The Long Week
CHAPTER 2: THURSDAY
The sun has barely started to rise when a slick black car takes turns into Baker Street. It stops near the entrance of 221B and a tall ginger-haired man exits without making a sound. He takes two steps towards the entryway and the car starts off again. Although the day promises to be sunny, the man carries a black umbrella in his left hand; he has a dossier emblazed with Her Majesty's Security Service logo hooked under his right arm. He gently pushes the door open and strides in like he owns the place.
Inside the flat, John is finishing cleaning the dishes of his light breakfast. He starts work within the hour and it's almost time for him to leave if he doesn't want to be late. Sherlock is at the table, his eyes scanning the morning papers, desperately eager for a case, but as most days, his hopes diminish with each page he turns.
A knock - which John can only describe as polite - disturbs the quietness of the moment and he drops his towel to go welcome their visitor, knowing full well that Sherlock couldn't be bothered to do it himself.
"Morning Mycroft," he says warmly when the pan of wood reveals the elder Holmes; feigning surprise although he suspected it was him all along. No-one else can make knocks on an entrance door sound so polite.
"John," the man greets with a smile that doesn't reach his eyes as he enters. He quickly scans the empty room and promptly moves on to the kitchen.
John wonders if it wouldn't be better - meaning safer for his sanity - to just quickly run outside and go to work, leaving the Holmes siblings to it. But then his good nature overcomes his sense of self-preservation and he closes the door and walks back to the kitchen. Who knows, he might have to stop them from killing each other again.
The former soldier finds Mycroft poised in the kitchen's entrance, impatience creeping in on his features. He stands with both hands atop his umbrella handle, fingers drumming as he waits. Sherlock is still reading, apparently oblivious to everything else.
"Tea?" John questions as he passes the tall man and enters the room. The newcomer quickly nods in agreement and he fills the kettle.
"Your brother's here, Sherlock," he announces as he turns the heat on.
The young man makes a good show of being surprised: dropping his paper down, and looking up, eyes widening slightly - a controlled reaction - as they settle on his elder brother's frame.
"Oh Mycroft, to what do I owe the displeasure?" he asks with a faked cheerfulness and John rolls his eyes, wondering already why he didn't leave while he had the chance.
"Good to see you too, brother dear," Mycroft says, clearly stressing out the last two words and Sherlock recognises it for what it is: payback time.
He gives the state official a once over again, looking at him with his detective's eyes this time. He notices the dossier first: its light colour contrasting sharply against his brother's dark suit. From this angle he can only see a part of the emblazed crest but he recognizes instantly the cinquefoil, the portcullis and the red roses, MI5, his mind supplies. Then he looks at his clothes and counts the number of wrinkles -seventeen- indicating he has been up since very early in the morning. A quick look at his brother's face confirms that this wasn't planned; Mycroft clearly hasn't had much sleep. Problem, important, happened last night - Sherlock's mind all but yells at him and already his curiosity is piqued.
He tries to work out what happened but his sibling is not helping him in the slightest, he stands frozen like a statue, tauntingly challenging him. His face is devoid of emotions, not even baring the slightest of frown now; but Sherlock knows the answers are there for him to find. It has to be. He looks the tall man up and down again, feeling like he is missing in on something.
No mud or dust on his shoes to indicate where he has been recently. His suit is immaculate; his sleeves do not bare a single crumb - no stopping at the bakery - or residues of cigarette ash - no stop at the Diogenes either. Sherlock's mind his racing and then it hits him: the suit. So obvious, yet he had somehow managed to dismiss it. Tailor made, simple and not ostentatious; black with very, very thin white stripes. Looks new but a little bit tight around the chest. Sherlock knows Mycroft has gained pounds over the winter which he hasn't quite lost yet, so the costume isn't new, it's simply not worn often, the detective realizes. Dark suit, special occasion: mourning, the final piece falls neatly into place.
"Someone was murdered last night, someone you knew. Politician of the sort I would guess. There's nothing in the papers about it so you're keeping it silent on purpose. Foul play suspected, but you don't know who did it. MI5 is involved so I'm guessing National Security's at stake: is a foreign dignitary suspected? Or perhaps was it the victim?" the young man fires rapidly and John gapes at him, Mycroft's simmering tea cup momentarily forgotten in his hand.
If the elder Holmes is surprised or impressed he doesn't let it on. He simply takes the dossier in his hand and drops it on the table in front of his brother. The sharp noise startles John and he shakes himself out of staring and hands the cup to Mycroft who takes it gladly.
