Happy Easter everybody!
-K.
The Long Week
CHAPTER 6: MONDAY
On Monday morning, John wakes up to someone banging loudly on his door. He is ready to yell at Sherlock to go get lost when he realises something's not quite right. There's someone knocking alright, but it's not against his bedroom door: the sounds come from the lower floor. He gets up quickly and grabs his robe on the way out of the room.
He opens the front door to reveal Lestrade and Donovan and he can see from their faces that something's very wrong. They walk in before the army veteran has time to say a word.
"Is he here?" the DI questions rapidly.
"Who?" John asks, blinking away the last of his sleep.
"The freak!" Sally interjects quickly.
"What has he done now?" the doctor sighs as he walks in the kitchen to put the kettle on. He hears doors open and close and Lestrade is back in the kitchen minutes later.
"Sherlock's not here," he says. "John, do you know where he is?" he asks with urgency.
"I just woke up, Greg," he replies. "Now will you tell me what the hell he's done this time?"
"We're not looking for him actually." He seems to falter a little suddenly. "We've got orders from high up-" he explains and accompanies the words with a wave of his right hand way above his head. "-to find and arrest Mycroft Holmes."
John all but spits out the mouthful of tea he's just swallowed.
"Come again?" he says incredulously, still coughing a little, because of the tea that went down his windpipe. "Greg, do you know who Mycroft works for?"
"I know he is suspected of murder," the Yarder soberly replies.
"Madness must run in the family," Sally chirps in and the doctor feels like he could slap her if he wasn't so completely astounded by the news.
"The orders came straight from Whitehall. Priority number one; absolutely zero public disclosure," the DI continues. "Now John, do you know where Sherlock is?"
"I haven't got a clue," he says honestly. "We were on a case, he was supposed to be back late last night but he never showed up."
"What case?" Donovan asks.
"Murder investigation. For Mycroft," he adds somewhat reluctantly. "Who's your victim?"
"A Belgian architect called François Deckers" Lestrade answers, looking at his notebook. "What?" he asks when he sees John visibly falter.
"That was our suspect," he says and suddenly he really is worried for Sherlock.
Once the shock has passed, John sits down and starts explaining. He recounts the past couple of days' events as clearly as he can, beginning with Layot's murder on Wednesday night. Then he moves on to the next four days of investigating and Sherlock's various breakthroughs in the case. He tries hard not to forget any important detail, focuses on the facts as the consulting detective would have done if he'd been here.
"So Sherlock's brother knew the first victim, hired you two to find out who did it and now we have his prints and DNA on the weapon that killed your prime suspect," Sally says once the doctor is done with his explanations. "Well, it certainly doesn't take a genius to see the connections," she adds bitterly and with just enough disdain.
"No," John exclaims ignoring her and looking at Lestrade with an intense gaze, "Not Mycroft. There must be an explanation. I know him and I know he wouldn't do that."
"How well do you know him, John?" the DI asks. "I've met him only a couple times, bloke's kinda scary."
"Not to mention that bloody umbrella of his he takes everywhere, even when it's sunny. I'm sure there's a blade in it," Donovan adds. "Besides it's a Holmes, wouldn't put anything past 'em."
"Oh shut up, Sally!" John all but yells; his patience now completely gone. "Yes, Mycroft can be intimidating and scary and yes he's got that bloody power complex of his." He looks the DI straight in his eyes, "but he wouldn't just kill a man like that, purely for vengeance," he says, and he finds out he actually wholly believes in his own words.
He remembers all the times he's met with his friend's older sibling. He knows he is special: like Sherlock in a way; but his heart is in the right place. It's blatantly obvious to him now; it shows in the way he cares for his brother, and the way he went out of his depth to solve this case.
"Even if," John says as he stands up and takes a step towards Lestrade. "Even if he'd done it." His voice takes a harder, more assertive edge, reminiscent of his days in the army. "You would never have found the body." He pauses to let the words sink in. "Mycroft's just as clever as Sherlock: he'd have gotten rid of all the evidences. Not to mention never - not in a million years - leaving the murder weapon with his fingerprints on it for you to find." He takes a breath then and tries to calm himself a little.
"It's a set up Lestrade, you have to see that," John pleads. "This whole thing was all but gift-wrapped and handed to you on a silver platter."
"What I think is irrelevant, John," the DI says with reluctance but the shorter man can see his words had an impact. "My hands are tied, and the orders are to find and arrest Mycroft Holmes. As far as everyone's concerned: he's done it. All the evidences point out in that direction."
