Fic: Gethsemane
Author: Cat
Summary: Before dealing with the final problem of Moriarty, Sherlock has a long night dealing with his own doubts and fears.
Disclaimer: The world of Sherlock Holmes was created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, and BBC-sponsored fanboys Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss created 'Sherlock' (and let Steve Thompson to play in their sandbox.) I am making no money whatsoever from this.
Spoilers for The Reichenbach Fall and The Empty Hearse
Beta by the incredible Kizzia. Thank you once again. You're a star!
There was the slightest rattle of the teacup against the saucer, just the merest clink of bone china. In its usual setting, such as a formal high tea or perhaps a diplomatic meet-and-greet, the sound wouldn't have been noticed at all. Yet here, in this long empty corridor with its pristine marble floors, the noise echoed and distorted, giving away to keener ears the presence of the man sipping the tea. Some may have even deduced his state of mind.
He stood by the window, one of the few to be found in this temple of secrecy. The whole building was designed to keep prying eyes out; spies do not like to be spied upon. Sherlock hated the place - found it claustrophobic in its formality. In all its concrete glory it seemed to represent every thing his brother stood for. Moreover he hated that he was here, why he needed to be here, on what was probably one of his last nights in London.
There were plans and contingencies in place; every move that Moriarty or his vast criminal network could make had a counter-move. Some were more likely than others. All of them meant him leaving his life, his home, his beloved city behind. His cup rattled against the saucer again.
It was one of those nights when the Thames glistened; reflecting and refracting the lights, both from the boats and barges upon her and from her busy shores. If London was a beating heart, the Thames was the aorta - that grand trunk vessel with the ever-changing city on either side of its ancient path.
Lestrade would often say that Sherlock had a love affair with London and, whilst Sherlock decried the sentiment, he gave Lestrade some credit for his perception. The Work meant everything to him, but London was one of the longest, truest constants in his life. Even when the Work took him elsewhere, London was home, waiting for his return. The sheer thought of now leaving it, and those few he let into his life, behind - perhaps forever - hurt more than he would care to admit.
"Twenty bridges from Tower to Kew," Mycroft spoke softly but his voice filled the corridor, "Wanted to know what the River knew..."
"For they were young and the Thames was old." Sherlock finished the quote, not taking his eyes from the window. "And this is the tale that the river told..."
"Lovely evening," Mycroft said lightly, the mundane comment hiding the seriousness of the situation. "I don't normally take the time to appreciate this view... maybe I should take a leaf from your book. You've been staring out of windows since you could barely stand."
Sherlock always liked to observe the world. Once he could walk, he was always climbing trees or clambering onto rooftops in a never-ending effort to obtain a better view - usually with Mycroft screaming at him to get down before they both got into trouble. It was a habit he never grew out of. One of the reasons he'd settled so easily into Baker Street were those beautiful high windows allowing him an unimpeded view of the bustle of humanity below. John referred to this as his superhero complex, making an inane comparison to some comic book character who constantly watched over his city and its citizens.
Mycroft walked away, back towards his office, the unspoken instruction that Sherlock follow him. Sherlock hated the presumption, but dutifully fell in step behind his brother.
Anthea handed Mycroft a file and memory stick as he entered the office then took the empty cup and saucer from Sherlock's hands and closed the door firmly behind her. The brothers were left entirely alone.
"Everything is in place." Mycroft took a seat at the desk, managing to look down at Sherlock despite the fact he'd remained standing. Sherlock was looking anywhere in the room but directly at him.
"The teams have been briefed in every possible scenario, and we have confirmed our intel that Moriarty will make his move in the next few days."
"To completely destroy me bit by bit," Sherlock muttered, "I'm curious to how he will do it - he does have a flair for the dramatic."
"Not unlike you," Mycroft said.
Sherlock didn't answer him. He just wrapped his coat tight around himself, almost hiding behind his collar - another habit formed in childhood, when the world was too much and he just wanted to disappear.
Mycroft recognised the move. "Sherlock, I need to know you're ready for this. We're entering the end-game now."
"This is not the end-game, Mycroft!" Sherlock suddenly snapped, meeting his brother's eyes for the first time that evening.
He turned away again. "There is no end-game, not for me. Moriarty is just the first on a list of targets you have identified for me to take out."
"You are the only person who can deal with James Moriarty." Mycroft's tone was that of one dealing with an insolent teenager. "His obsession with you, the way he appointed you as his only worthy rival. You reveal his weaknesses, his need to show-off. Otherwise he would still be the shadowy figure behind one of the greatest criminal organisations the world has ever seen - and no-one would know what he even looked like!"
