Part 2
It took six weeks for the clavicle fracture to heal suitably to remove the sling from Sherlock's left arm. Those weeks were painfully long for Mycroft, who returned home every night to a silent shadow of the person his brother once was. He did not spend countless hours bemoaning boredom, did not obsess over unsolved mysteries in the newspaper or on the internet, did not seem to follow much news at all, in fact. He was a shell who spent his time enamored of something so riveting in his own mind that he rarely opened his mouth and refused more meals than he took.
The question was, of course, whether Sherlock would- whether he could- reclaim the identity he'd once had, before he'd cast it off in an absolute and brutal fashion in order to reconstruct himself into someone new, lethal, and mysterious. The London public had forgotten the funny detective as quickly as they'd latched on to his quirky brilliance. Moriarty's status as international terrorist and criminal consultant had been verified by MoD, something Detective Inspector Lestrade seemed to note with simultaneous relief and guilt.
Practically speaking, there was nothing to stop Sherlock from returning to his past life, resuming his relatively quiet existence before he became the Reichenbach Hero. Or if there was something…
If there was something, Sherlock was guarding it with every bit the jealous secrecy that had defined his life for nearly the past two years and, really, much of his life prior to that.
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05:55- alarm goes off; too quiet to hear, but footsteps barely audible from the room above.
05:58- second stair from bottom creaks as Mycroft descends for morning tea and newspaper.
06:25- second stair creaks as Mycroft returns to second floor to immaculately groom himself for the day.
06:45- housekeeper taps at door for breakfast order; hasn't given up after six weeks of silence.
07:02- second stair creaks for last time as Mycroft returns downstairs for breakfast.
07:20- tap at door; dainty footsteps of housekeeper letting in the driver.
07:22- two heavy sets of footsteps head towards front door; pause as Mycroft retrieves umbrella from coat closet.
07:22:30- front door snaps closed; grey-blue eyes snap open.
Long legs pivoted smoothly over the side of the bed as Sherlock sat up. He experimentally twisted his left arm around, working the shoulder joint that had been held immobile until the afternoon prior. It was stiff, a little shaky when he put some weight on it, but functional.
He dressed slowly and methodically after splashing some cold water on his face. Having mostly lived in dressing gowns for the past month and a half, there was something therapeutic in wearing more familiar garb. A light quirk touched his lips as he drew the scarf over his head; even Mycroft was slave to some sentiment, to provide the habitual accessory he'd once mocked.
Footsteps echoed down the corridor, and Sherlock glanced at the clock on the bedside table- 7:43. The housekeeper had a break from eight to nine, but usually skipped off ten or twenty minutes early. She didn't generally return until just after noon, after spending the morning doing the washing and the shopping before grabbing lunch and returning to the house. Afternoons were reserved for cleaning- today, Wednesday, she'd be upstairs, so Sherlock would have to get what he needed in the next four and a half hours.
He waited two minutes after hearing the front door latch to emerge quietly from the bedroom. A fresh pot of coffee later, and he was taking his mug- black, two sugars- upstairs to Mycroft's study. The computer up here would not have the security clearances to access the impressive array of networks available from his work office, but it would suit Sherlock's needs today. First though, he had to discern the password to even get into the system; setting his coffee down on the desk, he meandered around the small study, hands folded behind his back, observing and thinking.
The wall behind the desk was comprised of bookshelves, methodically arranged in a system of Mycroft's own design. Midway across the room, Sherlock's brow furrowed, and he quickly scanned the titles on the bottom shelf from left to right before selecting a book seemingly at random. He reached into the gap left on the shelf, smiled inwardly, and withdrew the cigarette pack that comprised his brother's emergency stash.
Too bad the smell would linger if he had one now; nevertheless, Mycroft was unlikely to look for them anytime soon. Sherlock slipped the pack into his breast pocket, returned to the computer, flexed his knuckles, entered the password, and got to work.