"Then I have nothing more to tell you," John says, extending his left arm and motioning for them to leave the flat.
Sally goes out first and Lestrade lingers a little. When she's halfway down the stairs, he turns on his heels and walks back inside quickly, closing the door behind him.
"You have to find Sherlock," he says with urgency. "This case stinks. This isn't normal procedure; everyone got a call from their bosses' boss this morning, including me. They're putting a lot of pressure on us: they want Mycroft found and dealt with quickly." He pauses for an instant before adding in a low voice, "And Scotland Yard's not the only ones looking: Security Service's also onto him."
"MI5, oh my God!" John falters. "If Sherlock's in the way-" he's afraid to finish his sentence.
"He'll go down with his brother," the DI confirms heavily, "And there'll be nothing even I can do,"
Lestrade's phone chirms and he looks at it sharply, frowning. "I have to go," he says, "But find him, John. And quickly!"
John doesn't need to be told twice. He closes the door behind the DI and all but runs to his phone, calling his flatmate's cell with urgency. It goes straight to voice mail.
"Sherlock, where the hell are you?" John quickly speaks into the receiver. "Lestrade's just left, he said- Oh my god Sherlock it's a mess - this whole case. It's, it's-" he's stammering now but that doesn't stop him, "Mycroft. They think Mycroft's done it! And MI5's involved. God! And-" the phone beeps telling him he's reached the end of the allotted recording time.
He lowers the device and looks at it with a murderous gaze. Then he thinks about the message he's just left and how it doesn't make much sense. Facts, data: focus! He can almost hear Sherlock's voice in his head. He presses the call button again.
"Sherlock, I don't know where you are or if you're with your brother. If you're not with him, you need to find him, fast! He's going to need your help. If you're with him then you need to call me, fast! You're both going to need my help. Either way... call me!" he says and this time the message is crystal clear.
With the cell phone still clutched tightly in his hand, he lets himself fall down in his chair and he passes a wary hand on his face. He looks at the dozen of papers on the coffee table, gazes up at the wall which still has the photographs of their suspects. Mycroft's familiar face greets him from the top of the list.
'Innocent' the post-it reads. 'until proven guilty'.
"If only it was this simple," John sighs heavily to himself, looking down at his phone which remains painfully silent. He realises that he doesn't have the faintest idea where Sherlock is.
He doesn't even know where to start looking.
Mycroft wakes up mid-morning, hungry and thirsty. He sits up slowly and notices he's alone in the small room. The events of last night come back to him hazily, some parts are still rather blurry; like everything that happened after he woke up next to a body up until the point where he woke up here last night. Here, he thinks bitterly looking at the small room. He doesn't even know where here is.
He sits up slowly, mindful of his still-throbbing head and walks to the window. He notices somewhat optimistically that the nausea is mostly gone now. He pulls back the heavy curtain and peers outside. The sun hits him in the face and he winces, squinting against the light that sends spikes through his head. He recognises some of the landmarks and gets a pretty accurate estimate of where he is. Not one of the most charming parts of town, he notes, but a good place for a wanted man to hide.
He grabs the glass still resting on the nightstand and walks to the bathroom, which turns out to be a very small shower room. He tries to ignore the dust and what suspiciously looks like mould in one of the ceiling's corner; he puts the glass back on the side of the off-white porcelain sink. There used to be a tumbler holder, he sees, but two screws inside the tiles are all that's left of it now.
He moves to the toilet and relieves himself than goes back to the sink to wash his hands. There's a mirror above the basin and he is startled by his own reflection as he looks up. He's got a cut and some bruising on his right side and his eyes are red-rimmed. His hair - which he should have gotten cut at least two weeks ago but didn't have the time to - is a mess. He sighs, realising he hasn't looked this bad in a long while.
He chances a glance down on his clothes and discovers he's only wearing his trousers and his dress shirt. He doesn't recall taking off his vest or his waistcoat and supposes Sherlock must have done it. Socks and shoes are also missing. He looks at the garments again and notices the many folds and creases. There's also dust and blood and particles of concrete and-. He closes his eyes shut tightly and forces his thoughts to stop! He doesn't want to be reading the evidences of what happened to him last night.
