One Small Touch
Chapter Four
Under the Watershed
Mycroft was unhappy. John had let him know what happened after Sherlock got the news this morning, and the subsequent breakdown that followed. All he could do was thank all the holy things he definitely did not believe in that John Watson was there with him for it. Danger Night would be an understatement after this. In this situation, Mycroft found himself not only understanding his brother, but wondering if he would have chosen the same routes of escape if he had been in the situation. Mycroft's own uni days hadn't been spectacular. He had been younger than most as well, but Mycroft quickly acclimated to the world and manipulated those around him with ease that his brother never had. Where Mycroft could see the ebb and flow of society around him, Sherlock had a vast blind spot. He'd always struggled with emotions, even as a child, but then, so had Mycroft. He simply hid it much better than his little brother.
"Sir, we have an issue," came Anthea's voice from the doorway. As usual, she was pecking away at her phone and not looking at him. "You may want to turn on the telly. News."
Mycroft groaned inwardly. There was only one thing he was working on today, and that was the prosecution of the slimy, crooked bastard Terry Weathers. He was so far locked up in lawyers and cameras that he couldn't even begin to get to him. Even his less than reputable means were blocked. He was locked in a private cell, with his own private guard in addition to the police that were there. At this point, he'd settle for the man dying an incredibly painful death. That was going to have to wait though, it seemed. He sighed deeply and clicked on the telly.
"…revelation of the mysterious sixth individual. Of course, he question becomes, can Terrance Weathers be trusted? Could he be naming someone simply to stir the issues of London today? The question hangs in the air. We were unable to take cameras into the holding area where Mr. Weathers is being held, and recording devices were not permitted either. However, Anita Catamar was able to spend ten minutes with the incarcerated politician and obtain the information that has everyone on edge. The identity of the sixth victim in the case. When we return, we'll talk to Anita about her short interview with Mr. Weathers."
The telly went to commercial and Mycroft felt his face blooming with heat. He glared at Anthea. "How? He was to have no visitors."
She shook her head. "Unclear, sir, but we are getting to the information now. However, it is looking more and more like it wouldn't matter."
"What?" he said, turning sharply around.
"It is online already. It seems more than one blog and minor news site put the pieces together, looking through Cambridge records for the few students that would have been fifteen in the years that Terrance Weathers attended. It seems your brother was the only underage student during his time there…" she said, looking up.
Mycroft groaned. That had been his fault entirely, forgetting that there had been no other "exceptional" students like himself and his brother during Sherlock's years. He settled his head into his hands as the telly blared into life again.
"And we're back with Anita. Anita?"
"Thank you, Mala. I must say that I have never left an interview with an incarcerated subject as shaken as I did this one. In some ways, I am glad I was unable to take recording devices, because Mr. Weathers is obviously intent on complete humiliation and degradation of all his victims, but most especially the final victim who he blames for his capture. Mr. Weathers is a man of wealth and influence, and he seems intent on using that influence to make those who are trying to charge him for his crimes work."
"So, he admits freely to his crimes, Anita? There is no doubt the charges are legitament?"
"No doubt, whatsoever, Mala. He boldly and proudly admits to the rapes of all six individuals, and feels that the fact two committed suicide, three fled the country, and one turned to drugs to be some sort of monument to what he's done. He claims the moment he set eyes on them, their lives were his to control and manipulate as he saw fit. He claimed to be able to provide me with graphic details should he have time to recount his encounters with each victim."
"And the sixth victim, the underage one?"
"As I said, he has a special vendetta against him, even though from what I gathered, the victim himself has not come forward. Joseph VanDremal's blog was indeed what led to the investigation, however, the victim described there is the sixth victim. Mr. Weathers therefore places blame on him instead of himself. He truly has no remorse for attempting to destroy six lives, and freely admits that he had expected all six to kill themselves, saying that the ultimate control over someone is the control to make them end their own life. It seems a strange sort of murder by proxy."
"What drew his attention to the sixth victim, Anita? What drew him to target a so much younger boy?"
