Toriad y Dydd/Break of Day
Chapter 1
Summary: Mycroft needs help investigating the disappearance of a British anthropologist in the Patagonia region of South America. Naturally, he turns to John and Sherlock. But the two wind up with more than they bargained for when they are captured by the same insurgents responsible for the anthropologist's disappearance…..Rating because things will get intense in later chapters.
I don't own anything except my degrees in history and anthropology.
A/N: I realized belatedly that the way I had this story formatted before didn't make sense. The content hasn't changed, just the format.
John sat in a plush armchair, an untouched glass of water next to him on the smooth, polished oak surface of the desk. He willed his good hand to stop shaking, but whoever had come up with the phrase "mind over matter" clearly had not been writing from experience. He flexed his left hand, still encased in the cast, and winced when the broken bones flared. John was still having trouble believing he was back home, safe, in London, England, and not in a cell somewhere in the Patagonian highlands. He was grateful that Mycroft was allowing him time to describe what had happened, and annoyed at himself that he had such a difficult time trying to get it all out so that the older man knew.
"…And then when they brought Ross Asher back," John said, swallowing hard, "he was so beaten and bloody we barely recognized him." He risked a glance at Mycroft, and wondered how the man could sit there and passively listen to the awful tale. Next to him, Sherlock sat stoically, the ugly gash on his temple barely starting to heal. If Sherlock's dislocated shoulder was bothering him, he wasn't letting it show. John wished Sherlock would speak; he hadn't spoken since they had been brought back to Trelew from the cell. "I did what I could for him, with what we had available," John continued. He breathed deeply. "But it wasn't enough. God, Mycroft, those people are monsters. Doing something like that to another human….." He sat back in his chair and looked up at the ceiling without moving his head. "You have no idea what it was like."
"Enlighten me," Mycroft said quietly.
John nodded, and tried to find the words.
Two months earlier…
The man known as John Hendricks, at least in this place, stepped off the plane at the Almirante Marco Andres Zar Airport in Trelew, Chubut Provence, Argentina. He knew from the file that this place served the nearby town of Rawson, which had been settled by Welsh colonists in the 1800s, and that there were a reasonable amount of people who could speak his language. John scanned the surroundings with interest as he followed his fellow passengers into the airport proper. If he didn't know better, he would have thought that Mycroft had sent him to a lakeside town in the Swiss Alps instead of Patagonia. Plenty of time for sightseeing later, John told himself firmly as he made his way to the customs area. He tried not to fidget or appear uncomfortable as he presented his British Government-issue passport with his fake name. (What if they find something wrong with it? he thought for a wild moment, then squashed that train of thought. Mycroft knew what he was doing. Hell, the man practically was the British Government. If the British Government issued you a passport, then the passport was authentic. Even if you were to have a name as ridiculous as Thaddeus Jones on it, it would be deemed authentic. He hoped.)
His passport was handed back to him with no more fuss over it than what had been shown to the passports issued before him in that line. John took it, placed it firmly in the inside pocket of his coat, and went to get his bags.
John found his bags, and slinging the army-issue duffel over his shoulder, feeling the familiar clank of medical equipment inside it, he turned to find his way out of the airport, and nearly bumped into a tall gentleman with greying hair that had once been pitch black. "Excuse me," John said quickly, but the man made no move to let him pass.
"John Hendricks?"
"Yes, that's right." John's left hand clenched unconsciously on his duffel. Mycroft had said he'd send someone from the embassy to meet John once the plane landed. John whistled a few notes of the song that Mycroft had said would be used as identification by all under his personal employ, and the man finished the notes to the final stanza of the Tallis Canon with him.
"Henry Van Dyke," the man said, holding his hand out. John fumbled with his suitcase, and shook the hand. "I'm sure Mycroft Holmes has told you why you've been sent here."
"Yes."
"Good. Your past as a doctor will be useful," Van Dyke replied. "You know what you have to do?"
"Mycroft briefed me. What exactly was Ross Asher working on to make him important enough to keep him quiet?"
Van Dyke eyed him. "Ross Asher is an anthropologist, Mr. Hendricks. Sometimes, anthropologists run into trouble."
"Sorry. What's an anthropologist?"
"Anthropology: from anthro, meaning man, and ology, meaning study of. Its classic definition is the study of man in all times and places. We study both humans and culture, and nearly everything linked to those," Van Dyke continued, and he turned and led John out of the Almirante through the Saturday afternoon crowd. "Yes, I'm an anthropologist as well, under the employ of the British embassy. However, sometimes anthropologists can be mistaken as spies by the people they are studying. There have even been reports of anthropologists being labeled as witches by the local populace. We're working with the assumption that the latter is what happened initially to Ross Asher."