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Trafalgar Square bustled with typical tourist activity on a hot Monday afternoon. Ordinary people were so quaint, with their incessant need to look at old and useless structures, take awkwardly-angled photographs of themselves to prove it, and move on to the next must-see site in the London A-Z.
Sherlock stared uninterestedly up at the centre column in the square as he reached into his pocket for a lighter and the cigarettes he'd snagged from Mycroft's study the week prior. Two young women- a couple, he deduced, on holiday from Quebec, though Paris was their ultimate destination- gave him scandalized looks as he took a long drag. He stalked off toward the National Gallery before exhaling; the world was becoming such a dull, proper place, with no tolerance for such a delicious habit.
The men and women working the security station at the gallery entrance were predictably lazy about their jobs, focused more on expediency than on recognizing the contraband in patrons' bags. This included bottles of water, more audacious cans of soda and even beer, and highly banned chewing gum from the parties around him.
An event listing display sat beside the information desk just inside the Portico. Sherlock looked the tourist, browsing the upcoming classes, performances, and exhibits, and picking up a tri-fold pamphlet about an exhibition of royal portraits, in honor of the queen's impending coronation anniversary that would occur in two weeks.
The Vestibule stairs thronged with traffic, and Sherlock blended into the ascending crowd heading up to the show rooms. The people dispersed, too dull to understand that the layout of the museum was purposeful, that one was intended to view it in the rooms' numerical order. Sherlock skipped over Room 1 as well, however, meandering instead through the shop at the top of the stairs, and eventually to an exhibition hall at the other end of the main foyer.
The Sunley Room was closed; it would be home to the celebratory royal affair. The entrance was locked, with a harsh sign warning against unauthorized personnel.
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"So… if it isn't the Sherlock Holmes, at last." He looked up coolly as a lean man- tall, but not as tall as he- slid into the seat opposite him in the café. He was lean but with a wiry sort of muscle, stronger than he looked at first glance. A strength honed from years of physical dedication, a thinness borne of recent stress, busy with weeks of constant travel, not taking the time to sit and eat a proper meal nearly often enough. That, at least, sounded familiar. "Your brother really must be something, for you to be here at all."
"I said it would not be a problem, if I survived."
The man smiled, but it was cold; did nothing to ease the icy cruelty in his dark eyes. "The man who has twice cheated death, and now eased himself out of the CIA's claws. And your brother isn't having you watched?"
"I gave them enough that ulterior motives never crossed his mind. In any event- he thinks me broken. His worry is adorable."
"And your former… assistant? The captain?"
Stiffening ever so slightly, he cocked a brow and frowned. "What about him?"
"Is he out of the picture?"
"John would not understand. He has moved on, I thought it best to let him."
With unspoken agreement, they stood in unison. With the same clarity with which he'd once read John Watson's military service, Sherlock saw the ex-colonel's career in his stiff movements, in his rigid stance, the bitter pride and resentment behind his cold demeanor. A man who had honorably retired from the service would not carry the sort of weight with him this man did, this man who clung to his military roots like a lifeline and a curse; a man who had been invalided and forced home would carry his history subconsciously, as John did. No, this man had been told to leave the one thing that had ever mattered to him, and he bore that grudge mindfully, constantly.
It took only a few minutes to find a flustered gallery director to let them into the closed Sunley Room after a fast but thorough examination of their MoD security badges. The works which would later comprise the royal exhibit had not yet been hung; they were priceless national treasures, some of them centuries old, they would be risked on open display only exactly as long as necessary. But the room was already blocked out as it would be for the gala and following exhibit, and the two tall men walked the perimeter, perusing potential weak points in the security.
When they were finished, they took their time leaving the building, noting details of the path from the exhibition room to the Portico entrance through which Sherlock had entered. Once back in the square, amidst the predictable and dull tourists, the former colonel grabbed a pack of cigarettes; Sherlock took one and waited for a light.
"So, Moran," he drawled, sucking in the delicious and addicting fumes as he eyed the Afghan War veteran challengingly, "if you had a mind to it, where would you plant a bomb?"
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