He quickly removes all his clothes and carelessly lets them fall in a heap on the floor, before stepping in the shower. He turns the water on and the pipes groan loudly. It takes time but water finally pours out of the hose. It's lukewarm at best but it's enough. He steps gingerly beneath the spray and lets the water wash away the dirt. The droplets fall on him in a cascade, massaging his tensed shoulders and he wishes the memories could also disappear down the drain.
He feels marginally better and refreshed when he steps out of the shower tray and although his head still hurts, his thoughts are much clearer. He grabs a towel and dries himself before tying it around his waist and walking back in the bedroom. He scans it with a critical eye this time and looks for signs of what his brother's been up to. He can still see the imprint his own body left in the bed; Sherlock's form on the other side is not as easier to distinguish, meaning he's probably been out of bed for at least two hours as a rough estimate. He finds his vest and waistcoat folded on the back of the small wooden chair. Ruined as well. His phone and Sherlock's are on the table - both batteries removed - next to them he finds what he instantly recognizes as his own wallet. He retrieves it, unsurprised to realise all the money is gone. He does some quick calculation and knows he must have had a little over a hundred pounds in it. He guesses Sherlock could not have had more on him either, probably less actually.
He's shaken out of his thoughts by the sound of a key in the front lock. He tenses and looks up apprehensively; only relaxing when he sees it's Sherlock.
"Good, you're awake," the younger man says before handing him one of the plastic bags he's holding. "Clothes," he adds.
Mycroft takes it with a nod and turns back to go change in the shower room.
"They didn't have anything larger than XXL, I'm afraid," Sherlock's voice follows him in the room. "I sincerely hope it won't be too small for you."
Mycroft closes the door in his face as a reply; then he starts emptying the contents of the bag on the toilet seat. Underwear; a pair of dark blue jeans, size 38; a crème T-Shirt size L, and a crème woollen polo neck, also size L. He quickly tares away the tags: he can tell from the low-prices everything comes from a second-hand shop. Thankfully though, the underwear is not second-hand and still factory wrapped. He puts everything on and then inspects his reflection in the mirror with a critical eye. He looks different, common. But then, he guesses, that rather was the intended idea. The clothes fit him perfectly and he wonders if he should thank Sherlock for picking up the right size.
Not wanting to be lectured about his diet again - which really isn't going so badly, thank you very much - he decides against it. He picks his dressing shirt and trousers and stuffs them in the now empty plastic bag before walking back to the other room and tossing it in the bin, along with his vest and waistcoat. He finds Sherlock's clothes are already there. Everything's been tossed except the Belstaff coat and the scarf.
His younger brother's sitting cross-legged on the bed, reading the morning paper. He's changed into a black pair of jeans and a navy sweater.
"Am I making the headlines?" the elder inquires.
"No," Sherlock quickly replies and that surprises Mycroft. "There's report of some disturbances in the neighbourhood last night: police cars, sirens. But it's been attributed to a burglary," he says holding out the paper to his brother. "No mention of Deckers' murder or you."
Mycroft quickly reads the article and shakes his head incredulously.
"I've been by your house; the police obviously paid it a visit early this morning," Sherlock informs him. "They've even been kind enough to leave some of their men to keep an eye on it while you're away."
"Baker Street?" Mycroft inquires, eyes still scanning the paper.
"Also under surveillance. This makes no sense," he says at length, grabbing his head and massaging his temples, "If they're onto us, why isn't there an article on the front page?" he questions but his older brother stays silent.
"'Member of the Cabinet Office murders a Belgian Architect in an abandoned factory': that should sell well," Sherlock quickly adds and Mycroft cringes slightly.
"Interests of the Nation come first," the elder says sagely, tossing the paper in the now-rather-full bin. He walks back to the table and leans against it, folding his arms on his chest. "The French still don't know what happened to Jean Layot and if a word of this gets to them-" He shakes his head minutely. "It will implicate our country in an international mess."
"For all they know, I could very well have killed him too," he adds with regret a while later. "I was at the hotel, and as you so eloquently pointed out: I fit the killer's description perfectly and had just enough time to do it." He pauses for an instant. "There is absolutely no evidence Deckers was involved. We are the only ones who know he was working with someone within MI5. To the rest of the world, he's just an architect on a trip, with no connection to Layot."
"Why would you have killed Deckers then?" Sherlock asks frowning. "Oh," he says seconds later. "Obvious. They'd accuse you of trying to pin it on him, but this would only be effective if he were to turn out dead and unable to defend himself."