"That is perhaps a result of who the individual is. To go to Cambridge at fifteen is remarkable, only a few students have done so, all with genius level intellect. He is no different, and has done amazing and incredible things since then despite his past. Perhaps it is the successful nature of this victim that Mr. Weathers dislikes the most. Despite his attempts to destroy him, he persevered. Unlike the other victims, he turned to drug use, which Mr. Weathers informed me he initiated as well. My sources today say that he is clear of that part of his life, and has moved past that. However, the question that remains is how will this situation affect him in his daily life? As a reporter, I want to reveal the facts, but as a person, the one thing I do not want to reveal is this person's identity. However, as I discovered last night once I finished with Mr. Weathers, it did not matter. I sat at home wrestling with a moral dilemma about whether to hold the information or release it, only to have it brought to my attention, online speculation had already been picked up by other news agencies and it was quickly becoming a well-known secret."
"Online speculation, Anita?"
"Yes, Mala. It seems that this victim was the only student in his age at Cambridge during Mr. Weathers time there. Searching public records took only a little time to reveal his identity."
Mala was getting quite excited it seemed. Curiosity was outweighing morality, it seemed. "Well, then, who is this sixth victim?"
"Surprisingly, none other than London's only consulting detective, Sherlock Holmes."
Mycroft clicked off the telly with a deep sigh. He picked up his phone.
John. Sherlock's identity as the sixth victim was revealed this morning on the national news. I suggest you both stay in, and if you need to leave the flat, I'll send a car.-MH
A few minutes later there was a terse, Understood. In response. Mycroft couldn't blame John. He said he was going to keep Sherlock out of it, and he instead was being drug right into the middle of it.
-Baker Street-
John stared at the phone and then went to the newsfeed. He groaned as the headlines changed to reflect what had been said on national news. Already, he could see his email count escalating dramatically from the website's server. He opened a few and then wanted to throw his phone. It was an eclectic mixture of pity, sympathy and ire/blame. He sighed deeply and let his head fall back onto the seat. They'd set about to tear down the culprits, and instead, the main culprit had set out to tear down Sherlock in return.
He searched for and found a transcript of the news piece that had been on and was deeply afraid for his friend. Terry Weathers was proud of what he'd done, and completely expected his victims to kill themselves. His phone buzzed in his hand.
I saw the news. How's he doing?-Greg
Ask me in about an hour, he doesn't know yet.-JW
John put his phone down and went to knock on Sherlock's door. After the emotional breakdown the morning before, he'd passed out on John for a couple hours then played his violin for several hours. John managed to put tea into him, but nothing else. He'd retreated to his room and solitude early in the evening, and had remained there since. His phone and laptop were both sitting on the dining table, so he knew that he had no access to the information that broke. He hesitated until he heard Sherlock's voice.
"John, if you insist on standing there all day, stop thinking so loudly."
John smiled despite the situation. He opened the door to see his flatmate sprawled across his bed, one arm flung over his eyes, the other laying over his head. He uncovered his eyes tentatively, and he realized that they were still puffy and red. He wished if he'd been upset again that he'd come to him. He hated to think of Sherlock crying himself to sleep alone. He honestly didn't want to see Sherlock alone ever again. He swallowed the thought.
"You're staring, John. I suppose there is more undesirable news for my situation."
"Um, yeah. Mycroft couldn't control every angle, and the information got out. Your…your name was released today. Though it looks like some conspiracy theorists had it figured last night after hacking into Cambridge's files. I guess you were the only fifteen year old during Weathers years."
Sherlock sighed deeply. "I was wondering how long it would take them to figure that out. Honestly surprised it took that long."
John moved forward and sat down beside him, putting a hand on his shoulder, still amazed that he could actually touch him when no one else could. "Hey, you know it doesn't matter?"
"I know, John, but it is the looks and the pity that I am not looking forward to seeing. I am not going to fall apart. Again. I have you now. I don't need drugs and I most certainly am not inclined to end my own life over a decade's old event," he said, rubbing a hand over his face. His eyes betrayed his lack of real rest with the dark circles under them.
"You seem to have recovered from the memories returning," John said, brushing his hair from his forehead gently.
