I don't own anything, thank you all for reading, and please ask any questions you may have. Side Note: "ad libitum" is a musical term that means literally "at liberty"; a piece played "at liberty" is marked by its freely moving and sometimes improvised phrasing. Sincerely, Carrie
7. Ad Libitum
Sherlock hadn't expected to literally run into Anstice, especially coming out of a grungy pub in Aberdeen. Though they had grown up there, she never ventured to the fringes. She was supposed to be in Edinburgh for the next few weeks, according to Mycroft, finishing some research project. Details were no longer directly exchanged between the two youngest Holmes siblings. He hadn't noticed, but she almost ran him down. Their bodies collided painfully on the sidewalk, but Sherlock caught Anstice before she hit the ground.
"Will!" Anstice had cried when she recognized him and enveloped him in a crushing hug he knew well from childhood. That Easter past had been the last he'd seen or heard of the girl – the argument so violent that Anstice retreated to the attic with gashes on her hands, neck, and bruised legs while their father chased Sherlock from the house. They were converging on eleven months of communicational void. Yet, she looked so happy to see him, was smiling for all the world, tittering on about nothing...
He'd almost missed it.
Her pupils dilated so that her steel blue pupils nearly vanished.
The habit had returned with a vengeance; his little sister, prattling on, high as a bloody kite.
"Stasi, can you do something for me?" He started gently. She nodded enthusiastically and didn't object as he tugged her towards a less populated side street. He tried not to anger her, but the impromptu pocket search was greeted with defense. Anstice pushed, jittering and spouting off half-sentences with childish shouted 'give it back's and 'I need that's. She looked dead scared, eyes flickering about in the manner of a prisoner looking for escape and finding none. Honestly, it wasn't like she had a gun pointed to her head.
Sherlock wasn't surprised when her nails caught just under her eye, leaving a stinging scratch marks. Eventually, he found what he was after: a blue Altoids container, filled with the candy-coloured tablets of ecstasy and stashed in an interior coat pocket. Shooting her a burning glare, he stowed the tin in his jacket.
"Give it back, Will!" Anstice yelled, bouncing on her toes nervously. Her jaw clenched funny and her fingers quivered as she clawed at his shirt front, trying to get at his jacket. "It's mine! I paid for it – please!"
"You most certainly did," he muttered, catching her flailing wrists. Her head stopped its accusatory whipping about – the familiar paranoia – at the words.
"What did you just say?" Her eyes narrowed, making them look entirely black in the low street light. A quick once over: unstable balance, flushed cheeks, the battered state of her scarf, and the tell-tale inflated pupils.
She'd been at the stuff a while.
Anstice tensed and tried to pull away, but Sherlock yanked her back forward. A yelp issued from her lips, eyes watering a bit as her breathing sped up. Her skin was burning hot and would've been mistaken for feverish had he not known better. The fury and disappointment welled up in his chest until it couldn't be held at bay any longer.
"You're a fucking mess, Anstice," He spat venom. "An absolute disaster. At least I had the good sense to finish school and try to stay clean for more than a year!"
"But you're slipping too!" She answered in a taunting sing-song. The scene they were putting on – would mummy be proud – was beginning to garner attention of all kinds from passer-by. "That's why you're so cross with me, Will! You messed up too and are taking it out on me,"
Sherlock felt the [frustration] rise into his cheeks. "How would you know anything? You're stoned out of your mind,"
"I'll tell Mycroft," she giggled madly, sounding increasingly insane as time passed like years.
"I'll tell mum,"
"Ooo, scary!" Anstice's knees bent forward and her head dropped back. She let out a cackle worthy of a mental institution. "I'll tell dad!" Her weight swung away from Sherlock as she dangled like a toddler with her back arched. She laughed even more as her brother jerked her frame up again. He hoisted her up and began walking in the direction of a main road – any main road. Anstice squirmed.
"Where are we going?" She asked for the fourth time, nails digging into his back now. Sherlock grimaced, pulling her ponytail.
"You're coming home with me where I may or may not call Mycroft," He hissed bitterly. "If you want any hope of negotiating with us when you're sober, I wholly suggest you shut up."
Sebastian Moran lived in a silence of his own these days. It was less comfortable than one might think, but livable. His mind was constantly buzzing with time figures, coordinate approximations, and wind directions whenever he even glanced at the streetscape. The fire escape, reachable by ducking out of the living room window, was the man's favored observatory of the milling Londoners below. Molly had been up with him once; she'd been spending a lot of time at the Chelsea flat since Moriarty started "deteriorating". He couldn't blame the young woman because he'd been equally as worried (if mutely so) when Jim had melted down the first time. It was nearly habitual to scout out potential targets and Sebastian was rather good at picking them, but he had stopped voicing them when Molly was around. The young woman found it sickening.
