Thursday, 25 March 2010

"Excuse me, Mr. Holmes. Mr. Moran to see you."

Surprised, Mycroft glanced at his computer, wondering if he had anything else scheduled. There were no pressing meetings — he was currently making a point of not being at a conference on multiculturalism — so he turned back to the intercom. "Send him in."

Sebastian entered, his gait a bit more brisk than usual, his expression ominously severe. "Mr. Holmes," he said, and the formality was delivered simply because it was required. Without waiting for a response, Sebastian launched into what was apparently the reason for his visit: "Why am I being required to fill out a Watched Person Contact Report?"

"Traditionally, because one has met with the known agent of a hostile power," Mycroft said, puzzled and not enjoying it. Sebastian was looming, so Mycroft pointed him to the guest chair and asked, "With whom did you meet, Mr. Moran?"

He was angry, not guilty; Mycroft could see it in his direct glare. "No one! I spent the evening at the Churchill Club with a hundred other officers, every one of them trusted and vetted by the MoD."

Well, that was easy enough to look up. The Churchill Club was a private organization, but that had never stopped Mycroft's intelligence gatherers. "Allow me a moment to investigate," he said, biting back a sigh. Perhaps the conference would have been a better alternative after all. Sebastian Moran had his faults, but neither bad judgement nor questionable sexual practices made a traitor.

As Sebastian's supervisor, Mycroft was copied on all security alerts, but something as minor as a WPCR would hardly get his attention. He had agents who dealt with watched persons every day; that was the whole point of his division, in fact: to watch potential threats. It took Mycroft just under two minutes of sorting to find the relevant email.

When he did, he frowned.

"Captain John Hamish Watson," he said, glancing at Moran.

His reaction was immediate and open. "One of mine, from Afghanistan. Why is he on the SIS watch list?"

Mycroft raised his brows as though puzzled and turned back to his computer, typing for a moment. He drew out the search while tracking the progress of Sebastian's anger. It didn't grow — he wasn't anxious — but it didn't ebb as it would have if he'd been convinced of his innocence. Of course, there could be other reasons, even something as trivial as a bad night's sleep or too little morning coffee, but an emotional response to a charged, potentially career-affecting situation was the most likely. Then again, he'd already done far more to affect his career than simply meet with an old comrade-in-arms.

Unless he was engaging in inappropriate relations with Watson.

That thought was horrifying enough that he abandoned the pretence of searching his files and turned back to Moran. "It seems he's been recommended as a potential recruit," he lied smoothly. "All part of the background check process."

Sebastian's expression flickered as though he'd caught Mycroft's lie, which would be surprising. A lifetime of dealing with his parents, his brother, and a string of government officials had taught Mycroft to hide his tells almost perfectly.

What did Sebastian know?

Slowly, Sebastian nodded and exhaled, his shoulders relaxing marginally. "You could have asked directly, in that case," he said, a hint of accusation in his tone. "You won't find a better soldier, but he's not suited for working in government."

"Oh? I was under the impression that you like him."

"He speaks his mind, Mr. Holmes." Sebastian's smile was grim and feral. "If he'd stayed in, he never would have made it past Captain. If he can't be in the field, he's better off in the private sector."

"Well, then. I'll make a note of it. Please do fill out your contact report, Mr. Moran."

Sebastian left with just a nod. Mycroft watched him walk — less aggressive but still angry. No, not angry. Wary, as though expecting to be attacked, verbally if not physically. As though Mycroft were his enemy.

Had he picked up on Mycroft's distaste for his private lifestyle? Mycroft's shift in his feelings was a recent change — just over two weeks, in fact — and he'd tried to keep his dislike out of the office. After all, Sebastian hadn't been the one who'd made the mistake of targeting Mycroft's brother.

Still, perhaps something of Mycroft's thoughts had crept through. He'd have to be more careful in the future. For now, though, this association between Sebastian and Watson required further investigation, and he only had a week in which to accomplish it. To date, Watson had been careful to avoid any association with Sherlock, and surveillance was still set to end on the first of next month.