John stared. "That is completely, utterly ridiculous," he said.
Van Dyke shrugged. "It goes with the territory. Usually the witchcraft allegations are in conjunction with cultural turbulence, or at the very least if the local populace is both superstitious and under stress. Generally speaking, it's the outsiders and cultural unconformers who've been declared unmutual who get the label."
Lesson one of the day, John thought, wondering at how casually Van Dyke was giving him this information, and filed that knowledge away for future reference.
"Ross Asher is working for me," the other man said. By now they were nearing the food vendors. "He's a brilliant young, upcoming scientist in his own right. In fact, he was after some rumours of a sensitive cultural nature when he disappeared last week."
Again, John stared.
Henry Van Dyke sighed. "I see this will take some explanation. Evidently Mycroft failed to give you all the information you need in order to help find Ross."
"Speaking of Mycroft," John said, "his brother was coming here as well. We weren't on the same flight because Mycroft didn't want it obvious we were working together. Did he make it here safely?"
"Yes. A young fellow from the embassy fetched him yesterday from Buenos Aires." Van Dyke held open the main door of the airport for John. "I understand you're to have minimal contact with each other?"
"Yes," John said again. "We thought it was best."
"And so it is," Van Dyke agreed. "The embassy holds a regular gathering, the most recent of which is tonight. It is a black tie affair and will be a good excuse for you to meet the other British nationals here in Trelew."
The man called Eric Sigerson, at least in this place, glanced around the small living quarters that Ross Asher had acquired in Rawson with the British embassy's help. Behind Eric, the embassy aide—just a child, really, who had only managed to snag the job in Argentina because of his wealthy parents—shifted nervously and cleared his throat. Eric rolled his eyes. "Honestly, you're as bad as Anderson," he muttered, just loudly enough for the aide to hear him. "If you can't be useful," he snapped louder at the child, "go outside and wait. You're disturbing me."
The younger man's eyes widened. "Sorry, sir. Mr. Van Dyke said to stay with you."
Eric rolled his steel grey eyes again. "Then stand in the doorway," he sneered, "and try not to breathe too loudly. I can't concentrate."
The boy, for what he was worth, reluctantly moved to the doorway.
Eric huffed, irritably, at the boy's obvious ineptness, then strode to the bookcase, where his eyes had picked up some journals disguised as books. A clever idea, if you didn't know that On the Question of Outlaw Amnesty in the Old American West was a non-existent work and therefore couldn't have been written by a fellow named Joshua Smith. Eric opened the journal, and found that it was written in symbols that definitely were not the Roman letters he was used to. He eyed one arched symbol. If he wasn't mistaken, then that particular symbol was used in the ancient Iberic language. And that oddly curved symbol was one found in the Ogham script used by the Irish until the tenth century A.D. His respect for this Ross Asher was raised. Slightly. Obviously, the man had been involved in some kind of research that scared him, enough to code his notes on it.
"I'll take these with me," he said, waving the journal as he swept the others (which also all were marked with professional-looking fake titles and authors on their spines) into the crook of his elbow. For once, the boy ("Aide, Sherlock!" John's voice said firmly in his head) with him was wise enough to keep his mouth shut. Eric rolled his eyes, and told John's imaginary presence in his head to kindly leave.
The man called Eric Sigerson, at least in this place, slapped the document titled On the Question of Outlaw Amnesty in the Old West, supposedly written by a fellow called Joshua Smith, on Henry Van Dyke's desk. Van Dyke arched an eyebrow.
"Ross Asher's personal journal," Eric said absently. "There are others. At least he was smart enough to write it in code, in languages and alphabets very few people speak today."
"Interesting," Van Dyke said. "How did you find it?"
"Look at these titles," said Eric, waving his pale hand at the two other journals. "Those are not titles of true books."
Van Dyke thumbed through the journals, and found that the man was right. Beside the Amnesty title, there was Gold Mining and the Settlement Question of Southern Nevada, written by a Benjamin Cartwright, and History of Porterville, Wyoming Banks, by Lom Trevors. He knew Ross read avidly (as Van Dyke himself did), and someone casually glancing through the many, true titles in the tiny apartment would miss these. If he recalled correctly, Ross read about anything from Ukrainian history to theoretical physics.
"Can you translate these?" Van Dyke asked, idly noting the several language scripts used in the journals. "I thought not," he added when Eric shook his head. Eric's mop of black curls fell into his eyes; Eric brushed them away impatiently. "There's a woman at the embassy who is brilliant with linguistic puzzles—" but Eric violently cut him off.
