Mycroft was waiting for him at the cabstand when Sherlock emerged from St. Bart's in the warm June evening air, leaning against his umbrella, his right ankle crossed over his left. He was wearing a grey suit that looked slightly too warm for the weather but did not appear uncomfortable, and his expression was relaxed, calm, not threatening.
Sherlock wasn't fooled a moment. He stopped up short, giving Mycroft a glare, considering his options quickly.
Public place, right near the hospital's main entrance. And the precise place from which Mycroft had abducted him when they'd last seen each other, a year and a half previous. This was not chosen by accident, but there were other factors. He couldn't come by the flat, not without risking John shooting him or his Interpol tail reporting back to their superiors, which result in some unpleasant visits for Mycroft, Sherlock was certain. He had never been able to spot who was watching his brother, in large part because he hadn't seen his brother in so long, since before Interpol had begun to keep an eye on him. Or more of an eye on him; it was difficult to tell what all of these agencies got up to in their spare time – it was conceivable that they spent more resources spying on one another than anything else. Sherlock was well out of it, despite Mycroft's many attempts to drag him into it when he'd been younger, before he'd been able to set up consulting as a viable career.
He wanted nothing to do with the intelligence or counter-intelligence agencies. Too many rules, too many people telling him what to do. And too many well-trained people who were near impossible to read. What fun was there in trying to deduce anything about a person whose identity was completely falsified and who had been trained to adopt all of the aspects of that falsified identity? His kind of analyses would likely be discouraged against one's fellow agents, and Sherlock enjoyed doing this to the London Metro officers, if only to discomfit them. He suspected people like Mycroft were not often discomfited and were trained quite early on to avoid feeling this way.
Nor could he have tolerated working for anyone but himself, not choosing his assignments, not choosing his partners, not choosing how he completed his work.
Also, had he gone this route, he never would have met John.
A good decision, all things considered.
Mycroft's choice of meeting places had the distinct disadvantage to Sherlock of no John – Sherlock was caught on his own, but he was in public, so the possibilities for raising a fuss were lowered. Not that he was above that, particularly if he felt Mycroft may be trying to manipulate him into getting into a car when he didn't want to. But he knew his brother would know that, and would also know that Sherlock would resent having to raise a ruckus, drawing attention to himself. Mycroft would give him a pointed look (but Sherlock knew Tricia now, and considered himself an expert on evading the pointed look) and pretend that Sherlock was being a bad-tempered child.
Sibling relationships were such troublesome things. Especially when one's sibling was a high-ranking secret agent.
Sherlock evaluated the people around him quickly; it was possible that one of them was an Interpol agent, but he didn't know if Interpol monitored Mycroft all of the time now, or only occasionally, nor who it would be. Certainly no one he would recognize – Sam had been promoted after The Bridge and commanded a lot more power than Sherlock himself knew about. But he did not know how much more, nor what resources were available to him. And Sherlock wasn't convinced he wanted to identify Mycroft's Interpol tail, in case it alerted his brother. At any rate, no one seemed to be paying them an undue amount of attention.
He could get into a cab, but he had no guarantees that it wouldn't be planted and wouldn't simply take him where Mycroft wanted Sherlock to go.
He could talk to Mycroft, but he found the idea distasteful.
He could argue with his brother, which would be fruitless and a waste of his time. John would be on his way home now, and Sherlock would prefer to be in the company of his husband rather than his brother, especially given the circumstances.
John had never abducted him or threatened anyone Sherlock knew or murdered small children. Plus, he was quite a bit better looking than Mycroft, which was not unimportant. Even if he did like those tedious American crime shows. Everyone had their faults.
John had less of them than Mycroft.
There was a tube station not far. The tube was more tedious, because it was filled with boring people, but had the advantage of being filled with boring people. Witnesses. Even if one person in ten was more observant than the others, at this time of day, it added up to quite a good number of people.
He turned to walk away, without a word.
"I've come for your help," Mycroft said behind him, his voice loud enough to carry to Sherlock's ears, but not overly loud. Pitched perfectly. Complete control, as always.
Sherlock paused, arguing quickly with himself.
A year and a half had taught him a great deal about what he thought of his brother and their past and he kept walking then, ignoring the threat of his cold anger melting the slightest bit. It was more difficult to be angry when Mycroft was right in front of him, which was completely illogical, since Mycroft had earned that anger. If anything, it should be easier when the source was present. Sherlock wondered why this was not the case – perhaps he needed to build some device to measure the effects of proximity and emotion? At very least, it deserved further consideration, but a long way from Mycroft.
"It's not for me, Sherlock," Mycroft continued. "It's for a friend."
This time, Sherlock did stop and turn, hands in his trouser pockets, his grey eyes hard. His brother was standing where he'd left him, still leaning his weight on his umbrella. Behind him, a non-descript black car waited, a non-descript driver behind the wheel and Anthea – real name, Karen Johnson, which Sherlock had rejoiced at finding out because it was so typical – in the back seat, eyes glued to her mobile. He wondered if there was a special surgery to correct that. Must remember to ask John, he told himself.
"You threaten a friend of mine, then ask me for help with a friend of yours?" Sherlock enquired in a cool voice, keeping his expression neutral with a hint of irritation.
Mycroft let the moment stretch and Sherlock was about to turn away again when his brother nodded.
"Yes," he admitted.
"No," Sherlock countered, turning away again.
"Her son is missing."
Sherlock turned back with a sigh.
"There are special police units who deal specifically with that, and probably special units within your own organization that are even better equipped. Why not put your considerable resources to good use for a change and do something about it? I'm not interested, Mycroft."