Jim watched out of the corner of his eye as the security guard came around the corner, barely even glancing around before he disappeared down the hall. The pencil in Jim's hand never paused, scratching lines over the sketchpad, forming a pleasing geometric shape that had nothing to do with the statue nearby. If anyone asked, he was prepared to give a mind-numbingly boring explanation about modernist interpretation of classic sculpture, but no one was dull enough to even be curious.

Subtly, he touched a button on his phone, ending the countdown. This was the type of reconnaissance he'd normally trust to someone else, except the price tag on the job ensured his personal attention. He wouldn't actually steal the piece, but he'd handle the prep-work.

The security guard wouldn't be back for another eleven minutes, if the rotation held up, so Jim slid his pencil into the spine of his sketchbook and stretched his neck, easing the ache. It was twenty past five, so he called Moran for the second and last time today. The first call had rung through to voicemail, which only happened if Moran was in a meeting at his day job. There was no excuse not to answer now, though, after hours.

Voicemail again. Moran wasn't unavailable; this was intentional.

Grimly, Jim dialed another number and set the phone to his ear. As soon as his agent answered, he said, "Drive-by, site thirteen. Report immediately." He hung up without waiting for the expected confirmation.

The guard made another pass, the details recorded meticulously on Jim's phone.

The sketch darkened in what could, with some imagination, be perceived as a replication of the shadow on the right side of the statue.

Finally, his mobile rang. He checked the incoming call and answered brusquely: "Report."

"Contact aborted. Emergency signal three, sir."

"Leave the area immediately. You're on vacation for the next two weeks."

"Yes, sir." His agent rang off.

Jim forced himself to stay relaxed even as his senses went hyper-alert. Emergency signal three — blinds lowered to cover all but the bottom two rows of window glass, vanes horizontal — was the type of old-fashioned visual warning that spies had been using probably since the days of ancient Rome. It was used to warn off any contact because the subject — in this case, Moran — suspected hostile surveillance. Moran would be the one to reestablish secure communication, once he felt safe.

There was nothing Jim could do immediately. He suspected this had to do with Moran's job at SIS. Perhaps Moran had been incautious in his little arms dealing sideline. Perhaps he'd chafed at Jim's restrictions and had decided to go after Holmes himself.

Or it was very possible that Moran had been turned, and the warn-off was meant to make Jim think Moran was still on his side.

Jim closed his eyes, telling himself to resist the urge to call John Watson. It was too soon, though if he had lost Moran, either to carelessness or treachery, he'd have to accelerate that timeline. For now, though, John was nothing more than a friend and future scene partner.

No, not even that. He couldn't risk being helpless with anyone, not even Watson, without someone on overwatch, and he wasn't comfortable trusting anyone but Moran to keep things professional.

The sound of shuffling loafers, echoing loudly in the otherwise-silent gallery, announced the return of the security guard, and Jim automatically marked the time on his mobile. Tonight, he'd go straight to the airfield. He'd take a long weekend at one of his distant safehouses, one he'd never mentioned to Moran. He'd come back once it was safe to do so, even if it took a few weeks.

Worst case, he'd invite John to spend the week after Easter with him.


Saturday, 27 March 2010

The moment Lestrade opened the door to his tiny flat, Sherlock swept in like a tsunami, coat billowing, scarf flying in the direction of the sofa. "What do an assassination in Kyrgyzstan, chronic radiation poisoning, and a military officer's club have in common?" he demanded, glaring at Lestrade as if it — whatever it was — had been entirely his fault.

More than half-asleep, it took some doing for Lestrade to remind himself how heartbreaking Sherlock's silent-and-depressed phase had been. "It's not even six in the morning," he protested, wondering if this was a nightmare.

"You're at work by six most mornings."

"Not bloody Saturdays!"

Sherlock threw off his overcoat and sank down onto the sofa. For not-yet-six, the man was impeccably dressed as always, his purple shirt straining at the buttons, black suit neatly creased and immaculate, as though lint wouldn't have the audacity to cling to the fibres.