Random hits were near impossible. There were always links that illustrated the killer. The trick was making the links so scattered – even removable if one was close enough. Confusing Scotland Yard was always fun.
Sebastian took a long pull on his cigarette and rolled his sleeves up further. He picked a number out of the air – 35 – and proceeded to wait that number of seconds before choosing a victim. First: a teenage girl idling on the sidewalk opposite in a black coat. Next: an older man checking a ticket on his car, obviously displeased. Last: a small black dog tethered to a woman gabbing distractedly on her mobile. The connection: each sported a silver tag of some kind (a charm bracelet, allergy and name tags).
Trapline blew a stream of smoke and turned away from Chelsea to duck back into the flat. It was newer and nicer than the headquarters. In the hall closet was a briefcase containing his broken down M24 rifle. It had been a long while since Sebastian had hefted that kind of artillery. His grandfather had taught him to shoot on a Winchester model 70, which was his preference for most of his dirty work. The boss, however, had requested the more modern weapon for a job. Sebastian figured he might as well break it in again.
Thursday, December 27th
Sebastian Moran wasn't surprised to get a phone call from Moriarty early that morning. Pre-dawn commands didn't faze the man; a warning that SIS was closing in and coming for the man that day was not the most welcome news. After the cryptic message had been passed, the consulting criminal hung up without room for reply. That left Moran to call Molly and warn her not to bring groceries round.
"I'll probably have to learn a new address after this," she had commented off-handedly. Relocation was inevitable. Even so, his thoughts hoped that the pair of them could live together. Maybe they would finally be able to leave London.
So, Moran waited, scanning the streets until a silver Toyota caught his eye. A young woman in jeans, boots, a black shirt and brown leather jacket was being let out. The vehicle quickly drove off towards the rest of Chelsea, inconspicuous in the afternoon rush hour throng. The woman jogged across the street, black ponytail bobbing in the sunlight. At the same, a young man with sandy blonde hair crossed his legs and adjusted his sunglasses from a bus stop just beyond where the woman was let out.
The agent and her keeper.
Moran considered picking off the other blonde, but that would be boring and would tip them off that Trapline knew. If he learned anything about games in the past six months, it paid to keep them interesting and keep the players guessing. Sebastian had an eight out of ten chance of playing his cards perfectly and he only admitted that because a full ten out of ten would seem arrogant. That was something Sebastian liked to pretend he wasn't.
He watched the woman, who he now recognized as 'Persephone' – the woman James went on about at length and Molly had him search. Sebastian wondered if Moriarty would keep the scrap of skin with the Chinese tattoo on it as a souvenir. A smirk formed at the absurdity of her being there; her cover had been annihilated and yet she was put back on the mission. Honestly, Moran sometimes wondered how SIS stayed viable with all the stupid decisions they'd made recently. Either way, she was putting on a decent show, just like her brother had with the VanCoon murder: fumbling through her pockets as if searching for keys, then waiting for a moment before finally requesting to be buzzed in. This Persephone was quite the little actress – she really should've gone into the theater, or cabaret with that figure.
Pulling himself away from the lookout window, Moran walked to the bedroom. The man kept the other tools of his trade in the bottom drawer of the dresser. While he favored the quick method with his Winchester more than any other in the collection, Moran had spent the hours designing a wicked itinerary for the agents. In the top of his left shoe went a Swiss blade; the right front pocket held a pill case with two cyanide capsules; his dominant hand wielded the unusual defense of a cattle prod.
Weighing the device in his palm for a second, Moran felt satisfaction bloom in his chest and run like fire through his nerves. The sensation bubbled and built in his blood, peaking as he watched the prongs at the end crackle blue. The exhilaration and anticipation from the adrenaline was Moran's favorite part of jobs. It reminded him of his stint in the desert, playing God when God had abandoned them. Sebastian positioned himself in the pantry perpendicular to the front door. Though the half-closed door, the man listened as the lock's tumbler clicked to allow entry. The door mutely opened, shut and the figure of raven-haired Persephone appeared. She had her gun drawn but lowered from the normal ninety-degree angle.
Trapline blinked once as he moved from the pantry and smashed the handle into the girl's head.
