Chapter Eight
"Typical." Sherlock sniffed at the turn-ups of Mycroft's ruined trousers after Mycroft had changed out of them. "Poison in the drink. Mycroft, I should have thought that you would know better than to accept drinks from strangers by now."
Mycroft looked irked but said nothing.
"Oh, stop tormenting the man!" John groaned from his seat after hearing Sherlock scoff, reprimand, and taunt the spymaster's mistake for the last ten minutes. "Anybody could make mistakes."
Sherlock snorted. "Not Mycroft." he shook his head. "Mycroft wouldn't make such a novice mistake like this, it must've taken a great-..." Suddenly, he cut himself off and whipped his head around to stare at Mycroft incredulously, wide-eyed.
Mycroft pointedly avoided eye contact.
"Oh, dear Lord." Sherlock breathed, half astounded, half disgusted at his present thought.
"Sherlock..." Mycroft growled warningly.
"What?" John asked, looking from one Holmes to the other. "What am I missing?"
"Oh, only you could accept drinks from the one man who tries to poison you!" Sherlock crowed gleefully.
Mycroft rolled his eyes Heavenward and inwardly prayed for strength.
"What?" John asked, still confused.
"He-..." Sherlock leaped off his sofa and jabbed a judgmental finger in his brother's direction. "... is enamored by his assassin!"
"Oh for God's sakes, Sherlock!" Mycroft exclaimed, mortified. "I was only trying to be polite!"
"Mycroft Holmes? Polite?" Sherlock smirked. "Oh, that'll be the day."
"I'm plenty polite." Mycroft returned imperiously. "It fails only in your face. Your rudeness overpowers all else."
"Alright, alright..." John raised his hands to calm the two. "Mycroft, can you give me a few descriptions of this man? Maybe we can get Anthea to ask around about him."
Mycroft huffed out a breath and broke eye contact with his brother. "Five foot ten, brown eyes, silver hair, callouses on his hands, faint hint of Somerset in his accent, mud on his shoes, I believe, from Central London... on-site of last week's bombings, I'll hazard."
Sherlock smiled. "Didn't peg a working man as to your inclinations."
"Didn't see medical men as yours." Mycroft returned coolly.
John, who was busy noting down Mycroft's description on a piece of paper, didn't even hear them.
Sherlock glanced briefly at John, confirmed that he had heard nothing, and proceeded to glare all holy Hell at Mycroft. Mycroft simply inclined his head and smiled innocently back at him.
"Um, did he give a name?" John asked, finally looking up, unaware of the silent battle that had been raging right over his head. "Any name at all?"
Mycroft cleared his throat. "Sholto." he replied. "Sholto Grayson."
"Ah..." Sherlock made a thoughtful noise under his breath.
Mycroft and John exchanged puzzled glances. "Do you know him?"
"Hm... journalist?" Sherlock asked.
"Yes, he did mention it." Mycroft nodded slowly.
"Sholto Grayson does in fact exist... however, it is to my knowledge that he died a few months ago." Sherlock shrugged. "It would've been easy as anything for our man to pick up a few credentials, or forge them if he knew the real Sholto Grayson personally."
Mycroft hummed thoughtfully. "I'll ask Anthea to track down 'Sholto Grayson's last known residence. We may start our investigation from there."
Just then, Anthea walked in.
"Ah, Anthea!" Mycroft greeted cheerfully. "Do excuse us, but we have one or two small errands for you to run."
Anthea's replying look was grim. "Perhaps it can wait for a minute. We've got bad news."
"Oh?"
"One of our agents have been assassinated."
"Looks like a professional hit." Inspector Dimmock told Mycroft when he and the rest of the group visited the morgue at St. Bart's. "Single gunshot wound straight through the forehead from a sniper rifle, I believe."
"Do you know where the shot was fired from?" Sherlock asked brusquely.
"Well, we estimated the height and distance of the shot but..." Dimmock trailed off helplessly.
"You were highly skeptical of whether a shot from that distance could be made as accurately as it had been?" John finished for him as he examined a map of London and pointed out the spot where Dimmock and his men had calculated the impossible sniping position to be. "Don't worry, it's possible."
"Can't be." Dimmock protested. "I've consulted our best sniper and he confirms that it can't be done."
John raised an eyebrow and looked the copper straight in the eye. "Do you want me to prove it?" Dimmock paused at that. "I'll even make the shot with a handgun." John bluffed, knowing that Dimmock wouldn't call him out on it on his confidence alone.
Sherlock smiled at the little army doctor.
Mycroft stepped aside with Anthea. "Anderson was stationed in Czechoslovakia. As far as we know, neither Heinz nor Napoleon have ever crossed paths with him." Anthea whispered.
"Why was he killed?" Mycroft wondered quietly. "He was not undergoing any mission at the time of his death. His train out into the field was cancelled due to-..." he trailed off, realizing. "... the sabotage and ruin of the train track the night before. They knew he would be on that train and needed to prevent him from leaving."
"Perhaps the Germans are simply trying to take out as many pawns in our game of chess before the real gambit begins." Anthea hummed back.
"But why now? And in preparation for what?"
Neither of the two spooks had an answer for that one.
Just then, the door opened and Molly walked in, accompanied by the Fox, who was carrying a rather heavy-looking box for the petite woman.
"... as I've said; you just can't trust men like that!" The Fox laughed, telling some amusing anecdote to his nurse friend.
He turned his head away from Molly and caught Mycroft's stunned gaze.
They both froze like deer in headlights.
Mycroft recovered first. "And you'd know about untrustworthy men." he quipped.
"Oh, shit...!" The Fox dropped the box he was carrying with a loud crash. Then he turned, and ran.
"Who-...?" John's question was immediately cut off by Mycroft and Sherlock both lunging for the door, leaping over the dropped box in the doorway.
"That's him! That's Grayson!" Mycroft called over his shoulder as he ran. Sherlock was already gaining ground on the fleeing man with his enormously long legs.
Then, the Fox brushed past Donovan, startling the paramedic, and careened around a corner. Sherlock and Mycroft followed, causing Donovan to loose her footing and clipboard, but halted when they rounded the bend.
The Fox was gone.
"Excuse me!" Donovan stalked up to them, angry at the chaos their brief chase had caused in the already eventful hospital. "Who are you?"
"I am Mycroft Holmes of His Majesty's Secret Service." Mycroft smoothed his suit down and introduced himself. "And this is my brother. We were chasing a very dangerous assassin, suspected of being a German agent."
"What do you mean?" Donovan asked, incredulous. "You mean Aiden?" Molly, Dimmock, Anthea, and John now joined them, having caught up. "You're joking, right? Everybody here knows him! He's no assassin, he wouldn't hurt a fly!"
Mycroft and Sherlock exchanged glances. "Excuse me, if you all wouldn't mind sharing a bit of your time, would you please answer some questions about that man?"
Molly, Donovan, and Dimmock looked uneasy.
"Sorry. I'm busy." Donovan stated boldly. "I have an ambulance to drive now that I haven't anyone to switch with." And she stalked off.
"I just remembered that I have to go-..." Molly fluttered uncomfortably. "... somewhere." And she fled.
Dimmock looked like he wanted to follow their example, but stayed put. "I'm a copper." he shrugged helplessly. "If His Majesty says 'jump', I can only ask 'how high?'"
Outside the hospital, the Fox ran and he didn't look back.