"Just get yourself some coffee. Get me some, too," he ordered, twisting to sprawl on his back. He kicked his feet up over the arm of the sofa and glared up at the ceiling.

"Why aren't you at home?" Lestrade asked, stubbornly standing his ground by the door. He had vague hopes that Sherlock might decide to leave and let him get back to bed, but Sherlock seemed settled in for the duration.

"Mrs. Hudson knows nothing of international crime. You barely do, but that's better than total ignorance."

Coming from Sherlock, that was almost a compliment. At least, that was how Lestrade chose to take it, mostly because the alternative was to hit Sherlock, possibly repeatedly. Scrubbing his hands across his eyes, he surrendered to the chaos of his adopted pet detective and went to make coffee.

Ten minutes later, Lestrade was marginally more awake, thanks to the chance to brush his teeth and brew the strongest pot of coffee he could manage. He added judicious sugar to both of their mugs and put up some toast, which was all he had the energy to cook at the moment. He'd scramble some eggs later, since it was looking more and more like he wasn't going back to bed.

"Go on."

"It's next to China," Sherlock said, giving him a contemptuous glare. He was still on his back, with the coffee mug resting on his chest despite the heat, his long fingers wrapped around the handle. "China! Why? Is that significant?"

"I didn't do it," Lestrade pointed out. It didn't make sense, but really, none of this actually made sense.

"It has to be," Sherlock continued as though he hadn't heard Lestrade. "Smuggling. Opium, heroin, pharmaceutical derivatives."

A thin thread of fear twisted through Lestrade. He watched Sherlock carefully, now fully awake, and searched for any sign that he was using again. Loss did strange things to people, and Sherlock was stranger than most.

"Do stop," Sherlock said, turning to face Lestrade so he could more effectively sneer. "I'm solving a crime, not looking to arrange one."

"What crime? And what's this got to do with" — he hesitated, not wanting to start Sherlock's day on the wrong foot — "with John?" he finished tentatively.

"Everything." Sherlock looked at him for a single heartbeat before he turned his attention back to the ceiling. One long finger tapped on the coffee mug resting on his chest. "The assassination of Andrei Pogrebnov's bodyguards in Bishkek, Kyrgyzstan."

It took Lestrade a moment to catch up. What did the dead man have to do with Watson, other than the fact that John had helped out with the autopsy. "Our jellyfish corpse. The radioactive jellyfish corpse," he elaborated, wondering if that was the point. Was Sherlock worried because John had been exposed to radiation? He himself had said (and the experts had confirmed) that the exposure was negligible.

"Portuguese man o'war," Sherlock corrected.

Lestrade sighed and took a swig of his coffee. It burned his tongue, but the need for caffeine was approaching a critical level. "SIS is looking into the terror connection."

"They're obsessed with dirty bombs." Sherlock let go of the mug to wave a hand dismissively, the gesture oddly graceful despite his undignified pose. "This isn't about terror. It's about crime."

Leaning back in his chair, Lestrade racked his still-sluggish brain for anything that might be relevant. There wasn't much he could do about Sherlock's failed relationship or about international terrorists, but crime, he could definitely handle. Looked at that way, the next question was logical. "What about further back in the supply chain? Radioactive materials for trade, nuke disposal — Didn't a bunch of bombs go missing from Russia?"

"Radioactive waste," Sherlock said thoughtfully. "Pogrebnov was in industry, but which industry?"

"Start over. What did you learn?"

"I didn't learn," Sherlock corrected. "I deduced — correctly."

Gritting his teeth, Lestrade took a deep breath, followed by another swig of sweet, strong coffee. It wasn't helping yet. "How about you figure out why the hell he was killed the way he was? It's not exactly normal. And if the killer wanted it to look like an accident, his body would've been dumped in the ocean, not in London."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "It wasn't supposed to look like an accident. It was a message," he said quietly.

"For?"

"His boss — Raisl Aitmatov. He's gone missing. He's gone into hiding. He must have done."

"Okay..."

