Seduction and Deduction: Part Eight
The room swam back into focus for the umpteenth time, fighting Janine's concussion. Her head felt like it was playing host to the world's most unhelpful percussion band. The largest portion of Janine's fractured mind was occupied with the sticky industrial grey linoleum and, moreover, why her cheek was on it. The last thing that she clearly remembered was staring at the lift and wishing she had more time. What had happened after that was anyone's guess.
She was lying in an uncomfortable recovery position, which may have explained the headache. Janine felt a wave of nausea as she hauled her body into a reclining position; one hand steadying her weight against the window glass, she reached up and combed through her hairline. Ouch. Really fucking ouch! Her fingers instantly reacted to the pain, retracting as Janine exhaled with a hiss. It definitely wasn't one of her best ideas, but her point had been proven. At least now she had some idea of why she was on the floor. Something had put her there.
There had been people in the office somewhere between her lapses in consciousness. Janine could tell by the noises. Just the one noise at first – low, calm and insistent – before it had been abruptly cut off and replaced with a multitude of new ones. These had been professional busybody noises, accompanied by lights and prodding. Eventually these had trailed off too, although it was difficult to tell whether they had drifted to the next room or if Janine had simply passed out again. What was painfully obvious was that someone had dismissed her paramedics. Bastard. Evidently she had needed them, or they wouldn't have come. It sounded like something which Sherlock would do if he was feeling particularly spiteful.
Sherlock. Janine crawled over to the nearest chair and began the woozy ascent to her feet. Given that he was predictably the source of her pre-blackout anxiety, it made sense that he would be up here with her. Maybe not fussing over her prostrate form, but he should have been somewhere in the room all the same. Janine looked slowly around the office, fending off another bout of dizziness. Silence; the source of the noises were long gone, or so it seemed. She tottered over to her workstation, peering up the stairs to her boss's private apartment. Only the blue light of the computer monitor kept her company. Sherlock wasn't here, nor was Magnussen.
A chill ran down Janine's spine; either one of them could have knocked her out. Yet if her usefulness at CAM had run its course, the tycoon knew far more permanent ways of getting rid of her. As far as Janine knew, she was still an asset. Additionally, she was aware that she was possibly engaged to a sociopath, but even Sherlock had limits and Janine had been facing the only entrance to the room. Neither of them could have done it, but this didn't resolve the question of her absent boyfriend. She had seen his outline through the elevator doors, so Sherlock hadn't bolted after proposing. If he had, Janine would have been royally peeved, regardless of her answer. Her memories were jammed beyond that point and there was no telling what had happened once those doors had sprung open. Something was suspiciously wrong. It didn't feel like she was alone.
'Where the Hell is he?' Janine breathed to herself, leaning into the desk.
'The average human brain is a remarkably defective organ, oft serving the owner only until the point of incapacitation. Although I must say that yours is re-establishing connections more efficiently than most, Ms –.'
'Janine.' She replied quickly, startled into following the voice. Janine had automatically deprived the intruder of the chance to use her surname. She often thought that it made her sound like a cross between a leprechaun and a country bumpkin, so had always insisted on the use of her given name in a professional capacity; like a journalistic version of Lulu, or Cher.
'Quite.' Came the curt response, trivialising her pettiness. Janine had to concede that her preferences were a little redundant, given that she was trapped between a possible threat and the door. The light switch was out of reach. Janine was forced to confront the semi-darkness.
A tall, portly figure emerged from the shadows to greet her. Male, with a gait which inherently belonged to government yet lacked the qualities of a deer in Jeremy Paxman's headlights. A little bit posh, judging by his voice. His poor dress sense was thrown into sharp relief when he stopped, barely a foot away from Janine, although she got the impression that her approval wasn't required. Rather, it was the other way around. This was a man who got off on power; a gentlemanin the loosest sense of the word. He loomed over her like an obese bat; comically imposing with a hint of self-importance. Cold, analytical eyes detracted from once-sharp cheekbones. The man reeked of self-esteem, explicitly reminding Janine of someone she knew. She glared back at him. He was expecting her to be spineless and instead Janine would give him a show.
