The Trapping of Birdy Edwards

(Season 4-compliant version)


Summary:

A quiet night of research at Barts turns into a kidnapping nightmare. Someone shows their true face. Sherlock makes himself useful in an unexpected way, and Molly almost finds herself wishing that he hadn't. Almost.

Hurt/Comfort, Casefic and tentative Sherlolly.
Rated T for violence.


Author's Notes:

This story takes place shortly after the main events of "The Final Problem".

MDMA (short for 3,4-methylenedioxy-methamphetamine) is the scientific name for the drug commonly known as ecstasy.

Not a rewrite of "The Valley of Fear". I just nicked some names and ideas.

I wrote the original version of this story exactly two years ago, i. e. long before season 4 aired. Since some of its details were canon-blasted by the events in season 4, I decided to rewrite it to make it comply with the new canon. The essence of the story, and the main events of it, remain unchanged.

For those of you who have read the previous version, and would like to save time by re-reading selectively: Chapters 1 and 2 have been adjusted throughout to account for the new character dynamics of season 4. Chapters 3 and 4 are mostly unchanged. The events in the second half of Chapter 5 have been slightly modified, and Chapter 6 has seen some season 4-related additions to the dialogue.

As always, feedback is endlessly appreciated! :)


221B Baker Street. The living room, already fully refurbished after the destruction it suffered in "The Final Problem". Darkness outside the windows. Muted, cosy light from a reading lamp and the lamp above the kitchen table within. Sherlock, in his camel-coloured dressing gown, is pacing around the room, a sheet of paper in his hand and a pencil behind his ear, humming softly to himself in a distracted sort of way. He breaks off, repeats a few notes he has just hummed, then wanders over into the kitchen and sits down at the kitchen table. The table is covered with clutter, as usual – newspapers, used dishes, laboratory glassware in varying states of cleanness, a notepad, Sherlock's phone, a steaming mug of tea, a china plate with a flower design and a gold rim with three or four of what looks like freshly baked scones on it, an open pot of strawberry jam, a plastic cup of clotted cream.

Sherlock pushes some of the clutter out of the way to make room for the paper in his hand – music paper, half covered with handwritten music. He fishes an eraser out of the pocket of his dressing gown, corrects some of what he's jotted down, then shakes his head and puts the pencil down. He takes up his phone instead, checks it for new messages – obviously in vain – and finally pulls the plate of scones towards him. He prepares one, complete with cream and jam, and bites into it. Then he freezes. There is the sound of footsteps on the stairs. Without taking the scone out of his mouth, Sherlock reaches out with his other hand and quickly covers both his phone and his music paper with a newspaper.

By the time Mycroft Holmes – carrying his umbrella and a briefcase - has knocked on the open living room door and walked around into the kitchen to find his brother, Sherlock is innocently chewing again. He looks up at his visitor and raises his eyebrows, mouth too full for a verbal greeting.

MYCROFT: Good evening. (His eyes wander across the kitchen table.) You're composing again?

With a frown, Sherlock follows Mycroft's gaze, which has come to rest on the pencil and the eraser on the table.

MYCROFT (with a faint smile): It is the only activity at which I've ever seen you correct yourself.

Sherlock gives his brother an annoyed look, then – rather uselessly - pushes the pencil and the eraser out of sight under the clutter, too.

MYCROFT: But not for her, this time.

SHERLOCK (defensively): Who else, do you think?

MYCROFT (smoothly): You're about to have guests staying overnight, one of whom, or so you're hoping, might respond positively to being played to sleep. You spent part of this evening on a test run setting up the technical requirements. (He nods back towards the living room.) The recent indentations in the carpet are faint but still there. Four of them in a rectangular alignment, at a distance of approximately 24 and 48 inches respectively – standard size for a baby travel cot. Don't tell me it was anything else.

Sherlock swallows his bite.

SHERLOCK (sourly): Who am I to contend with such obvious expertise?

MYCROFT (generously): I do admit that that mark on the side of your right index finger would have puzzled me for a while longer if I hadn't happened to have noticed the very same on Anthea's hands some time last year, when I realised that her younger sister must have had her first child.(He nods towards Sherlock's right hand.) The same two parallel lines, impressed deeply, and the skin in between red and swollen, though unbroken. These things do put up a fight when you try to collapse them again, don't they? Apparently the trick is to depress both long sides simultaneously, and then pull up the centre bottom towards you. Well. They're not due here until tomorrow night, are they? Lots of time left to practise.

