And yet, here I am
by Jolie_Black
based on the BBC "Sherlock" Series
The interior of one of Her Majesty's Prisons in London. A cell block with open galleries, three stories high, and iron stairways connecting them, seen from above. The place is brightly lit in clinical white light, but quiet and entirely deserted. Then the silence is broken by the rattle of a key in a lock, and two figures enter onto the ground floor. From high up, one of them can be seen to be in a white shirt, the other in a light brown-greenish suit. We follow them, zooming in downwards, as they traverse the long block from one end to the other until they come to a halt in front of a door.
We cut to the other side of the same door. There is a digital calendar clock above it, large red numerals announcing that it is December 26th, 5:41 a.m.. The lock clicks, the door opens, and the person in the white shirt walks through first. He's a bull-necked man with a round head and very short hair, wearing the uniform of a Senior Officer in HM Prison Service, a walkie-talkie at his belt and a bunch of large keys in his hand. He stands aside to let the other man pass through. This man is Mycroft Holmes, still in his three-piece Christmas suit, looking somewhat the worse for wear, in need of a shave and, by the dark shadows under his eyes, of his bed. His bearing is as usual, rigorously upright. His demeanour is slightly different from what we usually see. He takes a few steps into the long bare corridor, then pauses and waits courteously and without impatience for the prison officer to close and lock the door again. When they continue along the corridor, he walks a step or two behind the uniformed man. He's clearly not the master of the house here, only a guest. They stop about half-way along the corridor in front of another door. A large sign above it reads CONTROL UNIT.
It opens into a small office. Another uniformed man is sitting in an office chair at a large desk, seen in profile as one enters. He is elderly, grey-haired, rather overweight, wearing nondescript glasses. He swivels round to face the door as he hears it open.
SENIOR PRISON OFFICER (off-screen): Alright, Frank?
The man at the desk senior officer enters the room, Mycroft behind him. His seated colleague looks at the visitor, mildly interested. Mycroft's face is obviously not familiar to him.
PRISON OFFICER (to his superior): Who you got there?
SENIOR PRISON OFFICER (holding out a folded piece of paper to his colleague): Visitor's permit. Fifteen minutes.
The officer in the chair takes the paper and puts it down on his desk without looking at it.
PRISON OFFICER: Alright.
The senior officer nods to Mycroft and exits the room. Mycroft takes his time to look around the office. The first thing his eyes fix upon is Sherlock's coat, folded in a neat dark bundle on a small table against the left hand wall as one enters. On a shelf above the table, someone has stowed Sherlock's jacket, shirt, and blue scarf, equally neatly folded, and his black shoes, perfectly aligned. There is an open white plastic box on the table next to the coat that contains his phone, his keys, his watch, an assortment of notes and coins, a rolled-up belt and a pair of black leather gloves.
The other side of the room is entirely taken up by the large desk. Next to it is another narrow door of plain white-painted metal, closed. The desk is littered with all the technical paraphernalia one would expect: A computer, a telephone, a walkie-talkie, a CCTV monitor - currently switched off - , a microphone, pens, files, forms, a large thermos flask, a used coffee mug, and, incongruously, a framed photograph of a little bunch of happy, laughing young children on a sofa.
Above the desk, a large one-way window opens onto the cell beyond. The cell is rather bigger than the office. It has a white tiled floor with a drain-grill in the centre and the same white tiles on every wall from floor to ceiling. It is very brightly lit, the merciless glare reaching into every last corner, and completely bare except for a knee-high tiled ledge along the farther wall, on which a mattress with an ugly turquoise plastic cover has been placed. On the mattress, Sherlock is lying curled up on his side with his face to the wall. He is in a plain - and too large - white t-shirt and dark trousers, barefoot, and his hands are handcuffed behind his back.
Mycroft steps closer to the desk and the window. After a moment, he silently shakes his head. The prison officer looks up at him from his place at the desk and grimaces sympathetically.
PRISON OFFICER: You the defence lawyer?
Mycroft frowns at him, then sighs.
MYCROFT: Yes, I suppose I am.
Both men turn back towards the window, although there is nothing new to see.
MYCROFT (after a short pause): Has he given you any trouble?
PRISON OFFICER: Not at all, sir. Meek as a lamb. Polite, even.
Mycroft gives him a humourless smile.
PRISON OFFICER: But he came in with a Cat. A High Risk label, so we did what we always do with those.
Mycroft nods his understanding.
MYCROFT: Has he said anything?
PRISON OFFICER: Never a word. Hardly moved at all.
MYCROFT: He's been sleeping?
PRISON OFFICER: I'd say no. (Mycroft gives him a questioning look. He shrugs.) Too still, too tense.
MYCROFT (nodding towards Sherlock on his mattress, in a tone of genuine inquiry and with no hint of censure): So you think they got the label right?
PRISON OFFICER (wagging his head, thinking aloud): Probably, yes. In my experience, it's the quiet ones you want to watch most. The ones that rage, they all rage themselves into exhaustion eventually. It's always the quiet ones that will try and spring some ugly surprise on you. Or on themselves, most like.