"Thank you," he says and for once, he sounds genuine. From up close, John's medical eye notes the ginger-haired man seems a little tired. He sips at the tea in silence.
"Jean Layot," Mycroft starts finally, "He is one of Président Sarkozy's closest advisors. He arrived at Heathrow yesterday morning with two other delegates for a meeting on the economical situation between our two countries. He was found dead in his bathroom at the Savoy at 8.15pm."
"Needless to say," Mycroft starts again after a gulp of tea. "That the negotiations have been stopped. The French left on the first plane to Paris with the body to arrange the funeral." His mouth contorts with bitterness for a second. "He was an old man and his death was officially ruled as 'accidental'. However, no-one truly believes it. The French will be back within a week demanding explanations and we better have something to tell them by then or there will be no further negotiations and all ties between our two countries will be severed."
John is no expert in politics, but even he knows this is bad. He leans back against the kitchen top and wishes for once Sherlock would just forget his pride and take his brother's case.
"You already have MI5 working on this, what do you need me for?" the youngest questions.
"They have been at it all night and they don't have a single lead; they don't even know where to look. Time is of the essence, we could use an extra set of eyes," Mycroft replies.
"Not interested," Sherlock huffs. "I don't do politics."
John's about to plead in, but Mycroft beats him to it. The tall man quickly takes a step forward standing inches from the table. He leans down, placing both hands palm flat on the hard surface and locks eyes with his younger brother.
"You owe me a favour," he says coldly. "This is me, collecting."
"Not interested." Sherlock refuses again, not even impressed by Mycroft's hard glare. "Chose something else."
The battle of wills continues and John wonders if he should do or say something. Tension fills the room and although he is not at the receiving end of either of their death glares, he feels uneasy. Maybe he could slip outside unnoticed, he wonders briefly, but he doesn't dare move and even holds his breath.
Mycroft finally averts his eyes before raising himself off of the table. He stays unmoving for a few seconds, tea cup forgotten on the wooden surface and just when John thought he was going to leave the room, he does the exact opposite. He shrugs off his coat, drapes it carefully on one of the chair's back before unbuttoning his vest and sitting himself down opposite his brother.
"I knew him Sherlock, respected him," he starts again and his voice has lost all traces of coldness. "I was at that meeting; we had a private conversation before I left. Jean told me of his suspicions that someone wanted the relations between our countries to go sour."
He picks up the tea cup again, more to have something to occupy his hands than to drink form it. "If we don't solve this case rapidly, they would have what they wanted," he seems to hesitate a second, before he finally decides to continue, "Whoever they are, they're powerful and everywhere: possibly even inside MI5."
Sherlock remains unresponsive and Mycroft sighs, conceding defeat.
"I'm the last one who saw him alive, Sherlock. I want to know what happened," he waits a beat then finally says it. "Please. I need your help," and the words feel so foreign on his tongue, that he briefly wonders when it was that he last asked for help, especially from his little brother.
The consulting detective remains silent and immobile for another twelve seconds, drawing it out. Then he inhales sharply, folds the morning paper and Mycroft's dossier promptly fills the empty space left inside his hands. Silver eyes quickly scan over the documents.
"Body's already en route to France, you said. Most unfortunate: I like to have a look at the bodies, and you know it," he says quickly and although John is relieved Sherlock's agreed to take the case, he has to frown at how wrong this sounds. "Examiners always miss something," the dark-haired man continues.
"Here, Doctor," he says, handing John the examiner's report and some photographs. "This is, after all, your area of expertise,"
"Time of death estimated at approximately 8pm, based on body temperature," he starts reading. "Yes, they took in account water's temperature, Sherlock," he adds when he hears the detective loudly inhaling. "Water found in the lungs, chemical compound inside matching perfectly the liquid that filled the bathtub. No evident sign of struggle, but-" his voice stops while his eyes quickly look at the pictures of the corpse. "There are some red marks on his shoulders and chest. Impossible to be certain at this point because bruising hadn't started when the pictures were taken, but most likely due to a large pair of hands forcefully holding him underwater."
He reads on silently for another minute and finally looks up at Mycroft. "Yes this was definitely not an accident," he says. "Sorry for your loss."
The ginger-haired man minutely nods and Sherlock smiles. John takes it as a cue he hasn't missed anything important, for once.
"How long do you think it took for him to drown?" Mycroft questions.
The doctor scans the file again, taking in the victim's age, size and weight. "A matter of minutes. Nothing indicates he has fought much; he was an old man, rather thin. It would have been quick." he replies.