About half-way through this discourse, Sherlock has stopped listening, turned back towards his meal on the table and demolished the rest of the scone he had been eating when Mycroft came in. Now he licks his fingers clean and picks up the knife again. Mycroft walks around his brother's chair and sits down uninvited in the one next to it, depositing his briefcase on the floor at his side.

MYCROFT: And why are you having a cream tea at ten p.m., may I ask?

Sherlock contemplates his brother in silence for a moment, then very deliberately slices open another scone, covers one half with a thick layer of clotted cream, dips his creamy knife straight into the jam pot – at which Mycroft grimaces in disgust – and adds a liberal amount of jam onto the cream. He then takes a huge bite, almost half of the scone disappearing into his mouth, and chews thoughtfully a couple of times, as if deliberating some particularly biting retort.

SHERLOCK (finally, in a muffled voice): Why not?

Mycroft sighs. Sherlock pushes the plate towards him.

SHERLOCK: Have one, too?

Mycroft leans back and even slides his chair backwards a couple of inches, obviously appalled at the very idea of consuming so many calories at once.

MYCROFT (stiffly): No, thank you.

Sherlock smirks.

MYCROFT (looking around again): Well, I was hoping that you might modify your open door policy a bit, in the light of recent events.

SHERLOCK: I fail to see how my letting her in is more questionable than you letting her out in the first place.

A look of sadness and genuine contrition passes across Mycroft's face, but he quickly has himself in hand again.

MYCROFT: I'm not talking about her, Sherlock, and her unexpected little visit. But it is symptomatic.

SHERLOCK: Of what?

MYCROFT: Put that knife down for a moment.

Sherlock swallows another bite and tightens his hold on the knife.

SHERLOCK(suspiciously): Why?

MYCROFT: Because I'm going to say a few things now that you won't like to hear, so I'd rather not be talking to an armed man.

Sherlock snorts and all but throws the knife down onto Mrs Hudson's best tableware with a clatter.

MYCROFT (pointedly): Thank you.

SHERLOCK: Hurry up. I'm still hungry.

MYCROFT: Yes, I know you are. (He leans back in his chair and crosses his arms.) You've grown quite insatiable of late, I've noticed. It's a bit like a drug of its own, isn't it? Once you've tasted it, you keep wanting more of it, even though it may not always be wise, or healthy.

SHERLOCK (dismissively): There's nothing wrong with Mrs Hudson's baking, Mycroft. And you're the one who inherited our mother's tendency towards obesity, not me.

MYCROFT: I wasn't talking about the scones, Sherlock.

SHERLOCK (drily): No, obviously not.

MYCROFT: I'm talking about another very strange habit that you seem to have developed lately. I admit I am at a loss what to call it.

SHERLOCK: Well, that doesn't happen often.

MYCROFT: That hunger for company, Sherlock, that need to surround yourself with - (He forces the word out with distaste.) - people. Any people, apparently. I don't blame John Watson for introducing you to it. If you had restricted yourself to him, I believe the problem would have remained manageable. But what worries me is -

SHERLOCK: Mycroft, surely you're not trying to advertise the benefits of solitary confinement to me anymore? Do you really still consider any enjoyment of human interaction a harmful condition that requires urgent treatment?

Mycroft sighs.

MYCROFT: It's not the why, Sherlock, it's the who that worries me.

SHERLOCK: It's just John and Rosie, for God's sake!

MYCROFT: This time, yes. But I'm concerned that you fail to see that you won't necessarily find that same sort of high again with just anyone else whom you decide to welcome into your house with open arms.

SHERLOCK: What are you talking about?

Mycroft folds his hand on the table.

MYCROFT: Isn't it obvious? A mentally unhinged ex-forensics officer, whom you chose to provide with exclusive interviews to support his utterly absurd conspiracy theories. An underfed junkie, who tagged along after you like a lap dog and prided himself on playing your new assistant. The bridesmaid whom you let not only into your house but even into your bed, when you barely knew her at all. What kind of company is that? It is not only unwise, Sherlock, it may be dangerous.

SHERLOCK (testily): The last time anyone let Anderson into my house, it wasn't me, remember?

MYCROFT(with a shrug): He had his uses, that day.

SHERLOCK: So had Janine, and so had Bill Wiggins. They're not my friends, Mycroft. They're means to an end.