"I was, after all, the one who told MI5 of the additional security footage which allowed them to narrow down their list," Mycroft says with a disgusted smile. "And my computer logs will show I've done some extensive researches on him. And as you know, I haven't told anyone of his meeting on Lambeth Bridge: the report still says he stayed at the conference centre all afternoon," he finishes with his eyes downcast, feeling well and truly beaten.
He'd always pictured life as a gigantic game of chess, and this felt an awful lot like checkmate. He'd been played since the beginning and he didn't see it coming, none of it. He was the own instrument of his downfall and that leaves a vile taste in his mouth. How pedestrian of him, how common! He berates himself feeling like he should have known better.
"They hope Secret Services can contain this story but if they don't find us, we'll make the front page soon enough," Sherlock says sitting up and walking to the window. "Within a day or two this is going to turn into a national manhunt."
Mycroft sharply looks up as his brother's words register, "Not us, Sherlock!" he says quickly. "They're after me, not you."
"I was at the factory too," he replies flatly, grey eyes still roaming through the window.
"But it's only my prints that were found. They have no idea you were there: you can say you didn't know what I was up to," he pauses and then takes two steps towards his brother and stops at the foot of the bed, his eyes fixed on the back of the younger man's head.
"You can walk out of this Sherlock; go back to John, to your life. Let me get myself out of this mess I created," Mycroft offers, surprised to hear his voice has taken on a pleading tone, but he doesn't bother trying to hide it. This is dangerous and he does not want his younger brother to get hurt because of his own stupidity.
Sherlock turns back to him at that and leans himself against the window, hands in his pockets. He looks at him with unusually honest eyes and a small smile Mycroft hasn't seen in years. "I've never walked out on you Mye, I'm not going to start today," he says with sincerity and Mycroft has to swallow hard to fight the lump which suddenly rises in his throat. He doesn't quite trust his voice at the moment so he politely nods his thanks. He turns to look at the other side of the room, fixes the small table as he tries to collect himself.
"Where do we start?" he questions after awhile in an unfaltering voice.
"We need evidence, anything to point us in the right direction," Sherlock starts. "I need to see the body!" he states fiercely and he his half out of the door before Mycroft has had time to put on shoes and grab his coat.
They take the tube north, mingling themselves with the mass of commuters. Sherlock's left the all too familiar coat in their room but he has the scarf expertly tied around his neck and chin. He has also rearranged his hair so that long black curls hide a good portion of his face. The image reminds Mycroft of a petulant teenager who didn't want to appear on any of the family pictures taken during one very memorable Christmas Party in Devon. But then he surmises he must not look much better himself, with his polo neck pulled all the way up to his chin and a woollen beanie tucked low on his head. Thankfully today's weather is quite chilly and there's some strong bout of wind; so at least they didn't look too out of place.
They get off the underground at Chancery Lane and Mycroft follows Sherlock as he leads them to the back entrance of a familiar looking building. His younger brother quickly picks the door lock open while the elder watches the street making sure no-one is following them.
They enter quickly and Sherlock takes the lead once again, navigating through the corridors with evident ease as he goes down to the morgue.
"Morning, Molly," he brightly announces as he enters the lab. The morgue attendant shrieks in surprise and the files she was holding in her hands fall to the floor. She tries to stammer a reply but gives up eventually. Instead, she crouches down to pick up the discarded documents, her hands visibly shaking.
"François Deckers, Belgian, 32, murdered last night," Sherlock dictates quickly pulling open some of the refrigerators where the bodies are stored, "I need to see the body!"
He turns back to Molly after closing back the last door, without having found the corpse he was searching for. The woman's not looking at him; actually she's completely ignoring him in favour of his sibling. She has a puzzled expression on her face.
"That's my brother, surely you remember him," Sherlock feels the need to clarify, thinking maybe the woman has forgotten somehow.
"Yes, I... I. I remember," she's stammering again and Sherlock finds it very unnerving. She draws in a breath and tries to speak one more time but it's a mess of 'I', 'He', 'They' that doesn't make a lick of sense to the young man; he chooses to distract himself by having a glance into one of the nearby microscope.
She's still looking pointedly at Mycroft and the cause of her discomfort is obviously blatant to the elder man, "I didn't do it," he says calmly, locking eyes with her and willing her to believe him. It seems to reassure her somewhat.
"The body?" Sherlock asks impatiently raising his head again and the woman finally turns to him.