"I know all this - I told you all this!"
"You also told me that John Watson was in grave danger, that Moriarty would use him again as a play to get to you - that the whole organisation knows that he is your weakness!"
"He is not a weakness."
"Still once Moriarty is eliminated, John is still in danger. As are others close to you."
"Which is the only reason I agreed to this whole operation."
"Well, you were never one for believing in the greater good."
Sherlock was silent again and looked to the ground.
"Moriarty and his organisation is a malignancy - and every trace of it, every cell of it must be erased else it will metastasise into something that is impossible to deal with," Mycroft lectured. "You are the only person who can deal with them without the complications of international diplomacy. If we send an agent in to destroy just one of these cells, they would be dead within a month and our interests and methods exposed. You are the only one who can undertake this and you know it."
"I know, I know." Sherlock whispered, not looking up.
"I need to know, before I send you into this..."
"You are not sending me anywhere! I'm not seven years old acting as your lookout!"
"No, you're not. We are long past those days."
Mycroft looked at his brother, truly looked at him for the first time that evening. Finally seeing him not as his reluctant little brother, but a troubled man bowed down by the weight of the task ahead of him.
Mycroft rose from his desk and stood beside Sherlock. He reached into his pocket for his usual peace offering, a pack of cigarettes and a lighter.
"A cigarette for the condemned man," Sherlock quipped as he accepted one from the open box and the lighter. The flint failed to strike on his first few attempts and once it was lit he took a long drag, savouring it before lifting up his chin to exhale.
Mycroft lit up a cigarette too. "You can survive this."
"At what cost?"
"That I cannot predict or plan for."
"Oh dear. Better not tell your masters that you have limitations." Sherlock tried to tease but the delight he normally took in it wasn't there.
They stood for a moment, continuing to smoke. The nicotine was doing little to fortify Sherlock; he was still wound up so tight he was physically trembling.
Mycroft knew that all that pent up energy would be needed in the next few days. That Sherlock needed to be at his sharpest if they were going to pull this off.
"Sherlock, are you ready for this?"
The question hung in the air for the longest time.
Finally, almost imperceptibly, Sherlock shook his head.
Mycroft was shocked to see the mask slip. Sherlock had learned to hide his emotions from him at an early age because boys like Mycroft only used things like that to taunt and tease their younger siblings.
Now Sherlock stood beside him, letting him see the fear and doubt.
"Sherlock..." Mycroft let his own mask slip completely, the uncompromising government official now replaced by the concerned older brother.
"I will be ready," Sherlock whispered, "when Moriarty plays his hand, I will be ready for him."
Mycroft nodded. When the time came, Sherlock would adapt to whatever twisted path Moriarty decided to lead him down. Now was the time for him to entertain his doubts and fears because he wouldn't have that luxury later.
Sherlock dropped his spent cigarette to the floor and stubbed it out with his shoe. He excused himself without a word, disappearing off to the nearest bathroom. Mycroft took the time to check the memory stick that Anthea had handed him, making sure that all the information that Sherlock would need to disappear was present and correct. He didn't comment as Sherlock emerged from the bathroom a considerable amount of time later. He certainly didn't make mention of his red-rimmed eyes.
Sherlock was avoiding his brother's eyes again. The tiny flicker of vulnerability had been banished and the steely, emotionless core that he had been cultivating since childhood was back. He reached out with a gloved hand for the memory stick, which quickly disappeared into the depths of his coat pocket.
"Good night, Mycroft."
Sherlock left without another word - too much had already been said. The portrait of a young Queen Elizabeth II observed Sherlock's departure with a stern look of duty, mirrored by the most loyal official of Her Majesty's Government sitting below. Sherlock wasn't doing this for Queen and Country - he was much too selfish for that. His sense of duty, his loyalties, were to those few who had realised he had a heart to be touched and no one else.
It was still dark outside but bleary-eyed commuters were starting to emerge from the Underground. Sherlock walked home along the river, savouring his city whilst he still could. In a few hours he would be dragged into Moriarty's game again.
And he would be ready, whatever the price.
Author's Notes: The poem quoted by Mycroft and Sherlock is 'The River's Tale' by Rudyard Kipling.
The title is a reference to The Garden of Gethsemane, where according to Christian belief, Jesus spent the night praying for strength before his trial and crucifixion.