Anstice was just turning as metal broadsided against her cheek. She hissed as the blood raced to where a bruise would no doubt form. Her attacker was exactly as pictured on Irene's phone: light brown hair and brown eyes, afternoon stubble just noticeable. He was dressed in jeans, a grey tee with a black shooting jacket. If he wasn't jamming the pokers of a cattle prod into her gut, Anstice would've thought him handsome.
As the electricity flowed into her skin, Anstice let out a choked gasp and her Beretta clattered to the linoleum floor. She pitched forward as she dropped to her knees; the gun was kicked out of the way, then Moran's shoe connected with her temple. Her vision blurred, but Anstice eventually regained vitality and swung her foot out forcing it into the side of Moran's knee. The blow sent the man to the floor as Anstice scrambled to her feet again. She backed into the living room, glancing around for anything to protect herself.
"Attack in progress," She said, pressing a finger to the earpiece she wore. There was a click and Mycroft's voice came through.
"Continue as planned,"
Anstice pushed on, engaged with Moran in a one-sided fencing match. Ducking underneath one of the man's swipes of the weapon, Anstice wheeled around him and smashed her elbow into the base of his skull. She utilized the brief moment of instability to force him to the floor, knees pressing into the shoulders. Her palm had just closed around the man's wrist when Moran flipped her to the carpet and pressing the metal arm into her wind-pipe. The woman's chest heaved as she struggled, but she finally stopped to push back against it. She relaxed, starting to pretend she was slipping under.
It was just enough that Moran began to grin madly. It made slamming her groin that much more satisfying. Moran's grip slackened and Anstice rolled away, a bee-line set for the kitchen and her Beretta. Lady Luck was insisting on playing devil's advocate. Moran's arm wound around Anstice's neck and yanked her to his chest, dropping on to his knees and pulling back as he fished around in a pocket. Soon enough, Anstice's back had met the carpet again as the sniper wrenched her jaw open. She arched her back, tensed and writhing as the man's knees dug into her elbows. Her eyes watered and her mouth went dry with fear.
In Moran's right hand glistened the dreaded cyanide pill. It just presented the incentive to stronger resistance.
"Fighting back hasn't worked for you in the past," Moran taunted, barely breathless. "If only you would just let it all be over,"
Anstice's jaw ached and she would probably get reamed out by Mycroft for lack of status updates. Hopefully, forcing one's jaw open would be and understandable cause. The woman jerked her shoulder and torso. Moran lost his grip. She bit down on his fingers. The man yelped and pulled away. Moran tried to get her mouth again, but not before she scrunched her knees up and jammed them into his chest. Anstice bashed her elbow into Moran's temple and was off like a shot, making for the street.
Sebastian shook off the blow and collected the discarded handgun as he raced after the fleeing Persephone.
The static had increased in corresponding with Mycroft's suppressed anxiety. the lack of Anstice's voice over her receiver was normal for the beginning of a mission, but this far in and during a confirmed attack was unprecedented. In all honesty, the screams of his little sister would've been more comforting than dead air. At least there would've been verifiable life signs.
"Cavalier, do you have visual?" Esther said in a clipped tone. The receiver clicked and static buzzed before Gatewood answered.
"Can't see her...Requesting permission to enter the building,"
"Permission denied," Mycroft answered, snatching the microphone from Esther's hands. The woman glared at the younger man but kept her anger concealed. Subordinate Esther Meninsky was not - and she recalled the reaction of her superior at the planning meeting. Little outbursts were not welcome. The Queen and the Major remained in the back of the beaten up black Toyota in the oppressive silence for another three and a half minutes. Meninsky had her finger hovering over the link-up button to Gatewood when both receivers crackled with voices simultaneously.
"We've got a runner. Permission to pursue?"
"Major, Queen, Cavalier; Trapline in pursuit." Esther revved the engine at Mycroft's subtle, dignified nod. The turned out of the alley and onto Gatliff, catching sight of Anstice darting through the few people on the sidewalk. Occasionally the raven-haired woman swerved into the cars. A man matched her pace almost five meters behind her - Sebastian Moran in the flesh - a wild dog stalking prey. The wake of people Anstice left behind her was like a blood trail.
"Cavalier, permission to pursue granted," Esther replied robotically.
"942: your intended destination," Mycroft quipped.
"West End via Chelsea Bridge. Visual on Gatewood. Trapline is armed. I repeat: Trapline is armed," Anstice sounded breathless, frightened. Mycroft swallowed the need to personally intervene and directed Meninsky to driver faster. A gasped ripped the air in the vehicle.
"942 - report[./!]" Mycroft demanded.
