
"- psychopath? Quite an interesting idea, Dr. Chilton. I see here a man who at the present time would admit everything, judging by the dangerously high doses of various specifics, which you had given him during the last few days. Some of them are not allowed to use even in institutions such as yours, if I remember well."
Chilton probably smiled wryly, improving the position of inherent grace.
He could almost hear the voice of a psychiatrist who had said, "he's plain degenerate, this is the only way you can tame him."
Will sat on his bunk, listening to this surprising conversation, looking at the sink. Without taking his eyes from it, he forced his mind to grasp the extraordinary situation. Someone wanted to free him from this hell. Someone who does not go into discussions with Jack and wasn't in any way awed by his explosive, dominant personality. Someone who ignored the biting and little professional attention Chilton represented, who hit error after error in his method of treatment of his patients and the security procedures and regulations against escaping, or protecting patients against possible aggression of staff, not to mention highly unprofessional behaviour of the guards and nurses to their dangerous charges.
'I just wonder what he wants in return. He had not much to offer. And what he had probably not of anyone's interests anymore. Anyone besides one person. And that person wasn't interested in him anymore.
Will's dazed mind was not focused on that thought, just idly hearing processing information. Outside of his cell, Jack blurted out a bunch of angry vulgarities, hitting his fist into the wall for effect. Graham shuddered uncontrollably when he registered a rasp of bars and someone came near him. The hooves were getting closer.
"Clothes," a male voice demanded, and after a few moments in the hands of the prisoner were neatly folded clothing. Soft and very different from the dress which he now wore. A pair of shoes were on the floor. "Change your clothes."
Will, not paying attention to the new, lively discussion on the other side of the bars, instinctively did as instructed. Refusal to obey orders generally ended badly for him. The fresh scent of clean material brought back distant memories. Suddenly he was torn from them. Someone stood in front of him and hands gently grasped his trembling fingers when he was not able to fasten the tiny buttons on the shirt, relieving him of the task. He did not expect to be treated so gently. No one had cared for such a long time. Sometimes it seemed to him that Hannibal was the first who had agreed to teach him that both feeling and looking at another person doesn't have to be a factor in the dispersion, nor more threatening. Well... in this last point, however, he was very much mistaken. The sight and touch of Dr. Lecter left him just passing by in ruins and ashes.
He had to get used to neutral but satisfied rough guards and nurses who did not pay attention to whether they had caused him additional pain. And sometimes they simply enjoyed his suffering and tried to do everything to make him scream. And he could feel their rising anger as he endured the pain in silence.
His damn empathy!
"Wait the minute... what is this?" The man suddenly snapped, interrupting a fierce debate. He moved his hands, revealing deep abrasions on Will's wrists. He let out a loud, angry sigh and when he spoke again, clearly inhibited before the explosion. "Mycroft, hurry up or I will not vouch for myself!"
Mycroft?
A familiar name, but Will had no idea where or when he had heard it before. He staggered to his feet, looking at a few people in front of his cell. Jack, Chilton nervously tapping his cane, two guards and a nurse - without which Chilton wouldn't have approached recently due to his patients - and three strangers. A woman, and a man with an umbrella who patiently repeated endlessly how incompetent Frederick and Crawford were. The second man was standing next to him in his cell, ready to support him, or even catch him if his legs did not obey him.
Graham forced himself to not to withdraw into his mind weakened by recent events, although he felt the need to. He had to be fully aware of how much he would be given. He did not know who these people were, and even if they helped him now, he did not really want to believe that they were doing this simply out of the goodness of their heart. Something was lurking behind their exterior motives. He was convinced of this, not excluding the fact that Hannibal would not like losing his favourite source of entertainment.
It was a strange feeling, wearing ordinary clothes again, and not the uncomfortable prison uniform.
"Move, Graham," commanded one of the guards, his hand on a stun gun. Will sighed quietly and walked down the narrow corridor. Keeping his eyes down, he would feel anger from Jack who gesticulated wildly pointing at him.
Louder bits of spoken words reached his ears, but he did not pay special attention to it. He focused on getting where they wanted him to go. He walked slowly, every now and then hearing a reminder, a rough command. The guards and nurse around him were effectively depriving him of the opportunity to get support from anyone.