"Security cameras?" Sherlock asks, a CD in his hands.
"Retrieved by MI5 early this morning," Mycroft confirms. "I haven't had the time to look at it yet, but there's a report of a camera malfunction between 7.58 and 8.06 last night."
Sherlock quickly rises from his chair. He makes his way to the living room, CD in hand. He grabs John's laptop on the way. The detective pulls up the camera footage and Mycroft sits next to him on the sofa to look at the images.
John decides to remain standing on Sherlock's right side. He's slightly taken aback by the turn events have taken. Seeing the two Holmes sitting next to each other and working together is a sight he never thought he would see one day. He has half a mind to take a picture, just so he can remember this day really did happen the next time the siblings are insulting each other in foreign languages again.
Sherlock follows the last movements of the deceased on screen, three cameras caught him from the moment he left the conference room to the moment he entered his bedroom with Mycroft in tow. He presses fast forward until the door opens again and his brother steps outside. He sees him exchange brief words with Layot and walk away as the old man retreats inside and closes his door.
"He was alive when you left," the detective points out with mirth as if he's surprised the camera didn't reveal his sibling to be the killer.
Mycroft doesn't deign to dignify his brother's comment with a reply. They keep staring at the footage and exactly 4 minutes and 47 seconds after the door locked the hallway disappears and static fills the screen. The image comes back 8 minutes later.
"Other camera footage from last night?" Sherlock enquires.
"No, that's all there is," his brother replies. "We have a list of everybody present inside the hotel for the night, MI5 is currently compiling information on every last one of them and trying to pinpoint their exact location at the time of death based on prior camera footage. They're being very thorough."
"I need that list," Sherlock says.
"I'll get you a copy." Mycroft doesn't miss a beat.
"Crime scene?" the younger inquires.
"It's been cleaned as we speak. You can't go there though. I don't want anyone to know you're working on this." Mycroft's glare is meaningful as he says this and he looks pointedly at Sherlock and then at John, letting them both know he really means it. "This case is highly confidential to say the least; those documents," he indicates the folder he has placed on the table, "are not supposed to have even left Thames House."
"And even you, are not supposed to be investigating this case," the detective reads between the lines.
Mycroft, ever the politician, doesn't agree; but he doesn't correct Sherlock either. He stands up and buttons his vest, before going to the kitchen to retrieve his coat.
"I need to leave," he says, re-entering the living. He has his phone in one hand and his umbrella in the other. "I will monitor MI5 and give you a copy of everything I can," he adds before seeing himself out.
Sherlock hums in agreement and starts pulling up some footage from the camera in the hotel's main hall.
Mycroft comes back in the afternoon with another dossier tucked under his arm. This one is slightly thicker. He knocks at the door of 221B, and lets himself inside when no-one comes to open. John has gone to work then, he realizes.
He finds Sherlock in the living room. There's a large map of the Savoy's corridors pinned to the wall. Mycroft looks at it an instant and realizes it's made of four sheet of paper taped together. It's hand-drawn – accurately, he notes – and several colourful symbols have been added to it, indicating camera positions and personnel location. On the left of the map, several headshots taken from the security camera stand, pinned to the wall.
"I have MI5's files on the people who were inside the hotel," he tells the detective who is clicking furiously on his computer. He doesn't look up, just sways his hand vaguely gesturing at the coffee table. Mycroft takes the hint and drops the dossier on the pile of documents from this morning's report that are now covering most of the free spaces on the wooden surface. Some pages, he sees, have Sherlock's handwritten scribble on them.
"Any progress?" the oldest inquires. The detective positively hums in response.
"Care to be a little bit more specific, brother?" Mycroft prompts. He was on the phone with the director of JIC on his way to Baker Street and he knows MI5 haven't made much progress in the case. They've basically spent the day compiling information and the team is slowly going through them, shortening down the number of potential perpetrators.
"Narrowed the suspects list to six," Sherlock says pointing at the five headshots on the wall.
Mycroft's eyebrows rise up at that: MI5 are still well above fifteen. "I only see five pictures," he says careful not to let the fact he's impressed show in his voice.
"Oh," Sherlock says quietly, setting John's laptop aside. He quickly shuffles some paper, then stands up to pin a sixth picture on top of the five others, to form a pyramid. "Must have forgotten, apologies," he says and Mycroft can hear the sarcasm. He looks up to see a close up of his own face pinned on the wall. He doesn't doubt for an instant that his younger brother must have waited all afternoon for him to come back to the flat just so he could make a good show of adding Mycroft's picture to the list.