"Someone profited by it. Who? And how? It can't have been a local hit. Aitmatov was powerful — too powerful. Everyone local was scared to go against him." He smiled grimly. "Hiring an assassin to go after one of Aitmatov's men would be almost as difficult as me hiring one to go after Mycroft."

"God," Lestrade groaned. "Tell me you didn't just admit —"

"Of course not. If I wanted Mycroft dead, I'd do it myself. He's irritating, but he can be useful, and his death would upset our mother."

With Sherlock, even the smallest victory counted for something. Glad he wouldn't be arresting Sherlock for conspiracy to commit murder (yet), Lestrade sat back and worked on getting through his coffee.

"Afghanistan," Sherlock said a few minutes later, just as Lestrade was considering getting a refill.

"What about it?"

"It doesn't share a border, but it is close."

Lestrade stared at Sherlock expectantly. When no additional information was forthcoming, he gave in and went to refill his mug. Sherlock certainly was taking an odd path with this case: first Watson, now Pogrebnov. Was Sherlock imagining a connection in his desperate search for some reason Watson wasn't willing to communicate with him? If he'd never had a date before, then he'd never had anyone break up with him.

At Molly's, after his — well, Lestrade still hesitated to call it a 'breakdown', but that was the only way it could be described — Sherlock had asked for all of their help. Demanded, actually. He'd insisted that some external force had come between him and John, and he needed time and assistance to find out the details. Lestrade had been willing to help, thinking that perhaps someone had warned John away from Sherlock, and this could all be settled with a quick chat at the pub. Only now, Sherlock was complicating things beyond even Lestrade's willingness to play along.

Was Sherlock's unwillingness to accept the end of their relationship making him imagine connections that weren't there? Or was Lestrade just failing to follow the twists of logic that Sherlock couldn't be arsed to explain?

Sherlock sat up, got to his feet, and followed. "That could be the connection. Someone who was there might know the assassin. Or it could have been a military hit. It was professionally done."

"The thing with the" — he caught himself before he could say jellyfish — "man o'war?"

Sherlock stuck his mug in front of Lestrade for a refill. He'd finished about half of it, so Lestrade topped it off and poured the rest into his own mug. He'd bought the small coffee pot in hopes of one day returning to the family-size pot at his house, but it didn't look like he'd be sharing coffee with his soon-to-be-ex-wife any time soon.

"The assassination of the bodyguards. One sniper took out two alert bodyguards in the ten feet between the door and the car waiting on the street. A team took Pogrebnov right in front of the driver. Days later, he shows up in London, dead from a fatal overdose of cytotoxins."

"Organized crime, private militia — that sort of thing is all the rage out there, isn't it?"

"Mmm, yes, all but the sniper," Sherlock said thoughtfully as he poured an unhealthy amount of sugar into his coffee. "Very few organizations can provide enough work or funding to keep a sniper busy full-time. He was probably freelance, in it just for the — Oh," he breathed, setting down the plastic tub of sugar with a dull thunk.

Lestrade couldn't help but feel a jealous little surge of excitement as he watched Sherlock's expression change, his eyes nearly glowing as though illuminated from within. That moment of revelation wasn't new to him — he was a competent enough detective for most cases — but every single time, Sherlock's realizations left Lestrade in awe.

"Who can employ a sniper full-time?" He put down his mug almost at the edge of the counter and spun, heading right for where he'd thrown his coat.

Lestrade went after him, feeling lost. "The army?"

"Yes!" Sherlock swept up his coat and scarf, and then threw open the door.

"Sherlock! What —"

"The army! The sniper was military!" Sherlock said, his grin manic, and rushed out towards the staircase.

Lestrade pushed the door closed and leaned against it, scrubbing a hand across his eyes as if he could clear away the last fog of sleep that was clinging to his thoughts. He tried to remember everything he'd seen in Watson's box of military decorations, all the service ribbons and awards and the beret. Watson was a doctor, but he hadn't served in a base hospital somewhere well behind the lines.

Christ, Lestrade thought, finally catching up with Sherlock. Had John Watson been the sniper who'd killed the dead man's bodyguards?