They thought he was posing a threat. On the contrary - he was trying to prevent it.
HL / WG - SH / JW
John was furious of himself. Mycroft too, but it was definitely anger toward himself burning him from the inside. He grinded his teeth, glancing at the young man sitting next to the extensive limousine service which was to haul them to the airport.
He could not understand why Mycroft decided to help someone who was related to him by blood - to a lesser or greater extent - only now. He understood that Will could be hard to find, but for the eldest of the Holmes brothers, it shouldn't have been a problem at all. John knew him too well to not suspect that he had been watching Graham for a long time.
It was impossible to break free from the Holmes brothers. He knew this from personal experience. He breathed deeply and closed his eyes for a moment. Until now, he could not collect his thoughts. The explanation about this whole situation was strange. Both Mycroft and Sherlock didn't speak at all about the alleged affair of their mother. He did not want to go into it and seek the truth. Mycroft probably made sure that everything was a black hole or muddy swamp, where you could drown without approaching even an iota of specific answers.
His practiced eye watched the man's absent spirit, and he knew that the coming weeks would not be easy for him. He had read the papers about that hellish place and he shuddered at the thought of what wasn't mentioned in them. He felt that he could explode with rage and helplessness. He concentrated his attention on the dormant Graham. A cursory observation allowed him to draw some conclusions.
He was not such an expert like Sherlock and Mycroft. They could easily tell a whole story based on a single, seemingly insignificant detail. It took them barely a gesture or an element to create the whole picture. He took him many, but he didn't have to worry. The world could lift only one Sherlock and Mycroft Holmes.
And now William Graham was joining them. Undoubtedly, that was to remain his name. If he indeed belonged to the family, and this in no way undermined, this young man was stubborn and proud.
"Your presence prevented an unpleasant international incident. Thank you, John."
Dr. Watson shook his head slightly. Mycroft smiled faintly, but without the usual indulgent superiority that made most mere mortals feel tiny and completely stupid in contact with the older of the Holmes brothers. Now, however, his face looked openly honest, if you could say that about Mycroft Holmes, someone who was reigned perfect over his body and never showed emotions. Well, except maybe an annoying-as-hell omniscience, which was equivalent to the power he held.
"Will is not to be left alone," he said, hoping that his interlocutor would understand what he meant. To be sure, he added, "He should be cared for by someone-"
"Permanent and friendly, who can devote their time to him to the fullest. Who will not let him give up. In an environment that will not arouse in him more or less irrational fears." Mycroft recited with eyes closed. "I am well aware of that, Doctor. This is not the first time I have saved a person very close to me from similar situation."
Ah, Sherlock and his very intelligent experimenting with hard drugs. Traditional and his own compositions, these drugs were made to stimulate the mind to work faster and process large amounts of data.
He felt uncomfortable. Mycroft had always acted alone, had probably prepared several scenarios and a number of skilled professionals waiting for his order. He did not need advice and help from an ordinary military doctor who wrote a blog.
He could almost hear Sherlock murmuring something like:
"And yet, my dear brother, do not trust anyone else when it comes to me. Only you, John."
Apparently that was right. But does it mean that he had been automatically entrusted with the task of taking care of Will?
He doubted that he could reconcile with the responsibilities the clinic brought, while running with Sherlock around London and taking care of him, whose time, for the last weeks, months, had been spent in hell.
Mycroft's face was stoic as usual, but John had stayed too long with his brother to not see and understand certain things.
Sherlock and Mycroft could believe that he had a simple and slow, dull mind, but he could use it. Without it he would not have survived a minute of the missions in Iraq, Pakistan, Afghanistan, and previously in several African countries, where he not only served as a physician, but the commander of the four-division snipers. Fortunately, these records are covered by the confidentiality clause. He was not exactly proud of this part of their service, but nothing came free.
Will's situation in a strange way brought back a bad memory, when he and two of his men were ambushed. It was not about the ransom. Their captors seemed to know that they would not get that. No one acknowledged prisoners.
Ghosts, wraiths… desperados.
So they called several teams performing black missions and special operations. During the course they had received their orders from the top.