"Gone," she replies, "They had Patridge doing the autopsy early this morning and then authorities quickly collected the corpse. They said since he was a foreigner he was going to be sent back abroad."
"Report?" Sherlock demands. Mycroft has half a mind to berate Sherlock for his manners –what would Mother say?– but today of all days he has more important things on his mind.
"I can get you a copy," she says quickly before leaving the room.
"They're not wasting any time," the elder Holmes comments while both men wait for the young woman to come back.
"Yes, they are awfully efficient for once," his brother replies.
Molly's clicking heels soon announce her return and both men have their eyes fixed on her the second she opens the door. Feeling like prey for the brothers, she falters a bit in her step and promptly holds out the manila folder, her hand shaking. Mycroft is the closest and he takes it off her fingers before Sherlock has the time to reach for it. The detective sends a dark glare towards his brother but the ginger-haired man pointedly ignores him: immersing himself in the report instead.
"I got this too," Molly's hesitant voice breaks the silence and she holds out a bag to Sherlock.
"The victim's personal belongings," he says as if he'd just been offered a colour-wrapped birthday gift.
"They were so quick to leave with the body, they forgot it," Molly adds, "We're sending it to Belgium later with FedEx."
"You can count on the idiots; they always forget something," Sherlock hums a little too happily. He quickly breaks the seal and spreads the contents of the bag on one of the metallic autopsy table, ignoring the morgue attendant again.
"Right," she says to herself looking at the scene in front of her. Sherlock's bent over the table, sniffing at the garments; his older brother's leaning against the wall, completely engrossed in the medical file. "Coffee anyone?" she asks without really expecting an answer. Unsurprisingly Sherlock ignores her, but his brother's eyes shoot up at her words.
"Yes, please: large, cream, two sugars," he says rapidly, with a half-smile. "And anything you can find to eat, I'm starving,"
Her heels click away as she leaves the room. On her way to the coffee machine, she debates whether she should call DI Lestrade to let him know the Holmes brothers are in the morgue. She knows half of Scotland Yard is looking for them. She spoke with a very distraught Doctor Watson earlier today. He was desperately searching for Sherlock and he wondered if she'd by any chance seen him.
She stops by the vending machine on her way back and gets two chocolate bars. She also grabs an apple from the nearby fruit basket for good measure.
She enters the lab again and finds both brothers sorting through the deceased meagre possessions. She hands Mycroft his coffee and places the one she got-for-Sherlock-although-he-hasn't-asked-for-it on the corner of the table. He takes it mechanically and swallows a mouthful without so much as a thank you. She then reaches into her coat pocket to retrieve the food which she also places on the table. This earns her an honest "Thank you," from Mycroft. Well, at least one of them is polite, she thinks, not quite knowing what to do with herself now her tasks were fulfilled.
"I spoke with John this morning," she says finally to break the silence and Sherlock stops shuffling through the receipts he's found in the dead man's trousers pocket.
"He was in quite a state," she continues, pleased to note she finally got his attention, even though he isn't looking at her but at some candy-wrapper. "Asked me if I'd seen you. He said Yarders stopped by Baker Street with a lot of questions." She pauses and Sherlock starts shuffling the receipts again. "You should call him," she advises finally.
"Can't," the dark-haired man replies without looking up, "Phones are most certainly monitored."
"I could give him a message," the young woman kindly offers but the detective doesn't reply.
"We should go," he finally tells his brother a few minutes later. Mycroft quickly swallows the last bit of the second chocolate bar before washing it down with what's left of his coffee; he pockets the untouched apple.
"Do you have any money on you?" Sherlock inquires, stepping away from the table and looking at Molly again. "We're a little bit low on cash," he explains at her puzzled expression.
"Of course, you're wanted men," she says and Mycroft makes a disdainful noise.
She gets her wallet from her nearby bag and hesitantly hands him out the various notes she has: which is a little over 60 pounds.
"Mycroft will pay you back when this is all over," the detective says as he transfers the money to his own wallet.
"You have my word," the elder adds solemnly.
"If you have the time to stop by Baker Street later," Sherlock starts, stopping in front of her on his way out. "Tell John I'm alright and I'm with Mycroft," he pauses and seems to think carefully about his next words. "Tell him if I need his help I'll contact him through the network."
She nods and the young man uncharacteristically reaches forward, grabbing her by the shoulders. "Use my exact words, Molly: through the network," he says, looking at her intently, making sure she understands. And just as quickly he releases her and goes out the door; his older brother is still on the threshold.
