This is another Mycroft chapter. Mycroft didn't know Sherlock had jumped but that wasn't dead until he noticed things at the morgue. It could be connected to chapter 2 of the"Empty House". Thanks for reading. Reviews are very appreciated.
Downing Street, No 10
Mycroft stared into emptiness. He had dropped the phone on the floor. He forgot the cabinet meeting that he had to return. Instead, he called Anthea to get the car ready. His legs moved automatically to the parking lot. Ten minutes ago he knew something dreadful must have happened when his assistant Anthea dared to interrupt the meeting. Her voice had cracked when she passed the phone over in the corridor.
"This is Mycroft Holmes."
"Mr. Holmes. This is Ms. Hales of Bart's. 23 Minutes ago, Mr. Sherlock Holmes was found on the perimeter of the Bart's. He had jumped from the rooftop and taken his own life. His body is…"
Silence fell.
"Mr. Holmes, are you there?"
"I'm on my way. Thank you."
Anthea followed, whispering instructions to cancel all schedules; and to contact the funeral house that the Holmes family had used. He heaved heavily himself on the back seat of the car. All of a sudden, he felt as if his stomach acid spurts backward. Clutching his chest hard, he closed his eyes because he couldn't believe all of these. The car started but he didn't realize it.
Bart's
Is it Moriarty? Or one of his snipers?
Moriarty. The roiling anger seethed and burnt his heart. All of a sudden, the woman's words popped up in his head.
Thank God for the consultant criminal. Gave me a lot of advice about how to play the Holmes boys... Didn't even ask for anything. I think he just likes to cause trouble.
All of these were Moriarty's plan to burn the heart out of him. Moriarty knew how to play the Holmes brothers. He had attempted to give a dagger to Sherlock to stab on the back of Mycroft when Sherlock naively cracked the MOD official's e-mail. After the plan failed, he decided to intervene in person, staging the crime of the century and framing Sherlock into a trap. The criminal mastermind knew the younger one's disgraceful suicide would be the bull's eye hit.
I'll pursue you to the ends of the world. You'll regret it, Moriarty.
His cold eyes showed nothing but a determination. It took less than usual amount of time to get to the Bart's. He saw it: the dark red pool on the pavement. An officer was standing near it. That was where his brother had fallen. He saw the DI Lestrade flinch at the sight of him. Ignoring the DI, he entered the door and headed to the morgue with Anthea. Lestrade lingered around, looking completely defeated and lost, but didn't dare to offer his condolences to the older brother. Mycroft knew about the raid last night. He couldn't care less as he knew his brother couldn't have committed a suicide just because he had become a fugitive. However, he had no intention to relieve the guilt from the DI. All of his brain cells were focused on Moriarty.
Where could he be? Moriarty had to be behind this. Lestrade was just a pawn.
Each step that he took... He couldn't feel the floor. Grabbing the door knob, the older Holmes took a deep breath, and realized he didn't have a brolly. He knocked twice and walked into the morgue.
Two slabs were occupied. Actually there were two body bags. A woman with a ponytail approached him and said her condolences.
"I'm very sorry for your loss. Sir."
"Ms. Hooper, I presume. I'm Mycroft Holmes. Sherlock's brother."
Mycroft's voice broke.
"Is it true …."
"I'm so sorry, Mr. Holmes."
Molly zipped open one fifth of the body bag on the left. A brand new body bag. Mycroft noticed that It even had a price tag. Well, she might have taken out a new one for his brother.
There he was: bloody black curls stiff in blood; closed eyes; pale lips… He let out a small groan. His baby brother...lied there, so pale and beautiful. He could've done anything for Sherlock if he could hear the sneering comment on his diet. Only silence fell. His fingers gently touched the forehead of the dead brother. It was icy cold. He looked away, not able to bear the silence. With shoulders tensed, he tried hard not to break down here in the presence of a woman.
"Time of Death; 9:43, we believe."
It was about an hour ago.
Damn surveillance. How could he have not noticed?
Ms. Hooper zipped the body bag up hastily. She understood it. She looked into the file and continued.
"John Watson saw Sherlock fall. John told that Sherlock had made his last call for his "note"."
Her voice trembled at a raw sorrow of losing a man that she had fancied one-sidedly.
"He saw? Where's John?"
"He's being treated now. Some shocks. And concussion, I guess, because a biker had hit him right after Sherlock jumped. It's not serious but John is disoriented."
Molly hesitated and then whispered,
"I need you to sign here to confirm that you have identified his body. Do you want an autopsy?"