Boredom was a poisonous thing when combined with the constant, low-grade tension of being watched. John had identified three definite surveillance operatives and two more possibles. They were damned good, but had become a bit sloppy over the last week or so, which told him they no longer considered him a threat. Hopefully that meant they'd be winding down their operation soon. Surely he wasn't worth watching forever, especially since he'd carefully avoided any contact with Sherlock.

But for now, they were out there, and though he told himself it was just his imagination, he could feel them watching, waiting. Then again, there was a good chance it wasn't just imagination; he'd deliberately not searched for surveillance devices, beyond his first cursory sweep.

The last time he'd dealt with this sort of tense waiting had been Afghanistan. Out on patrol, he'd known that the odds were good that his section was going to get attacked, somewhere, some time. But those patrols ended. You got back to base and you could sleep and shower and not have that tension curling through your gut and up into your shoulders, locking up your spine with aches, making you twitch at every shadow.

But this... this didn't have an end. He was always being watched — at home and out with friends, when he was eating, sleeping, showering. Always.

He'd tried to relax. He was a doctor. He'd read the studies about how persistent anxiety slowed healing to a crawl, not to mention its overall effect on alertness and energy. He knew that the best thing for him, at least physically, was to relax, cautiously exercise, and resist the urge to go running around London, trying to work out who had abducted him.

Relax. God, it felt impossible. He paced, driving himself to take another few steps without the crutch, lurching like a zombie from the support of his hideously out-of-place settee to his armchair to the desk and back again, pushing his physical recovery out of sheer desperation to do something. He knew that Bill would probably shout at him for pushing himself this way — any medical professional would.

Ironic, that. He was doing precisely what Sherlock most likely would do in his position, trapped into a holding pattern. Except Sherlock wouldn't try to order him down, as John would have if their positions were reversed. Sherlock would probably try using logic instead, but logic had nothing to do with the purely emotional, unreasonable state that was consuming John.

They'd taken him from his home. Short of finding some deep concrete bunker and hiding out like one of those militia groups, bristling with firepower and hidden behind miles of barbed wire and attack dogs, John wasn't quite certain how he was ever going to actually relax again. He'd taken reasonable precautions, locking the flat door and windows, keeping a weapon close at hand (despite it being illegal to do so), and he'd been taken as easily as a child kidnapped from the park. Easier, in fact, since the bold daylight attack had been executed flawlessly to leave no witnesses at all.

To make matters worse, all of his sources had turned up no information at all. No one was recruiting military specialists for any in-country ops, though John, Murray, and Vanterpool had all received identical job offers from an American military security firm that dealt with 'issues' in small, little-known nations with governments made wealthy by natural deposits of oil, gold, or diamonds. John might have even been tempted by the offered salary — and by the opportunity to get back in the thick of things — if not for all this.

Finally, the ache in his knee drove him to sit in the relative comfort of his armchair. He picked up the old, tattered paperback that had stayed with him through schooling and training and postings throughout the world and back to London again. Anyone who didn't know him would probably think him crazy for considering H.P. Lovecraft's compiled tales of the Elder Gods to be comforting, but for John, impossible eldritch horror was absurd enough to usually distract him from reality.

But even The Cats of Ulthar couldn't keep his mind engaged for long, and he finally gave it up as a bad job and instead went to put up some tea. One week, he reminded himself. One week and he'd be off the damned crutch and finally getting back in shape. His gym membership was already paid up. How he was going to get through the week, he had no idea, but somehow, he'd manage. He had no choice.


Thursday, 1 April, 2010

The knock was barely a light tap of short, manicured fingernails scratching on wood, but the sound registered on Mycroft's consciousness all the same. "Come in," he said, not particularly raising his voice.

His assistant entered, eyes lowered to the screen of her BlackBerry. "A last few matters, sir, before the holiday weekend."

"By all means," he invited. Best to get through as much business tonight as possible. He already felt mildly ill at the thought of what would be awaiting him by the Monday after Easter, but the family rules were strictly enforced: No work during the holidays.