"Really, Sherlock," he says and his voice is one long suffering sigh. The youngest smiles at that; he's heard those words many times when they were growing up and Mycroft's delivery hasn't changed with the years.
"You fit the killer's description, and only exited the hotel at 8.12pm," the detective adds more professionally, "The time frame is very short, but you could have done it."
"What description?" the elder enquires rapidly, forgetting the childish joke instantly as he realizes MI5 didn't report any witness who had seen the perpetrator.
"Glad you asked," Sherlock flashes him a brilliant smile before turning the computer towards his sibling, ready for another show.
"You should really try to surround yourself with more competent employees," his brother starts, "I thought MI5 were supposed to be the best but they seem to be as daft as the yarders."
"MI5 don't work for me," Mycroft remarks absentmindedly. "And they're not incompetent."
"But you are the British government," Sherlock tuts.
"I work for the British government," his brother corrects him but his words seem to be lost on the younger man as he presses a few keys on the computer.
"Did you know that one of the jewellery on Strand Road was burglarized a week ago?" Sherlock asks. He continues without waiting for a reply, "It's named Eleganza; placed just in front of the Savoy's entrance and they've installed two new cameras to monitor the street. Brand new upgrade, so it's not showing in the insurance papers yet; probably why your lackey's missed this information," Sherlock jibes. "But then again, they only needed to use their eyes and they would have spotted the devices."
"I told you, you weren't to go to the crime scene!" Mycroft interjects forcefully.
"I didn't go to the crime scene. I just had a stroll down the street," his brother protests. "Now do shut up, if you want to know what I found."
Mycroft effectively closes his mouth, twists his fingers absentmindedly and purses his lips, nose frowning slightly as if he'd just swallowed something foul. Sherlock presses the space bar and the video plays. It's aimed mostly at the street and the entrance of the jewellery but a part of the hotel is visible on the side. It takes him a few seconds to narrow down the window to room 423. A quick look at the time stamp indicates 7.58pm. Moments pass and the laptop's screen has Mycroft's undivided attention. His eyes are locked on the window and at 7.59 a shadow passes through, behind the glass. The shadow crosses again a few minutes later.
"The killer," he says, voice barely a whisper.
"Evidently," Sherlock replies, shutting off the laptop. He presses a printed version of a close up in his brother's hand. The image is blurry, features undistinguishable. It's merely the silhouette of a man.
"Your suspects list?" he questions, unable to comprehend how Sherlock could have narrowed it down to five with only this blurry clue.
The detective passes him another snapshot. The camera angle is identical but the silhouette is different; it's smaller and very thin.
"Ah, the killer was bulkier and a lot taller than Jean. I can see how this would rule out a lot of our suspects," Mycroft says, looking back at the six headshots on the wall.
"At least 6 foot," Sherlock informs him. "Eats a bit too much, too."
Mycroft takes back the folder he came in with and shuffles through it. He takes out the files on their suspects and hands them to Sherlock.
"Only five," his brother enquires with a mocking smile.
"I didn't do it," Mycroft replies, he cringes minutely as it involuntarily comes out petulant. "Besides what could MI5's files tell you about me that you don't already know," he adds smiling mirthlessly.
"Fair point," Sherlock concedes. "But you're staying there," he says indicating the wall.
The sun is setting when John comes back home. He finds Sherlock, in full detective mode, pacing the living room. He is wired, swiftly waltzing back and forth, wild curls flying around. The place has turned into what the blogger dubs a full-fledged 'Crime Zone'. He made up the name: it's a mixture of 'War Zone' and 'Crime Files'. The former soldier finds, it accurately describes the mess of papers pertaining to the case that are haphazardly covering the coffee table and most of the wall.
It is part of their routine and at this point he would normally go into the kitchen and make tea for the both of them; coming back with a plate of cookies to be put right in front of Sherlock, in the hopes that the mad-man would inadvertently eat one or two. But tonight, John doesn't move. He is frozen on the spot, his jacket still in his hand and his eyes glued on the one thing that doesn't belong in this picture: Mycroft Holmes, sitting on the sofa, eyes quickly scanning documents.
Gone is the perfectly kempt man who never goes anywhere without a three-piece suit and his bloody umbrella. Mycroft's vest is folded on the back of one of the chairs with his tie on top of it; his shirt's sleeves are rolled at his elbows and the top two buttons are open; his hair is dishevelled. The resemblance with Sherlock is uncanny and for the second time today, John has to shake himself out of gaping.