"No. The cause of death is obvious: a fall from a great height."
In a numbness, Mycroft felt a roiling anger again.
Moriarty. Wait. Why two body bags?
He pointed at the other body bag.
"Who is inside?"
"It's Jim. Jim Moriarty, it seems."
"What? Can I see him?"
In disbelief, Mycroft's face hardened. Molly hastily opened the bag for him. James Moriarty's lifeless face was there with his eyes blankly open.
"Gun shot?"
"Yes, a self-inflicted gunshot. He must have pulled the trigger with his gun in his mouth. His body was found on the rooftop."
Something must have happened on the rooftop. What could it be? Who died first? Did Moriarty culminate his grandiose plot by shooting himself after he saw Sherlock jump? A lot to investigate...
Mycroft muttered out,
"The Secret Service is to take over the suicide of James Moriarty. I think my brother's, too."
"What? No. you can't."
Mycroft raised his eyes. Molly stuttered, not knowing what to say.
"It's just...Sherlock's case is quite obvious. Wouldn't it better to let him rest?"
"I need to know what had happened on the rooftop. Moriarty is still dangerous. His body can't be released to his family yet."
Mycroft Holmes caught a fleeting look on the face of Ms. Hooper.
"You knew James Moriarty, didn't you? You called him Jim."
"We...dated for three times. He was a gay and we broke up. It was long time ago."
"Ms. Hooper. I may want you to accompany me and answer some questions about him, too. I'll ask Lestrade to drive John home."
Molly nodded. Mycroft signed the necessary documents, and instructed his assistant a few things.
Molly felt jittery while waiting for Mycroft to come back. Would she be able to keep the secret? This wasn't going well. Sherlock had expected that Mycroft would leave his body in the morgue. This was wrong, very wrong. Once, Mycroft could've been deceived. But a second look would reveal that Sherlock was not dead. She bit her lips, not sure what to do next. Mycroft knocked her office door and that made her jump. In silence, they headed out to the gate. Molly saw an unmarked van leave with Moriarty's body. A couple of cars followed it. There was an ambulance waiting. Mycroft pointed at it and said,
"Shall we go?"
"Where?"
"The Manor. Uh, my house in the country."
Molly's eyes opened wide open. Mycroft answered the unspoken question.
"As you said, my brother might have wanted the privacy of home. We take the ride with him. The funeral house staff will be there in an hour."
She got on the back of the ambulance. His voice tone had subtly changed and it made her nervous, very nervous. Mycroft sat next to her. Sherlock's body had been moved there. The ambulance joined the early afternoon traffic of the busy London streets. Molly felt dizzy; her whole body was trembling; and Mycroft's eyes were observing every subtle movement of the pathologist.
"When was the last time that you saw my brother? Ms. Hooper?"
"What? Last ni... I mean, yesterday morning. He came to the lab to analyze footprint samples at a crime scene."
Mycroft's shoulders tensed; he almost hear the word that Molly had stopped in the middle. She was saying last night.
What might have brought Sherlock to go to Barts' lab after he became a fugitive and met Kitty Riley?
He remembered the conversation with the doctor last night.
John's disdainful stares... Molly Hooper and morgue... Why did Sherlock make John witness his fall? Was his little brother that low and mean?
A realization came all of a sudden: Molly Hooper, Bart's, a new body bag, the body's cold skin, the darkred blood... He didn't realize the short outcry from his mouth. His heart was about to burst with a hope, so ridiculous hope. He sat closer to the body bag and to Molly's horror, started to poke around the body. In a stern voice, he barked at the bag.
"Time's up for your great stunt! Little brother. Let's talk!"
Molly could barely say anything: for a brief moment, she doubted his sanity. Then the body bag squirmed like a big fat caterpillar, and finally there was a small opening of the zipper. There was the face of the detective, frowning and groaning. The detective coughed,
"You noticed."
"Of course. Now, we're almost at the Manor. Stay inside and don't move."
Mycroft's voice trembled out of joy and anger. When the ambulance parked in front of the Holmes Manor, Molly looked around and noticed that they were not any more in London. The ambulance had just stopped iin front of an old mansion surrounded by forests. Mycroft pulled the trolley into the indoor garage himself. A woman who looked like his personal assistant got out of the driver's seat. They talked in low whispers, and then soon two armed vehicles arrived at the house. People who looked like special agents spread out and stood guard.
"Ms. Hooper."
"Sorry."