MYCROFT (looking at him sideways, without turning his head away from the window): Were there any signs of that?
PRISON OFFICER: Couldn't say. That's always the trouble with the really clever ones, isn't it? (He gets up from his chair a little stiffly, grimacing.) But what do I keep chattering for, and stealing your time. It's him you wanted to talk to, not me. (He picks up his keys from the desk.) Well, I suppose you know the drill. (In a flat, official voice) Fifteen minutes exactly, no physical contact, no exchange of objects, and your visit will be monitored and an audiovisual recording made, not least for your own safety. (Back in his former, much more genial tone) If you need me, I'll see and hear it. If you want to leave early, give me a shout.
He switches on the CCTV monitor, on which appears a grainy black-and-white image of the interior of the cell, sets a digital stop watch on his desk to 00:00 and starts it. He then walks over to unlock and open the narrow door to the cell itself.
In the cell, in close-up, we see what Mycroft and the prison officer can't see: Sherlock's face. He's staring at the wall in front of him, wide awake. His eyes are almost feverishly bright, deep dark hollows under them. The rest of his face is expressionless and perfectly still. There is a metallic clang as the door opens behind his back, an ugly sound echoing in the tiled emptiness of the room. Sherlock blinks.
Mycroft walks a few steps into the cell, his footsteps overly loud, too. He stops just inside the door, which closes again behind him, and stands looking at his brother for a long moment. Sherlock hasn't moved at all and makes no attempt to do so now. If he knows who his visitor is, he doesn't let it show.
MYCROFT (breaking the silence gently): I once heard a wise man say that sentiment is a chemical defect found in the losing side, and that you should never let your heart rule your head.
He pauses. Sherlock doesn't react. Mycroft unfreezes, links his hands behind his back and looks around the bare room with detached interest.
MYCROFT: It is perhaps a strange whim of nature that the wisest men are always the last to follow their own advice. And that includes myself, I'm afraid. I once told that very same man that caring is not an advantage. (His gaze returns abruptly to his brother, still motionless on his mattress.) And yet, here I am.
He gives a slightly theatrical shrug, then deliberately squares his shoulders and raises his chin.
MYCROFT (in a much colder, impersonal tone): I apologise for imposing my presence on you without asking for your permission, but I have been granted fifteen minutes of speech with you, and I should like to make the most of them, never to return and bother you again if you so choose. (He looks down at his shoes, prodding the floor with the tip of one of them. In a more human tone) I have been trying to understand what I witnessed last night, but I have come to the conclusion that there is no point. The future is what we are concerned with now, so let's focus on what lies ahead. (He looks up again, glances at his brother's back, and begins to pace back and forth in front of the one-way window.) It will be less complicated than last time. We won't need thirteen different scenarios. There are exactly two. Two only. And I don't think we need bother with code names this time, either. No-one can hear what we're saying except for ourselves and one other individual who is (rapid fire deduction mode) an unambitious and mentally rather inert grandfather-of-four, currently distracted by a nasty attack of gout and actually quite fond of you, possibly due to your appearance corresponding with what his usually rigorously repressed homoerotic tendencies suggest to him as attractive, but more likely simply because he's now less than two years from retirement and believes that after more than four decades of undistinguished but loyal service in Her Majesty's Prisons, now is the time to show some leniency. (Back to normal speed) So I don't think we need to worry about him.
In the office, the prison officer gapes at Mycroft through the one-way window, his mouth literally open.
In the cell, for a very short moment, we can see the ghost of a wistful smile tugging at one corner of Sherlock's mouth, but it fades quickly.
MYCROFT: Let me present the two scenarios to you. There is, of course, the obvious and easiest option. It would require neither you nor me to lift a finger. We'd just let the iron jaws of this machinery close around you for good. As they will, Sherlock. They will. (He glances around the bare room again.) I must insist that you cherish no illusions about this. This system is quite independent of any that I have a hand in running, and once you're a true part of it, my influence on the what and when, where and why would be negligible. (After a moment's pause, in a lighter tone) But since neither of us has ever gone for the obvious and easiest solution to a problem if there was a more challenging one on offer, I'm sure we need not go further into the unpleasant details. (Looking down at Sherlock, coldly) You're tasting them already, I doubt you're hungry for more.
He pauses, waiting for a reaction, but there is none. He sighs.
MYCROFT: Now for the second option. Later this morning, I have an appointment with the new Lady Chief Justice of England and Wales, and her advisors. (Another short pause.) Afterwards, they will come to you with a job offer that I should like you to accept.
A heavy silence. In close-up, we see Sherlock close his eyes in resignation as the meaning of these words sinks in.
MYCROFT (off-screen): It will be familiar to you, so I need not reiterate what it entails.
Sherlock, his eyes still closed, swallows hard.
MYCROFT: These are your options. There is no other, absolutely none. As you must have known.
He starts pacing again, as if to give his brother time to think the matter over.