The doctor hangs his jacket and goes in the kitchen. He comes back minutes later, balancing three cups of tea and two plates of cookies on a tray.
Sherlock quickly brings his friend up to speed on the case, proudly presenting his wall of suspects. This now consists of headshots and post-it notes with various information - such as age and profession, all taken out of MI5's files - scribbled on it. John eyes the suspects and raises an eyebrow when he sees Mycroft's familiar face; the post-it stuck at the bottom of it has him smiling: Mycroft, British government, 100 years old.
"My brother thinks he's being funny," the man in question tells him, between a sip of tea and a cookie.
"So any idea which one did it?" the doctor asks and Sherlock shakes his head no.
"I told MI5 I remembered seeing a camera in the jewellery store. They've probably narrowed down their list like us now. Standard procedure would dictate close filature of each suspect. Maybe that'll take them to whoever ordered the hit," his older brother adds.
"But-" John starts as he eyes the post-its closely. "One American businessman, one Irish businessman, a Belgian architect and a Lord from Cornwall... None of them seem to fill the trained-killer profile," he says, "Not to mention the fifty-two years old retired Welsh surgeon."
"It has to be one of them," Sherlock says, and then inspiration strikes him and he's out of the door within seconds.
"Any idea where he's off to?" the sandy-haired man questions.
"Not a clue," the eldest Holmes replies as John sits down in his chair. He looks at the table and happily realizes Mycroft's cookie plate is empty, however the ten pieces he put in Sherlock's remain untouched. He stretches his hand and grabs it, then stacks it atop the empty one.
"Thank you," the ginger-haired man says as he gets another biscuit.
"No time for lunch, I take it," the shorter man guesses.
"It's been a long day," he confirms and the doctor notes again how tired he looks from up-close.
"You should get some rest, Mycroft. I'll make sure Sherlock lets you know what he's been up to, as soon as he comes back," the medic offers.
The elder Holmes dismisses the thought with a wave of his hand and a non-committal sound and John is struck again at how much the gesture resembles Sherlock. He gives up and chooses to straighten some of the papers on the coffee table instead. The file of the surgeon is the closest to him and he gives it a fleeting look. There's a report of the man's career; the name of the hospital where he last worked at is familiar to him. He quickly excuses himself and goes up to his room to find a phone number.
When he comes back down Mycroft has added two more post-its on the American's photo. John notes unsurprisingly that his handwriting is much easier to read than Sherlock's.
The sandy-haired man crosses the room and wordlessly grabs the picture of the Welsh surgeon, Tim Davies, and takes him off the wall. Mycroft looks up at that and eyes him sharply.
"Severe osteoarthritis," he offers in answer; the steely blue gaze doesn't waver.
"I just got off the phone with a friend of mine Henry Sommerseth. We served together in Afghanistan; he's an MD at Spire Cardiff Hospital now, where he worked alongside your suspect up until two years ago when Davies resigned," John explains, as he sits back down, "The man had to stop working when he started suffering osteoarthritis. Henry told me he almost lost a patient because his hands couldn't grip his scalpel tightly enough."
Mycroft keeps looking at him; it's a strange, intense stare, like the man can see right down to his core. He tries not to let it affect him and continues, "That was two years ago, there's no-way his condition could have improved since. It most likely aggravated," the doctor explains, "If he couldn't hold a scalped properly two years ago, there's no way he'd have had enough strength and dexterity in his hands today to force a man to drown as efficiently and quickly as our killer did."
Mycroft leans back, averts his gaze and smiles at him and it seems genuine. "I can see why Sherlock likes you," he says at last. John knows it's not really a compliment, but he takes it as one; not believing that any of the Holmes could ever utter a proper compliment anyway.
Sherlock comes back from a meeting with some of his 'network', to a soundless flat two hours later. Mycroft has obviously left and John's gone to bed.
The detective turns on the light and comes to stand in front of the wall again. The surgeon's photograph is gone he sees and he knows his brother wouldn't have taken it down without a good reason. He quickly deletes all pertaining information on him from his head.
"Four suspects," he tells himself pleasantly, gazing at the five snapshots. It's not much of pyramid anymore.
Mycroft has left his own picture on the wall, but Sherlock's offending post-it is now gone. Instead a square piece of paper with his older brother's neat handwriting simply states 'innocent'. Sherlock grabs a pencil on the coffee table and adds 'until proven guilty' with a smirk.
Then he moves on to look at the other post-its his brother has added on the remaining photographs. He reads each of them carefully, committing the new information to memory.
TBC.