Author's Note: I apologize that this chapter is short, but I did not have much time to work on this story this week. I wanted to be able to upload at least something, though, and I will try my best to upload more of this story this weekend! I'd like to say thank you to everyone who is reading and reviewing!
2006
He let the cool surface of the table ease his pounding headache as he hid his face in his arms. The small holding room felt claustrophobic, and he was finding it harder and harder to breathe. Sherlock tried to concentrate- concentrate on forgetting why he was there.
The door creaked open, and he carefully raised his head, mindful of how awful he felt. The trembling had already begun in his hands, and he was still freezing though the thermostat read normal room temperature. A blanket someone offered him hours ago had long since fallen to the floor, and he hadn't the energy to reach down to pick it up. It took effort to open his eyes to the unwelcomed blinding light, and he didn't feel any better upon seeing a blurry form of his brother enter the room. He swallowed nervously as his brother sat across from him and looked at him for the first time in a year.
"Why am I not surprised?" Sherlock hissed. Mycroft didn't answer. "I'm not being arrested, then?"
Remaining silent, Mycroft sat a bulky government file in front of Sherlock. He noticed his brother's hand was covered with blood; the wound was fresh. The lines in his brother's forehead were more obvious than ever before. His eyes were sunken and cold. He hadn't been sleeping and not because of worrying about his family.
"You've been promoted?" Sherlock said, and sarcastically added: "Congratulations."
Mycroft still didn't reply as he sat down a pitcher of water and poured a glass, handing it to Sherlock, who didn't even give it a second glance. His brother then folded his hands under his chin, and Sherlock mocked him, out of spite.
"Cute," Mycroft shot. The first words his brother had spoken to him in twelve months. "Withdrawal settling in nicely?"
Glaring at him, Sherlock stopped with the teasing. Mycroft opened the file, and Sherlock fought to maintain composer when he recognized the man staring up at him from the mugshot. However, his brother still seemed to notice how uncomfortable he was. Sherlock didn't interrupt when Mycroft began to explain:
"Sebastian Moran. Apparently known to you as Jason Malone. He's been living on the streets of London for the past three months, but he's not homeless. He's in hiding. Wanted for over a dozen international crimes. A dozen more assassinations. This man is extremely dangerous, and he doesn't work alone. He has a web of criminal masterminds to take his orders, people who are almost equally as dangerous as he is. These are people who are wanted dead or alive by numerous countries. These are people who have numerous royal families and political figures funding their investigations because of the harm they have done. And he's the man who was found with you, tonight, Sherlock. So please, explain."
Sherlock remained silent, his breathing harsh and uneven. To him, Sebastian Moran was a school teacher who had taken a wrong turn in life and ended up on the streets. He had been one of the more tolerable of the people he had met on the streets, and Malone- Moran- had even saved his life, on multiple occasions. There was no way he could be the same man in the picture.
"That wasn't a question!" Mycroft exclaimed. Sherlock jumped as his brother's voice echoed against the white walls. Running his hand through his unkept, sweaty, hair he tried to be able to understand.
"I didn't know," was all he could manage.
Mycroft turned to the next page in the file, revealing one of Moran's victims. The sickness he had been holding in was starting to make its way up his throat. Sherlock struggled, too ashamed to be ill in front of his brother.
"I swear!" Sherlock said. "He was just someone I met!"
"How did you meet him?"
"I-"
"How?"
Clenching his fist, he took a few deep breaths, and tried not to panic.
"It was getting too cold to stay on the streets," Sherlock began quietly. He wasn't used to talking about his living situation with his brother, and it made him feel uncomfortable to see the sudden empathy appear in Mycroft's eyes. "So I started looking for abandoned homes and buildings. I found Jason- Moran- and one of his mates staying in one. They had some food to offer me, and I decided to stay there for awhile. He told me he used to be a school teacher. He told me his wife left him, he lost his job, and he'd been on the streets for nearly a year. He never mentioned anything, anything like this."
His brother studied him for a moment, and at last Mycroft looked like he wasn't ready to kill him. He could hardly blame his brother, though he wasn't looking for sympathy or help.
"Forgive me, Sherlock, if I find it a little hard to trust you," Mycroft said quietly. "I know you don't want me in your life, and I'm not here to bring you back home. I'm here because word got out quickly when Moran was taken into our custody, and somehow your name has gotten out as well. If we continue to detain Moran it is you that his colleges and followers would blame." Now he was beginning to understand, and he had never felt so angry at himself in his life. How had he managed to get caught up with someone like Moran? How had any of this managed to happen? Lowering his face into his hands, Sherlock closed his eyes, and for the first time he truly wished he could go back to the day when he ran away from home and change everything. "You're in danger, Sherlock. So if there's anything, anything at all that you need to tell me, now is the time."
His hands fell back to the table, and he met his brother's eyes.
"I didn't know," he repeated. His voice sounded so small, so unfamiliar. He just wanted the night to be over with.
Mycroft studied him for a moment longer, and Sherlock swore he saw a hint of sympathy in his eyes even though he had absolutely no reason to feel sorry for him. Mycroft's eyes then trailed to Sherlock's neck and subconsciously his hand flew there, trying to hide the scar. But it was too late.
"What happened there?" Mycroft said. His eyes flashed to Sherlock's face, where he was now seeing the fading black eye as well.
Sherlock looked away, knowing he'd rather melt into a puddle on the floor at have to admit the truth.
"I was mugged this morning."
That's where this all began, he thought, but did not add.
Mycroft sighed as he collected the file and stood up. He pushed the glass of water closer to Sherlock.
"I can get someone to bring you some ice," he offered.
"I'm fine."
"I'm going to have a doctor examine you."
"I'm fine."
He didn't look after him, but Sherlock knew his brother hesitated before opening the door, as though worried Sherlock might disappear before he returned. Knowing Mycroft, the door would be bolted tight with a guard- or two- standing outside. Before his brother left, Sherlock finally remembered to ask:
"Where am I?"
His only reply was a soft echo as the door closed. Sighing, Sherlock's head fell into his arms again.
A bitter wind drew him away from the memory as Sherlock turned to the empty warehouse. He forced himself to concentrate despite the icy rain that was beginning to fall. Raymond Rodriguez. The American had a laundry list of crimes he was wanted for, but the only one Sherlock had bothered to remember was his most recent- being the man who had been ready to kill Mrs. Hudson. Sherlock drew the gun from his pocket, but just as he stepped through the entrance a deep, rugged, American accent stopped him.
"Did you really think this would be that easy?"
As Sherlock attempted to turn around to face his opponent everything went black.