MYCROFT: I once, long ago, heard you say the same about Molly Hooper.

Sherlock takes in an audible breath.

SHERLOCK (very sharply): Mycroft, that is out of order.

The brothers glare at each other for a moment, but then it is Mycroft who backs down.

MYCROFT (looking down at his folded hands, quietly): Maybe it was. (Raising an eyebrow) I'll refrain from pointing out that you've just proved my point. (Sherlock opens his mouth to protest anew, but Mycroft is already reaching for his briefcase, ready to change the subject.) So, before you embrace the entire world in your new-found enthusiasm for love and trust and all the other attending complications of ordinary interpersonal relationships, and maybe get yet another knife in your back in the process -

Sherlock picks up the cream-and-jam knife from the plate on the table and points it threateningly at his brother.

SHERLOCK: – speaking of which –

MYCROFT(unfazed): - let me at least make sure that your private health and disability insurances are in good order and up to date.

Sherlock lets the knife sink down again, completely taken aback. Mycroft, either unaware of his brother's reaction or ignoring it, takes a leather-bound folder out of his briefcase, from which he produces a number of documents.

MYCROFT (looking over the papers, in a business-like tone): They're raising your premiums again, to a height that's beginning to border on ridiculous, so before I agree in your name, I thought –

SHERLOCK (slowly catching up): You're here to discuss my private health and disability insurances?

MYCROFT: Yes. I've just said so.

SHERLOCK: I have private health and disability insurances?

MYCROFT (impatiently): Of course you have.(He gives his brother a reproachful look.) And don't tell me you haven't needed it, this past year. On the NHS, there would probably have been a three or four weeks waiting list for the removal of that bullet alone. Now, as you're probably aware, a rise in the premiums gives you the right to terminate the entire contract, but I must warn you that it was difficult enough to find anyone who'd take you at all, after your resurrection from the pavement in front of Barts. And since "Consulting Detective" is not a recognised profession in their catalogue, they were practically free to make up the premium on the disability insurance themselves, and I'm afraid they've taken full advantage of it.

SHERLOCK (muttering): In that case, I really don't want to know where you rank in their risk groups.

MYCROFT: Oh, modestly, by comparison.

SHERLOCK: They have a category for "Master of Puppets"?

MYCROFT (pointedly): "Civil Servant - Other". Very low down on the list, I assure you. I'm a downright bargain, compared to you. Anyway. Look at this.

He points at one of the papers. Sherlock leans over to get a better look.

MYCROFT: This is an interesting bit of small print, I thought. Your health insurance comes with a clause that most emphatically excludes coverage for any self-inflicted injuries or medical conditions, whatever the means or the reason.

SHERLOCK (in a flat voice): Why would I want to injure myself?

MYCROFT: You have a history of jumping off buildings in a good cause. And of sticking needles in your arms, just to make a point.

SHERLOCK (glancing up at his brother with a frown): There was a point, Mycroft.

MYCROFT (quoting from the document, coolly): "Whatever the means or the reason", dear brother. That includes everything from incompetent struggling with baby cots to abuse of illegal substances.

Sherlock leans back again with a sigh of resignation.

SHERLOCK: They must have been very displeased with me about my recent hospital bills.

MYCROFT: They never even saw the big one from last year, much less paid it.

SHERLOCK: What?

MYCROFT(with a shrug): I suppose they'd have kicked you out of the contract altogether if they'd got to see it.

SHERLOCK: Who paid it then?

MYCROFT: Lady Smallwood.

Sherlock stares at his brother, the frown on his face giving way to an almost pained expression. There is a silence.

SHERLOCK (after a moment): All of it, or just the first week?

MYCROFT: All of it. (He sighs.) She insisted that everything that happened last year was a direct result of her commissioning you to negotiate with Charles Augustus Magnussen on her behalf, and thus, her responsibility. (Seeing the look on his brother's face) I tried. It's no use.

Sherlock nods slowly, looking down at the table in front of him, his appetite for the remaining scones obviously gone.

MYCROFT (in a business-like tone again): However, since we can't always rely on your future clients to display the same degree of magnanimity, I strongly suggest that -

There is the sound of the doorbell, and the front door below opening and closing. Muted conversation between Mrs Hudson and a visitor, and then the footsteps of a man on the stairs.

MYCROFT: - that we accept these conditions as they are. Sherlock, are you listening? Detective Inspector Lestrade is going to declare neither the identity of the victim nor the manner of death nor the location of the crime scene before he has actually entered the room, and –

There is a knock on the kitchen door, and Greg Lestrade looks in.