Her fingers flew over the keyboard. "I've received a draft of President Karzai's speech responding to the fraud issue. I believe it will be acceptable."

Mycroft sighed, glancing at the email she sent as she spoke. "Acceptable, yes. Will you be available this weekend if there are any incidents?"

There was a hint of reprimand in her tone as she said, "I'm getting married this weekend, sir."

"Oh, yes. That business." Mycroft gave a false, slight smile as he shifted in his seat. He was known as much for his lack of sentiment as for his absolute dedication to social niceties, and he could see uncertainty in her eyes: Which path would he follow? "Go on."

"There's a bit of difficulty coming up in Pakistan. The corruption cases."

"Yes, the attorney general will resign. I do hope for someone less malleable in his place, but it's out of my hands, I'm afraid."

She had the grace not to comment on that untruth. Instead, she continued, "Our agent in Venezuela passed along a preliminary agenda for their negotiations with the Russian Prime Minister, but nothing concrete. We're waiting for additional information with the next satellite pass."

"Excellent."

"And finally, Operation TALENT is scheduled to end." She set her BlackBerry in her lap and looked to him for instructions.

Mycroft pressed his fingertips together, tipping his head back to regard the bookshelf across the room. Unfortunately, it did seem Captain Watson had received Mycroft's message. He'd made no attempt to resume contact with Sherlock and had apparently moved on with this new target of his, James Moriarty. A small part of Mycroft had hoped Watson would prove too stubborn and take some action that required more decisive measures, but apparently that wasn't to be.

Well, he had no doubt that if there were any lingering trauma, Sherlock would eventually seek retribution on his own. This weekend at the family home would give Mycroft the chance to subtly offer aid to his brother again. Even though Sherlock had done an admirable job mastering his emotions in his earliest childhood, there was still a chance of some lingering mental trauma — a sort of 'why me?' reaction, Mycroft surmised.

"Have the active agents resume their normal duties," he finally said. Since he had a hardcopy of all the files in his personal safe at home, he added, "Destroy all records of TALENT and associated files. Let's put all this unpleasantness in the past, where it belongs."

"Very well." Up came the BlackBerry, and the typing resumed. "Will that be all, sir?"

"Yes. I'm certain we'll have a great deal to do Monday morning."

"I've already prepared my replacement," she said, rising.

Mycroft made a show of frowning. "Replacement?" he asked, his voice taking on a scolding tone. "This is a politically delicate time to be taking a vacation."

Serenely, she nodded. "It always is."

"Well, if you insist upon going through with this marriage..." He leaned down and opened the bottom drawer of his desk, removing the package that he'd placed there earlier that morning. "You'll need to keep this with you."

It was rare that he actually surprised his assistant. Her lips pursed thoughtfully, and she slipped the BlackBerry into its rarely-used holster to free her hands. "Sir?" she asked curiously, lifting the box. It was flat and somewhat smaller than a hardcover book. It made of thick, cream-colored parchment and tied with an old gold ribbon.

He gestured for her to proceed, so she slipped the ribbon over the corners and lifted the lid. Her eyes went very wide. "Oh," she breathed, staring down at the necklace resting on black velvet.

"My dear grandmother's," he said, smiling fondly. "I believe it qualifies for both 'something old' and 'something blue'."

"Sir, I couldn't," she protested, her gaze locked to the necklace.

"Consider this my way of attending the happy event, by proxy."

She favored him with a genuine smile and gently closed the lid, hiding away the square-cut sapphire in its antique gold setting. "It will match my dress perfectly."

"Imagine that," he said innocently, and they both laughed.

"Have a lovely Easter, sir, and do give your family my regards."

"And joy to you and your husband-to-be on your wedding," he answered. "I'll see you in two weeks."

"Sir." With one last smile and nod, she left.

Mycroft finished up a few emails, and then lifted his phone to call for a car. It was already half eight, and he'd be leaving early tomorrow morning for the long drive home, assuming he didn't have to chase Sherlock across London. Best to get an early night's sleep, to better be prepared for tomorrow's family drama.