"And please, do tell him I didn't do it," he quickly adds before finally leaving. She nods her goodbye and lets out a long breath.
The Holmes brothers quickly walk back to the tube station; mingling with the crowds again.
"How much money did you have to pay for the room?" Mycroft asks as they descend the stairs to the underground.
"Fifty per night," his sibling replies.
"And how much did you have in your wallet yesterday?" he enquires, mentally adding up the various expenses they've had through the day.
"Forty-two pounds," he says and Mycroft realises Molly's money will be the only thing keeping them from having to sleep on the streets tonight.
"We're broke," he says and a nervous laughter escapes him. "We are broke," he tells his brother again and he can't help but smile at that. Their mother still lives in the family century-old manor of the Holmes Estate; he makes more money in a month than certain people do in a year and yet here they are: completely broke and having to choose if they want to spend their last pennies on a decent meal or a room for the night.
"I could pickpocket some of them," Sherlock offers with a smile of his own, his hand encompassing the surrounding crowd, "But you did make me promise never to do that again." The detective shrugs his shoulders and Mycroft huffs a laugh at the memory.
His thirteen years old brother had one day decided that pickpocketing was a very good way to put his dexterity to the test. And, of course, his older brother's room was the best hiding place he had come up with for his stolen loot. Mummy had not been pleased.
"Can your network pass a message to Anthea?" the elder asks when the train arrives.
"You trust her?" Sherlock questions as he enters the car.
"Yes," Mycroft simply says. His younger brother nods and tears off a poster from one of the nearby windows. Then he borrows a pen of a young man who was doing word puzzles and hold out both to his sibling.
"Start writing," he tells him and Mycroft complies.
They ride the Central Line until Canon Street where they switch to the Circle Line, exiting at Embankment. There's a constant flow of people, mostly tourists and the brothers happily hide in the mass.
They meet up with members of Sherlock's 'network' by the Thames and the man discreetly puts a few of Molly's pounds in the hand of a young woman, along with the message to Anthea, which also has a detailed physical description of the PA and her most probable current location.
The message is short, but parts of it are very explicit 'Need cash and complete up-to-date report on current situation'. Other parts are more cryptic and Mycroft knows no-one other than Anthea will be able to understand it 'Savasse - 5 - sexy heels'.
Daylight is starting to diminish as offices workers begin to fill in the streets. The Holmes brothers are quietly waiting on a park bench not far from a bakery, seemingly watching at the world go by. The smell that emanates from the boutique keeps breaking Mycroft's concentration. He looks at his watch and knows that if Anthea received the message she should be there within ten minutes now.
"Savasse?" Sherlock questions finally and the elder can hear in his voice the frustration at not having been able to break the code.
"It's a little town near Montélimar, in France," Mycroft explains, "The owner of this bakery was born there," he adds, pointing at the boutique with a shake of his head. "I stop here often; he makes the best nougat I've tasted in my life."
The ginger-haired man wets his lips at the thought; it cruelly reminds him that he has only eaten two chocolate bars and an apple in the past twenty hours.
"Five is evidently the time," his brother adds, looking at his own watch.
"Obviously," Mycroft confirms and he pleasantly wonders what his younger sibling will make of the last part of the code.
"Sexy heels," he tries out the words carefully, failing to see what they could mean.
"Women's shoes Sherlock. Stilettos," the ginger-haired man explains, careful to keep a neutral expression. His brother lifts an eyebrow at that and Mycroft wonders what crazy deduction he must be making about him and his personal tastes now.
Their discussion is cut short when a familiar looking woman with long brown hair strolls down the road in the distance. She has her blackberry in her hand and a newspaper tucked under her left arm. She crosses the street quickly, her heels clicking audibly on the pavement. She still has her eyes on her cell phone when she reaches the sidewalk and somehow she miscalculates its height and her left heel hits the curb. She gracefully falls to the ground; a young chivalrous man quickly helps her up.
She smiles politely in return as she gets her bearing back. Then she starts walking away, blackberry back in hand, newspaper safely tucked under her arm again. She doesn't even look at the bakery and doesn't notice the two men on the park bench a few yards away.
"Nicely done," her boss says softly as he sees her disappearing in perpendicular road.
They wait a few more minutes and Mycroft finally gets up and starts walking to the place where Anthea fell. He quickly surveys the area and rapidly finds a small black envelope in the nearby bushes.