"We've been trying," Mycroft said. Voice flat, without much inflection, Sherlock noted. This was concerning him more than he was letting on.
Too bad.
"Then continue trying. I have other work here that is more interesting."
"Is it?" Mycroft asked. "Experiments in the lab, tests on dead bodies. Not a case in three weeks with the Yard, am I right? I'm offering you the chance to work on something that the police in Edinburgh don't even know about, to take it wherever it leads you. Would you pass that up? What is better here, the possibility that Lestrade will call you? The off chance that a case in London will be interesting enough to merit your attentions? Your experiments here at Bart's? Are any of these things a better offer?"
"No," Sherlock replied. "But John is."
"John can come," Mycroft sighed, looking impatient for only a fraction of a second, but long enough for Sherlock to read it.
"Unless you'd like a bullet to the skull, that is not a good idea," Sherlock replied. "I'm not willing to shoot you, because it would upset Mummy, but John has no such compunctions. It could go badly enough for you when I tell him that you met up with me here. Provided, of course, that your Interpol tail hasn't already reported back."
That hit the mark Sherlock was looking for; until this point, he hadn't even been sure that Mycroft knew Sherlock was directly involved in that. He had no idea what had happened after the last time he'd seen Sam Waters and Veronique, only what their intentions were. Whether or not they'd revealed to Mycroft why they were doing it, he hadn't known until now.
He felt a flash of triumph that he kept expertly from his face.
"What if I told you this woman used to work with me?" Mycroft asked.
"Then I'd wish you the luck of it, because if she worked with you – not for you, I note – then whoever has her son must have enough expertise to get past her defences, which means it is quite likely some other agency or individuals who worked for an intelligence agency at some point. For the boy's sake, I hope he's still alive and that you recover him, but I don't fancy your odds of success on that front."
"And you'd let a young boy die to prove a point?"
"Sorry? You're asking me this?" Sherlock snapped, unable to stop himself. "And no, I wouldn't, but I'm not involved in this. You don't need me, Mycroft. You need your own people, which you already have. Perhaps Karen could take her eyes from her phone long enough to provide her input." He saw Mycroft's eyes flash momentarily at the use of Anthea's given name. "Surely you can scrape together some competent agents to sort this."
Mycroft considered him for a long moment, while Sherlock simply considered leaving.
"No one as good as you," he said.
"No," Sherlock agreed. "That's true. But I'll not be baited by you into a case so you can assuage whatever guilt you feel or make Mummy feel better or try and patch things over with me. I am not interested Mycroft. Not in your case, not in you."
He turned again, stepping away.
"Please," Mycroft said.
"That doesn't work on me," Sherlock cast over his shoulder. That wasn't entirely true; it often worked with John said it. It also worked when he tacked it on to a request for John. John was quite susceptible to a please or a thank you.
The thought of John cheered him. It would be good to go home and see him. Especially after this unpleasantness.
"And what would John say about you turning this down? When it involves a child?"
As if he'd read his mind.
Sherlock turned and strode back quickly, coming almost toe-to-toe with his brother.
"First, you will leave John out of this unless you want to convince me that you're threatening him, which would not go well for you, I assure you. Second, this has nothing to do with John; you're here asking for my help, which I am not willing to grant. Third, this has nothing to do with me, since it is one of your people and your people can therefore handle it. Finally, I am simply not interested in being your terrier, Mycroft. I want nothing to do with you."
"Believe me, Sherlock, I do understand that."
"I don't imagine you do. I suspect you think you do, but you don't, not really. You insist on being overbearing, on keeping watch on me, on giving me nothing but insecurity and threats in return, then come to me when you need something."
"I don't need you," Mycroft said forcefully, his controlled, bored tone falling away for a moment. "There is a ten-year-old boy who does. My desires and opinions are irrelevant. In the three days since he's gone missing, no one working on this case has been able to make any headway. You may be the only person I know who can help. This has nothing to do with me, Sherlock. It has everything to do with this child. Whatever sins his mother may have committed, they should not be visited on him, do you understand? I need your help because he needs your help. It may be that no one else can help him right now."
Sherlock paused a moment, unaccustomed to the angry brightness in his brother's grey eyes. Mycroft smoothed over his expression almost effortlessly, but his gaze remained sharp and pointed.
"Twenty-four hours, Sherlock. Give me twenty-four hours. John can come, of course, and I assure you that nothing untoward will happen to you, nor anyone you know. I'm certain Interpol will follow us to Edinburgh to ensure that, as well. You will be given access to everything you need, and you will be properly cared for and lodged while you're there. One day. Then I will step back out of your life if you require it of me, but I very much need you to try. If you'd like to think of yourself caught up against your will in my life, imagine what this boy must be feeling now."
Sherlock drew a deep breath, exhaling it slowly.
"Three days later, the crime scene will be obliterated," he said.
"It happened in the boy's home. Other than moving the body of his nanny, who was shot when he was taken, everything has been left."
"Three days is still a long time," Sherlock said. "Particularly in child abduction cases."
"Precisely why I'm here," Mycroft replied, looking weary for a moment. "We've run out of options, Sherlock. I am only asking you to try."
Sherlock was silent for a long moment, then gave a curt nod.
"Twenty-four hours," he said. "Nothing more. If I can't give you anything in that time, I'm coming back to London with John."
Mycroft nodded as well, gesturing to the car where Anthea was still sitting, having not looked up once during the entire exchange.
"Let me drive you," he offered. "I can provide you with details on the way."