He had lost one subordinate who had died after his first attempt to escape. A few months after returning to the base he was wounded so seriously that active service could not be possible.
He shook himself from his thoughts and blinked. Mycroft's eyes met his. The look was cool, and although slightly less calculative than usual, it was still impenetrable. He maintained eye contact, though he sincerely just wanted to hide in a hole. He knew Mycroft had probably learned about his past. If not, the better.
He'd probably find out soon. Then he would not be so pleased, because in the end John not only saved, but took people's lives. In the service of Her Majesty. Many people, even his own. He shuddered involuntarily. Sometimes Sherlock was right, it was good to block emotions, feelings, hiding them deep within him. If only it were that simple, and the past could be forgotten.
Dr. Watson barely kept his emotions in check and after composing himself he once again checked how Will was holding up.
The journey home was tiring, but Will had had a seizure and John could divert attention away from the intrusive thoughts. He turned his attention to his patient, who in this moment seemed to be absent in spirit, or maybe just trying to figure out what was going on, listening and observing the surroundings without attracting attention.
"You are in danger - Will said quietly, looking at John's face. Not in his eyes. "He'll come for you..."
"Don't worry, little brother." John looked up as Mycroft entered the passenger compartment.
"The good doctor Hannibal Lecter will be bored to death in Baltimore without you, and it would be an irreparable loss, don't you think, John?"
"Pardon? Hm... Well, maybe."
HL / WG - SH / JW
It was a rainy and cold day. Mrs. Hudson didn't appear when she was needed. He missed John. Mycroft had kidnapped him two and a half days ago. Sure, it had to be a pretty important situation, he would not dare do that otherwise. Fortunately, he had a few new cases. Two customers had almost been immediately dismissed with things that were so commonplace that it had been solved the moment they entered, and he was rolling his eyes with disgust. The third investigation took him exactly three hours and twenty two minutes. A too complicated story of precious little caskets pushed him off the right course and he could not go any further. This item - according to his assumptions that were bordering almost with absolute certainty - was crucial for solving the murder of two people.
When he closed it, the feeling of emptiness and loneliness returned and he was attacked by multiple forces. The swirling thoughts in his head gave him no peace, shouting over each other, trying to gain his attention. Then came the results of the overdue experiment. He received quite an intriguing message from Molly.
He smiled satisfied. He knew that Molly Hooper would not bore with a simple intoxication as a cause of death. It had to be something interesting. He would kill time while waiting for John's return.
Completing a phase of his experiment and not cleaning the kitchen, he threw on his coat and wrapped his scarf around his neck. He slipped his phone into his pocket after checking whether it had enough power for at least a few hours of work.
Normally he would not care. He could always use Molly's or any other mortuary workers' from the hospital, but in the current situation he definitely preferred to have his own phone within easy reach.
He hoped that the study and determination of possible toxins would not take him more than a few hours. The longest he would have to wait would be the results of the analysis, but it did not bother him. The laboratory was his kingdom, and he made the rules. Boredom would not reach him there.
After two hours, he was sure that he was dealing with a serial killer who operated in order to create the appearance of natural death or an accident. After contacting a surprised Lestrade, he decided to explore the issue, because something was bothering him. Molly had had similar cases, but had received information about similar deaths in several cities in Wales and Scotland, and this meant that the perpetrator had apparently moved and did not stay in one place for long.
Four hours fifty three minutes later it was all clear. While waiting for the results of analysis, he drank three bearable cups of coffee and got into an argument with Mycroft over text. He broke the encrypted file on Molly's computer to view other interesting deaths. He looked at the recently imported bodies in the morgue - two drownings, four car accidents and one suicide - nothing special. Boring. He gathered new material and reagents for his experiments at home, complementing what he would undoubtedly need in the near future. He began to get a little bored when the results of the analysis finally came; one of them required a long wait, but the result probably confirmed his suspicions regarding the identity of the killer.
He glanced at his phone. No text message from John. It was quite unusual. Even in the company of a grumpy Mycroft, he should be able to text. Unless he had neither the time nor ability to. Puzzling.
He did not bother with this too. He just had to wait for John to come back before getting information. Even Mycroft was not going to stop him from finding out.