"Hidden within her newspaper; the fall was a diversion," Sherlock concludes. "Is she using this technique so often that you came up with a codename for it?" he questions with mirth.
"Actually not at all; it's a joke between us," Mycroft replies. "I wasn't entirely sure she would understand what I meant."
He opens the envelope and sees there are at least a thousand pounds in it along with several folded documents. Sherlock quickly grabs a fifty pound note and is off across the street before Mycroft has the time to say anything.
He comes back from the bakery five minutes later with a bag in his hand. Mycroft puts the envelope in his coat pocket and they follow the onslaught of commuters back to the nearest station.
Mycroft shrugs off his coat and drapes it onto the back of the chair then he goes to sit on the left side of the bed, with Anthea's envelope in his hand. He opens it and spreads the documents on the comforter, sitting with his back against the headboard.
There's a copy of the police report on Deckers' death, the legist report they've read earlier and various MI5 documents. There's also a quick handwritten note from his PA.
'Sir, I am sure this case is just one big misunderstanding. You have, as always, my complete trust. I must warn you however that you find yourself in quite a dire situation, as not everyone shares my opinions. Not even at number 10! Sir Astonbury made it quite clear that he was going to make sure you were brought to justice, even if he had to do it himself. Good luck Mr Holmes and please do not hesitate to ask for my help again.'
"Thank you," he says fondly as if she could hear him. He places the note aside and immerse himself in the MI5 documents. There's the copy of a mission order to find and capture him - dead or alive - signed by Sir Astonbury himself. Mycroft knows he works for the JIC. He's a plump and ostentatious posh man who always unnerved him. Unfortunately the feeling is mutual and both men had butted heads before. Really, he wasn't particularly surprised to learn Astonbury was dead set on bringing him down.
The door opens again and Sherlock enters the room. He took a little detour to go pay their landlord the rent for the rest of the week. The young man sits at the bottom of the bed. He still has the bag from the bakery in his hand and he holds it out to his brother with a smile. It feels like a peace offering and a thank you at the same time and Mycroft thinks he should be the one trying to make amends; not the other way around.
"Shouldn't I be the one handing out gifts?" he asks as he peers inside the bag.
"This is the most interesting case I've had in ages," Sherlock says cheerfully.
"I am happy to note my demise holds some interest to you, Sherly," Mycroft replies and then frowns minutely. He'd meant for his comment to sound like a reprimand but somehow the unintentional use of his brother's old nickname ruined the effect.
He retrieves two sandwiches from the bag and holds one out to his brother. He places the two bottles on the bed between them, unsure if Sherlock wanted the coke or the lemonade.
The detective quickly surveys the papers spread out in front of him and starts with the note from Anthea.
"Astonbury?" he asks around a mouthful of sandwich.
"Joint Intelligence Committee," Mycroft explains. "Doesn't like me."
They sift through all the documents but there are no really interesting information. It's all just a cruel reminder of the dangerousness of their situation.
"We have nothing more than yesterday," he finally says closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose. His head is killing him again.
"Oh, I wouldn't say that," Sherlock says and there's something in his voice that has his brother opening one eye to look at him. Sure enough, the young man is smiling as he reaches into his pocket for a small plastic object which he holds out to Mycroft.
"Candy-wrapper?" he eyes it suspiciously. Promotional material, he realizes as he notices there's a company logo on both sides. "Channel Movers, Morrish Road SW2," he reads out loud.
"It's in Brixton," Sherlock informs.
"And this is relevant, how?" his brother demands.
"It was in Deckers' trouser pocket," the detective supplies.
"You stole it from the morgue? It's evidence, Sherlock, you can't do that," Mycroft scolds.
"No, it's a lead in our case," he replies petulantly. "But you're more than welcome to stop by Scotland Yard tomorrow to give it back, if you want," he taunts.
"Deckers was staying at the Savoy and the conference centre is nearby. There is no reason why he would have come so far south," Mycroft works out. "Maybe someone he met gave him this, maybe they were on a stand at the conference centre."
"Maybe not, maybe he went all the way to Brixton for a reason, and then he got hungry," Sherlock counters. "Only one way to find out."
The eldest Holmes quickly looks at his watch to verify the time. It's well past seven.
"They're probably already closed," he says, thinking they could stop by the next morning to ask questions.
"That's the idea. Although I'd recommend we wait until nightfall, when most neighbours are asleep," Sherlock explains; his plan a little less legal than Mycroft's.
TBC.