MYCROFT (after a moment, stopping again): Now, you know which one it will be. You know it as well as I do. But you still need to tell me. I need to hear you say yes before I go and make it happen.
Sherlock neither moves nor speaks.
MYCROFT: I need to hear it from your own lips, in your own voice.
In close-up, Sherlock's eyes are open again and he stubbornly presses his lips together as if to stop any word escaping them.
MYCROFT (impatiently): Come on, this is not the time. You see why, don't you? It's not to satisfy my own vanity, if you can believe that.
When Sherlock remains silent, Mycroft grimaces and then continues quietly, almost pleadingly, his voice suddenly very tense.
MYCROFT: Sherlock, when the time comes and I have to tell them, I need to be able to look Mum and Dad and John Watson and anyone else you care to mention in the eye and say, this is what he chose, this is what he preferred.
In close-up, still unseen by Mycroft, Sherlock squeezes his eyes shut. The corners of his mouth start twitching.
Unaware of this, Mycroft suddenly frowns, struck with a new thought.
MYCROFT (pensively): Oh. I see. Yes, I see it now. You're right, I know what you mean. There was a third option, of course there was. (After a moment's pause) And it was I, wasn't it, who took it away from you when I told my men last night to stand their fire.
He clenches his fists at his sides, bracing himself.
MYCROFT (sternly): But I'm telling you, that was the one thing, the only thing in this whole deplorable mess, that I got right. (He takes a deep breath, desperately defiant now.) Yes, I took that from you, but nothing in this world or the next will ever convince me that I should have done otherwise. (He swallows hard.) And quite frankly – (He pauses, and then his voice finally breaks) - I don't give a damn whether you agree or not.
He turns away, his face full of anguish. We see him through the glass of the one-way window, standing with his back to his brother, his eyes fixed on a point somewhere on the ceiling, his fists at his sides opening and closing, breathing heavily. Then he hears something that we can't hear, and turns back sharply towards Sherlock on his mattress.
Sherlock still has his eyes tightly closed, and the corners of his mouth are twitching rather badly now. He presses his lips together and lets out a low, shuddering breath. Tears begin to steal out from under his closed eyelids, and one or two run down his cheeks. He grits his teeth, still fighting hard to master himself. His throat constricts as he tries to swallow a sob, and another, and another, and fails at last.
Mycroft, from his place near the window, regards his brother for a moment with an expression of utter disbelief, then shakes his head and slowly walks over to him. He sits down gingerly on the edge of the mattress, and raises his hand as if to lay it on Sherlock's quivering shoulder.
In the office, the prison officer half rises from his chair in sudden alarm and leans forward towards his microphone.
As if he has sensed the movement, Mycroft hesitates, his hand hovering a few inches above Sherlock's shoulder. He glances towards the window and gives the unseen man behind it a reassuring nod, then lowers his hand again without touching his brother. He remains seated at his side, however, with his elbows on his knees, his eyes closed, a forefinger and thumb pressing down hard on the bridge of his nose, waiting patiently for the silent storm at his back to subside. There is a long moment of silence.
The prison officer glances uncomfortably at the digital stop watch that measures the duration of the visit. It is now at 22 minutes and 17 seconds.
At last, Mycroft raises his head and straightens up. A moment later, the door to the cell opens, and there stands the prison officer, looking apologetic.
PRISON OFFICER: I'm sorry, sir, but time's up.
Mycroft nods his agreement and slowly gets to his feet, moving stiffly, like an old man. He looks down at his brother, who is now very still again, with an expression of deep sadness on his face.
MYCROFT (very quietly): Sherlock -
Sherlock shifts on his mattress, but keeps his face still turned towards the wall. A pause. Then -
SHERLOCK (tonelessly): I'm cold.
Mycroft nods, turns away and walks towards the open door. The prison officer steps back into the office to let him through. He is, by now, clearly in awe of the mysterious visitor. Mycroft stops in the doorway, his eyes on the neat pile of Sherlock's clothes and belongings on the table and the shelf above it. He turns towards the officer, wordlessly asking for permission. With a look of sincere regret, the officer shakes his head.
PRISON OFFICER: Sorry, sir. Regulations.
MYCROFT (quietly): You heard what he said.
The officer looks very unhappy, but continues to shake his head.
MYCROFT: I will answer for it.
The officer frowns, then suddenly makes up his mind. He grimaces, turns, picks up Sherlock's folded coat and hands it over to Mycroft, who receives it carefully in both arms and carries it back into the cell. There he unfolds it and covers Sherlock with it from neck to bare feet, like a great dark woollen blanket. For a moment, he lets his hand rest on his brother's shoulder, smoothing down the stiff dark fabric. The prison officer no longer protests. Then Mycroft turns without another word, and with his customary long, purposeful strides walks out of the cell and, with the curtest of nods towards the officer, also out of the office and into to the corridor beyond. We hear a door close behind him with a loud click.
And a last close-up of Sherlock's face reveals that he is already fast asleep under his coat, swollen red eyelids closed, looking drained, and very young.
THE END
September 2014