LESTRADE: Oh. Sorry. Mrs Hudson said –

He opens the door fully and enters, looking from Sherlock to Mycroft and back, still uncertain whether he is welcome. Sherlock, entirely straight-faced, jerks his head at Mycroft.

SHERLOCK: You're right on cue, Inspector. Arrest this man. He's trying to bore me to death with paperwork about insurance issues.

MYCROFT(drily): May I state in my defence that I didn't start with it until this man here - (nodding towards Sherlock) - tried to stab me to death with a blunt butter knife smeared with clotted cream and strawberry jam.

Greg Lestrade's eyes visibly brighten, but whether at the mention of a new attempted double murder or at that of cream and strawberry jam is unclear. Sherlock picks up one of the remaining scones.

SHERLOCK: Cream and jam?

LESTRADE: Sure. Brilliant. I'm starving.

Sherlock proceeds to prepare a scone for Lestrade, being even more generous with the cream and the jam than he was for himself. Mycroft looks downright revolted. Lestrade, noticing it, gives him a slightly concerned sidelong glance.

SHERLOCK (to Lestrade): Never mind him. He envies you, is all. Here.

He picks up the plate and hands it to Lestrade.

MYCROFT (to Sherlock, in a dignified tone): I most certainly do not.(To Lestrade, generously) But enjoy your scone, Detective Inspector.(Lestrade nods in acknowledgment and tucks in.) Since you'll obviously be on the road again within the next five minutes, whisking my brother away to yet another crime scene, you might as well face whatever horrors await you there on a full stomach. (To Sherlock): And we were finished at any rate, I believe. Keep it in mind.

SHERLOCK (lightly): What, the knife in the back?

MYCROFT: That, and the clause in the contract about self-inflicted injury.

Lestrade's eyes go back and forth again between the two brothers, puzzled. He is chewing vigorously.

SHERLOCK (to Mycroft): You don't trust me to avoid either for any length of time, do you?

MYCROFT: Well, if the precedents were more in your favour, I'd give you about a fortnight on both counts. As it is, a week.

SHERLOCK (with a snort): I'll bet you.

MYCROFT: I never bet.

SHERLOCK: True. Neither do I. (He holds out his hand.) Is it on then?

MYCROFT: Absolutely.
He takes his brother's hand and gives it a brief, firm shake.

SHERLOCK (with a sour smile): Mind the pinch.

MYCROFT (pointedly): Apologies.
He lets go of his brother's hand, collects the papers on the table, puts them back in his briefcase and gets up. Then he turns to shake hands with Lestrade as well, who has finished his scone by now.

LESTRADE (with a politely restrained but still audible note of triumph in his voice): It wasn't a knife in the back though.

MYCROFT(smoothly): I never said it was. Good evening to you both.

He gives both men a nod to share between them, and exits the room. The moment he is gone, Sherlock springs into action. He is out of his dressing gown and half-way down the corridor to his room in less than three seconds, calling back to Lestrade over his shoulder.

SHERLOCK: So, what is it? Another silly girl trying too hard to have a good time on a night out?

LESTRADE: Exactly that, I'm afraid.

SHERLOCK (off-screen, from the direction of his bedroom): Number five, is it?

LESTRADE (calling after him): Six! Boss McGinty strikes again, probably.

Sherlock returns, with his jacket and shoes on.

SHERLOCK: Boss who?

LESTRADE: McGinty. I'll explain in the car. How do you already know it's a girl?

Sherlock unearths his phone from the kitchen table and squeezes past Lestrade to get to his coat, on the hook at the back of the living-room door.

SHERLOCK: All the others were. (With a somewhat reproachful look at Lestrade) I do read the papers, you know. (He starts putting his coat and scarf on.) So, which club are we heading to, then?

LESTRADE: We're going directly to the morgue, actually.

Sherlock freezes, right in the middle of tying his scarf. He stares straight ahead for a moment, avoiding Lestrade's eyes, and bites his lip in indecision. Lestrade frowns. But then Sherlock deliberately squares his shoulders, as if readying himself for an unpleasant but necessary task, and pulls his scarf tight around his neck.

SHERLOCK(in a carefully neutral voice): How come the victim's already in the morgue? It's barely eleven.

LESTRADE That's what I'd like to know, too. Come on.