"They were never gone, John, simply filed away. I was…taken off guard. That was something I had sealed tightly, and like you noticed, it was something far too big to delete. Something like that is…life altering. And now I have to move forward again," he sat as he spoke. "I'm going to shower and dress, and then we'll see what the day brings."
John watched him and sighed deeply. The next weeks would be hard, no doubt. He sighed and returned to the front and saw another text had come in from Greg, a new crime scene. As much as he wanted to keep him in, John knew the best thing for Sherlock was his Work. So he texted him back, saying they'd be there in half an hour. He then texted Mycroft letting him know where they were going and why. He got no response as he expected. Mycroft had to understand that staying in the flat would drive Sherlock completely insane.
"Sherlock! Case!" he called. He heard the distinct sound of the shower turning off as the detective hurried through his dressing. Together they headed out, Sherlock practically running down the steps. Of course, he was in a hurry. He was going to be nuts before long if he didn't get out.
Fifteen minutes later the cab pulled up in front of a nice house. It was taped off and Sally Donovan stood out from, deflecting interested neighbors. For once, Sherlock hesitated, and John saw why. As soon as he stepped out of the cab, the few people on the scene turned and stared. John reached out and squeezed his hand, getting him to look at him. He smiled and nodded. With that he strode with his usual confidence, or at least anyone who didn't know him would assume it was confidence, John saw the hesitance in each step and the way he faltered. Sherlock's physical tells were so much more subtle than anyone else he knew but they were there, if you observed.
He ducked under the tape and he tuned out the barrage of questions that suddenly started when he got nearer that had nothing to do with the current crime scene. He saw Sherlock's body language close off immediately, and he slipped through the tape and into the house with a sigh.
"If this happens everywhere I go, I'm never leaving the flat," he said once inside.
"We can't have that," Greg said, looking over toward them. "You'll drive John insane and shoot holes in the wall. Come on, this is your favorite, locked room murder."
Despite his situation, Sherlock's eyes lit up. He followed Greg into a bedroom just off the main entry, and John felt a hand on his arm. He turned to see Anderson standing behind him with a strange look on his face.
"Yes?" John asked, arching his brows.
"So it's true, yeah? Sally told me about you and that brother of Sherlock's going to that Weathers' place. But it's true?" he asked.
John sighed. "Yes, Anderson, very true. And it's the reason you got slugged when you met him, you do know he punched Greg for the same reason? But yes, and I'm sure more painful details will be coming out if this Weathers guy has anything to say about it. He wants to see his victims destroyed, and Sherlock's the only one not dead or in a foreign country."
Anderson looked thoughtful for a moment. "I…I mean…that's a lot to deal with."
"Especially since he's had the memory locked away since it happened. So please, don't treat him differently right now. It's the worst part for him," John said, turning to go into the room where he was examining the carpet below the window with his magnifier.
Greg stood to the side, arms crossed, watching him work. He looked up as John entered and wondered for a millionth time why the two weren't involved. It was obvious they were obsessed with each other, but then, Greg supposed that knowing what had happened in Sherlock's past explained his hesitancy to get involved with others. It explained the touching issues as well as the closed off nature of Sherlock's emotions. He couldn't imagine what he had to be going through, everyone in the world knowing his darkest secret. He didn't mention it, giving Sherlock some much needed normalcy in what had to be a confusing mess.
About twenty minutes later, he was standing outside the house, having solved the case (it was the maid), and wanting to get back home and work on some experiments with some volatile chemicals or animal parts. Or maybe he'd go to the morgue and see what bodies where there he could look into… He turned to say something as John came out the door but saw John's eyes widen and push him hard. The air resounded with a loud cracking sound and Sherlock swore he felt something explode in his upper arm, followed by another crack and another explosion of pain ripped through his thigh. There was a strange metallic tang to the air, and he looked to see a man in a black leather motocycle outfit with a full helmet on mounting a motorbike and riding off, shots being fired after him.
It took forever for the ground to meet him. When it did, time, which had slowed to a near crawl, caught up to him and he was blinking up at John, who was pressing hard into a spot in his leg that was shooting blinding pain throughout him. He heard Greg's voice and felt the world slipping around him. He heard John telling Greg and someone else not to touch him…that he couldn't deal with a panic attack right now. He wanted to tell John thanks for that. But the words were caught in his throat.