She hurried inside the garage. As soon as the garage door closed, Mycroft pulled down the zipper and helped his brother to sit up. While trying to relax stiff muscles of his long arms and legs, Sherlock chuckled low and said,
"Mycroft. I expected you'd notice."
"Quite transparent."
The older brother held out his hand to support the young man. They walked into the hall. Sherlock winced when he had to move his left arm. Mycroft called out her name.
"Ms. Hooper. Come on in. Let's talk over tea."
"How did you know, Mr. Holmes , that I was in the plan?"
"The place that Sherlock had chosen... Why Bart's? Of course he frequented there for experiments and crime investigations. And he would be the last person to care about sentiment of the people left behind but there are tens of thousands of buildings in central London to pick. Why Bart's? It wasn't high enough to ensure the instant death from a fall. About 35 feet?"
Mycroft poured tea for Molly. The manor, normally unoccupied except a few weekends and Christmas, was surprisingly well-furbished. He shot a deadly glare at his younger brother, who had just walked into the sitting room after a shower and change of clothes.
"There were you at Bart's. Sherlock's friend. And the friend happens to work in the morgue and have an access to John Does."
Molly felt her face blush.
Stupid. This was not the right time.
Mycroft poured tea for his brother, too, pretending that he hadn't notice her face.
"A new body bag. The color of coagulated blood. Too red. The color had to be more pink given the cerebral fluid oozing from cracked skull. Also his skin felt too coldi for a body that died an hour ago. You must have used an ice pack or something."
"I don't know what to say."
Molly realized that Mycroft was as brainy as Sherlock.
"And your face when I told you that the secret service was to take over the investigation."
"Molly. You are the worst liar ever lived on earth."
Sherlock said, and emptied his cup with a few sips.
"Drink more. You must have been dehydrated."
Mycroft poured another cup. He continued, while urging his guests to help themselves to the apple pie and pound cake slices on the table.
"Most of all, Sherlock, my brother, couldn't have cared that much about how people thought of him. The scandal. Kitty Riley's expose."
"Quite true."
Sherlock agreed, and took a bite of a pound cake slice. Mycroft asked,
"I think I deserve the answer for the bloody a few hours that I had spent in hell. Why did you jump?"
"Moriarty had three snipers trained on three people: John, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade. If I hadn't jumped, they would've died."
Molly screamed in horror. She couldn't imagine how the sweet Jim could've plotted it.
"Ms. Hooper. I've taken out the first-aid kit. He might have cracked or broken his left arm. Can you check it? I'll get my laptop here. We'll need it. Do you mind if I record your words?"
"Not at all."
Molly jumped up to help Sherlock and the older brother left the room. After ten minutes, he walked back and glanced at a slinged arm of his brother. Opening his laptop on the table, Mycroft said in a stern voice,
"Now, from this moment, we have to be very honest to each other. No stunt or trick. Sherlock. I thought John should be the last person to know that you are alive. So I asked the DI to take John home."
"Well thought, Mycroft. Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, and John shouldn't know this. Molly, do you understand?"
She nodded, and noticed that the older brother's face was beaming. It was a simple two-word compliment from Sherlock but it seemed to have invigorated the older brother. Mycroft noticed Molly's stare, and hastily said,
"Now, Ms. Hooper. Tell us whatever you know about Moriarty. Any small trivia will do."
After an hour, Mycroft thanked Molly. He also notified that Molly would be on his surveillance, and a couple of guards would be trained on her at work and at home. He also gave her his number just in case. Sherlock thanked Molly again for her help. That had to be the best compliment possible from the sleuth ever. Sherlock gave her a brief hug with a peck on her each cheek and entered the manor, leaving Molly frozen at the spot. Mycroft thanked her and instructed the driver to give her a ride to her home.
Two text alerts came. It was from Mycroft's number.
-Funeral two days later. MH.-
-Take care of John. Thanks. SH.-
I promise, Sherlock, to make everybody fine until you come back.
Muttering to herself, Molly punched a short text back. There were so many things to say but only two words to type.
-Be safe. Molly.-
Molly leaned on the back seat and sighed. Funeral... would take place with an empty hearse. She had to face the people who would be in deep grievance like John and Mrs. Hudson there. How could she keep the secret that Sherlock wasn't dead? She steeled herself, dreading the funeral that would surely come in two days.
Thanks for reading. Sometimes, when I work on the ff. site, I find a few phrases CHOPPED and posted after I publish the story. I just corrected them. Sorry:-)