"Almost to bridge..." Anstice panted. "I've been hit. Jus' my hand,"
"We'll meet you at the bridge, just stay ahead. Gatewood might try a shot," There was a long drop, then a cough.
"He's too close and too many people; it won't work," Esther inhaled sharply at the younger woman's proclamation.
Mycroft barked: "942: status immediately!"
"Code red. Agent 942 defecting," Anstice was just coming into view as Meninsky swerved to enter the bridge. The receiver crackled again: "Mycroft, I love you and Will both... let him know, please,"
"Ana!" The feed went dead.
"Major, I've got Trapline close... What is Persephone doing?" Gatewood's receiver fired off. Mycroft ordered Meninsky to stop -fuck the horns blaring and the rush-hour traffic. The man was slamming the Toyota's passenger door when he caught sight of his sister. Anstice dove across the two lanes of traffic, hand raised to her ear. In the space of three seconds, her trench coat was off and being flung to the pavement. Next thing he knew, he was running towards her as her body left the ground and vaulted over the railing.
His heart wanted to stop. It was almost angelic the way Anstice's form floated away from Chelsea bridge, tumbling through the air like a sparrow from its nest. Her black hair whipped around her face. A hand reached out for her, but was too late. That's when his muscles seized. The shockwave of the act was enough to force all the air from Mycroft's lungs.
He barely registered the crowd of walkers and motorists alike streaming towards the railing's edge, or Ryan Gatewood barreling past him, shouting; or Esther Meninsky throwing Moran to the ground with a single bullet to the shoulder blade. For once in his life, Mycroft was properly stunned. His heart tightened uncomfortably in his chest.
"Ana..." He breathed. The man swallowed, feeling his balancing go him like a rug pulled from under his shoes. [Frantically], he grasped the railing for support; forcing his eyes to sweep of the stormy grey water. The river Thames rushed on; it had swallowed his sister whole. Ana - little Ana - who used to curl up on his lap, followed him around the family library, and steal his old school notebooks from the box under his bed. Ana, who smiled every time he decided to leave his room for dinner and raced from her room to embrace him when he came home from university to visit...
Anstice Cornelia Holmes; he could see the obituary.
She was four months shy of turning twenty-seven.
"Sir," Ryan Gatewood's voice snapped the Major to reality. Mycroft's stony expression was slowly shattering. His resolve crumbling like pillars of sand in hurricane gales. He could only nod. Gatewood awkwardly held out the khaki trench, back dark with the sidewalk's damp and the right cuff barely smeared with blood.
"Thank you... Ryan," Mycroft exhaled. "Agent dismissed,"
"I'm... I'm sorry, sir," Ryan offered clumsily, giving a quick salute before rushing off the aid Meninsky. Moran was having none of the Israeli woman and was trying to buck her off as she held him flat to the pavement with hands behind his back, her stockinged knee pressed flush to his neck.
Mycroft turnedd back to the Thames, the image of Anstice's body floating just underneath the choppy surface rushing through his brain. His little sister's body being buffeted out to sea. Leaning desperately on the metal rail, Mycroft fumbled in the coat's pocket for his mobile. His thumb found a solitary number and the call button. Mycroft prayed the call wouldn't go unanswered - just this one time.
"What do you want?" came a habitually cold voice.
"Sherlock, we have Moran," said Mycroft weakly.
"And Stasi?" When Mycroft didn't answer immediately, Sherlock repeated harshly: "Mycroft, what about Stasi?"
"Gone." The older Holmes choked out. The line went cold and then died altogether with a resounding click.
Sherlock's arms fell slack against his side, the mobile phone slipping through the fingers. It clattered against the floor. In a stupor, the detective stumbled to the black armchair. His head was spinning - nausea built in his esophagus until it threatened to spill onto his tongue. His chest was strapped in a vice and trapped on the rack, tightening and stretching until it might've burst. Instead it turned into a coughing fit that raged for nearly six minutes. Bent over his knees, Sherlock buried his face in his hands, clutching at the curls on his forehead. Memories from their childhood flooded behind his eyes - the row-boat, the attic bookcase, the thunderstorms and Christmas "hugs". Sherlock growled in frustration, trying to grind out the visions. Vision watering, the silvery irises landed on a thick volume of poetry by Eliot.
Stasi hated it when he cried and he had something that would fix it.
Author's Note: Real quick - I am the queen of exposition and this story is full of OOC moments. I realize this and take full responsibility for it. Thank you for your readership, questions, and I hope you enjoyed this installment.