John was panicking. Severely. As soon as he saw the man he knew, he wasn't sure how, but he did. And the man shot, thankfully he had pushed Sherlock enough that the bullet aimed for his chest buried in his upper arm, then if the bastard didn't shoot for the femoral artery instead. Unfortunately for John, that shot hit the mark, and he was desperately trying to keep him from bleeding out. What little color was in Sherlock's face was draining away. The paramedics were there.
"I need a sedative, now!" he screamed before they even got out of the van.
"What for? We can't sedate someone whose been shot like that!" the first yelled.
"Unless you want a full on panic attack when you load him, he needs a sedative, now, severe hapnophobia, even in this state it will put him in distress and cause the bleeding to worsen, so get a goddamned sedative now!" he announced, fingers precariously placed around the edges of the artery. He'd tied his belt around Sherlock's thigh as a tourniquet to stem the flow, then went in after the bullet to pinch the artery closed by hand to make sure. The wound in his shoulder was bleeding but not as bad.
The medics argued no more, simply handing him a syringe. "Sherlock!" he yelled at his friend, who turned hazy eyes on him. "Sherlock, listen, you're going to take a nap, but I'll be there when you wake up."
He sighed. "John, you fix it?" he slurred thickly. "Okay, nap."
John pulled the lid off with his teeth and used his free hand to inject the sedative into the muscle. A few moments later, Sherlock's lids fluttered and his body relaxed. "Okay, come on, I've got the artery pinched, femoral's been severed. We have to go now, but I'm not letting go, so work around me," John announced.
It took some doing but finally they were in the truck, and John's fingers had been replaced with a clamp, and he took a moment to take a shaky breath. He was covered in blood. Before long, they were wheeling him away with strict instructions from John not to let him wake if they were still working on him. He stood dumbly in the waiting room where he'd been shoved. He turned to see Greg, Sally, and Anderson standing behind him. He looked down at himself and grimaced.
"If it isn't too much to ask, Greg, can you go to Baker Street and ask Mrs. Hudson to pull a set of clothes for me?" he asked.
"Yeah, John, but first, how is he?"
John shook his head. "The leg wound is the one I'm worried about, tore through the femoral artery. High risk of infection, I had my hands in the wound pinching the artery by hand until they could clamp it, no telling how much contamination got into it. The arm isn't as bad, but still. If I hadn't pushed him, he'd be dead. That shot would have hit him right in the heart. Did they catch the guy?"
"We did," came a voice from behind him. He turned to see Mycroft, impeccable as ever, leaning on his umbrella. "He was hired anonymously, but we are sure that it was Weathers that put a hit on Sherlock."
John nodded, and watched as Greg left the room. Mycroft sighed, patting him on the back. "John, I can't thank you enough. You've saved my dear brother more times than you know."
Sally stared at Mycroft for a long while before speaking. "So you're really his brother? You don't act like him at all…" she said finally.
Mycroft arched a brow and scanned him and Anderson. "Hrm. You've been sleeping together for several months now, and your wife is none the wiser. But I'd suggest going easy on the perfumes when you rendezvous, because he stinks of your perfume, dear. And if you had any more disdain of my brother it would be palpable in the air. A shame, really. He does enjoy your company even if you don't see how much," he said, getting hard looks from both Anderson and Donovan.
"Yes, you see, my dear brother and I are very much the same, here," he said, tapping his head. "The difference is that I didn't suffer a life altering event at fifteen that completely ruined my ability to understand emotions and connections to others. Sherlock was never very good at societal norms to begin with. No wonder he walked into the convenient trap of people pretending to care about him, starved as he was for that kind of attention. A shame I didn't notice, and never will I forgive myself."
Mycroft sighed and sunk down into a seat. "All I really want is the little boy that played Beethoven's fifth for me when I was sad after a fight with Father. He was seven at the time, and he knew that I was upset, and that it was my favorite piece. He learned it just for me, and I don't think he's ever played it since…then." If anyone noticed the dampness on Mycroft Holmes's face, no one mentioned it.