"No! The less people involved in this, the better," he hissed.
"My dear boy, Ross's disappearance has affected us all. Surely there is someone at the embassy you trust?"
"There might be," Eric said grudgingly. "But just because I trust them doesn't mean they're not in the pockets of someone else."
The man called John Hendricks, at least in this place, stood in front of the mirror in his hotel room in downtown Trelew and adjusted the black tie. The suit had been rented for him by Henry Van Dyke; John, in his haste to help Mycroft, had failed to pack such attire. If a case assignment said you were going to be spending much of your time in the South American jungle, you certainly wouldn't need a formal suit. John smiled wryly and turned toward the door as a knock sounded.
"Ready, John?" came Van Dyke's voice from the other side.
"A moment." John quickly packed a few things into his pockets. If the black tie affair had taken him by surprise, he was going to learn from that lesson and be prepared. If Sherlock would be at the gathering tonight, John knew that having some essentials in his pockets would be vital.
Then, taking a quick glance around the small hotel room to make sure he hadn't forgotten anything John opened the door.
Henry Van Dyke stood there, wearing a suit similar to John's. "I have a car waiting downstairs," he said.
Of course, John thought. Van Dyke reminded him almost too much of Mycroft with his efficiency. Aloud, he asked, "How many people will be at the party tonight?"
Van Dyke shrugged. "There are a few dozen British nationals in the city now, and a few more than that in the neighboring towns. There could as easily be fifty or more people there, or there could only be ten. Not everyone's schedules revolve around those that the embassy follows."
When Van Dyke's car pulled up to the curb at the British embassy, not far from John's hotel, John could see that there were already several people gathered outside it. He started at the sight of Mycroft and Sherlock both mingling with the crowd as the faint sounds of a waltz wafted through the damp evening air. As Van Dyke stepped out of the car and motioned for John to join him, John fervently hoped that nothing in his pockets would be needed during the course of the night.
Van Dyke was already introducing him, calling him "Dr. Hendricks" and proclaiming loudly that the very next day John would be flown by helicopter to the hospital unit set up for the villages outside Trelew. Then Van Dyke gripped John's shoulder and steered him toward Sherlock.
"Eric!" Van Dyke boomed, loudly. John saw the faintest of grimaces on Sherlock's face at the unfamiliar name, but turned to greet Van Dyke with a smile John knew was as false as the one he himself wore. "John, this is Eric Sigerson. Eric, John Hendricks. I thought the two of you might like to know there is another Londoner in Trelew."
Sherlock gave a curt smile, and sipped at the glass in his hand. It was only ice water, John saw. "Thank you, Mr. Van Dyke," Sherlock replied. "That was…thoughtful."
John raised an eyebrow—had Sherlock actually been courteous just now? Out of the corner of his eye, John could see Mycroft watching the "introduction" with a mildly mused expression on his face. John refrained from sending Mycroft a "sod off" expression of his own, and turned his attention back to Sherlock.
"Dr. Hendricks is going out to our field hospital in the morning," Van Dyke was explaining, loudly. "The field hospital is for the villagers who have less than adequate availability to Western medicine."
One of the guests, who by her accent was from northern England, had quietly joined them. She was thirty-something, with frown lines already showing on her face. Her dark brown hair was twisted into a figure-eight bun at the nape of her neck; the pins she had used to hold her hair in place were topped with pale yellow fabric roses and tendrils of lace. The woman's gown was a deep green satin with more yellow roses and lace on the bodice of the gown. A handbag in the same green satin and yellow roses and lace hung from her left wrist. She wasn't pretty by any means, but the gown made her seem somehow elegant.
"Be careful when you are at the field hospital, Dr. Hendricks," she said, emphasizing John's last name in such a way that he instantly realized that she knew it wasn't his real name. "I hear there have been … disappearances." At John's (faked) puzzlement, she held out a hand. "Regina Asher. Call me Ginny."
Sherlock's eyebrows rose in surprise. John gave a slight nod in acknowledgement. Now that he knew the woman's name, he remembered the photograph of Ross Asher which Mycroft had shown him, and he noted the similarities: The same strong jaw; the straight, flat nose; the bold cheekbones. But where Ross had black hair and eyes, Ginny's eyes were lighter, bordering on green, and her skin wasn't as dark as Ross's.
Henry Van Dyke chose that moment to start herding the stragglers into the embassy, and Ginny leaned in close to John, watching Van Dyke out of the corner of her eye. "You'll try to find Ross, won't you, Dr. Watson?"