'Mike, I presume.' She concluded after several tense minutes. Janine may have been a little slow on the uptake, but there were definitely deductive side effects to dating a detective.
'Mycroft is the correct pronunciation, as I am sure you are aware, although "Mr Holmes" will suffice.' He extended a hand; his lazy expression laced with ulterior motives. 'Let us avoid making threats given our predicament, although I invite you to consider the options available to me should you refuse to comply.'
Janine eyed Mycroft's hand carefully, considering. She imagined that that technique would usually work on someone of weaker resolve. Janine, on the other hand wasn't going to let some fat lounge lizard pressgang her into submission. The only way that a girl could achieve anything it this city was by poking said lizard until it bit back. She took the offered hand but let go quickly. Ironically, the flesh felt icy.
'Actually, I think "Mike" will do just fine. You might gain a few more friends that way.' She smiled sweetly, revelling in how his nostrils flared with annoyance.
'Unwise, my dear, as is your lack of concern over my presence here. In fact, your subconscious teasing of your hair suggests greater feelings of enjoyment than fear.' Drawled Mycroft. 'Hardly surprising, given your life choices.'
'Yeah, well Sherlock told me you were a douche.'
'And I have equally been informed of your tenacity and proclivity for sarcastic wit.'
'Informed? You couldn't be bothered to spy on me yourself then? It's nice to know that I'm loved.'
'When the fate of a nation rests upon one's shoulders, there is little time to personally invest in the behaviours of a single woman. I leave such fanciful occupations to my brother.'
'Speaking of whom, where is he?' Janine requested, tired of pussyfooting. She could play "poke the bureaucrat" some more once she had a decent explanation, preferably coupled with paracetamol.
The minutest of changes came over Mycroft's body language. If it had been anyone else, Janine would have described him as shifting uncomfortably. If a presumably unshakeable man gave off those signals he couldn't be the bearer of good news. She tensed, bracing herself for whatever came next.
'I believe that the current method of introducing this, ah, particular subject involves an insistence that the recipient is seated. The situation is far from pleasant.'
'I'll stand, thank you.' Janine shot back, resenting his false attempt at mollycoddling. 'The back of my head may be caked in dried blood and I might ache in places where it shouldn't be possible, but I don't need patronising. It shouldn't take any spying or deductions for you to see that and given whose family you're from, I'm frankly disappointed. Now tell me where Sherl is.'
'Forgive me; of my brother and myself, I am generally considered to hold the greatest concept of humanity. I have made a rare misjudgement where you are concerned; it is apparent why he chose you, Janine. Sherlock always did enjoy a formidable opponent.' Mycroft blathered on, seeming to be barely aware of Janine's outburst.
'Yet liking the sound of your own voice is definitely genetic. You're dancing around the question, Mike. My famous detective boyfriend proposed to me and then vanished. Unsurprisingly, I think that this is a little bit shady, particularly as his all-powerful big brother has just turned up for a quick chat. Now I'll ask you again; where the bloody Hell is Sherlock?'
'Currently, I suspect in a private intensive care unit. It is, after all, the standard procedure for a patient who has twice entered cardiac arrest.'
'Excuse me?'
'My brother received a bullet wound to the chest upon arriving in this office. The assailant is, as yet, unidentified.'
It took Janine a moment to digest this information. Beneath all of the crap and jargon lay a very important message. She blinked twice. Hard.
'Fuck. Sherlock's been shot?' She asked slowly, her tongue rolling carefully around both the first and last words.
'It would appear so.'
A wave of emotion crashed over her; punching through the shock. The pieces which had slowly been ambling towards each other finally clicked into place. The darkened room suddenly brimmed with the iron tang of arterial blood. Janine didn't waste any time wondering who would want to murder Sherlock; she could recite that list until the end of time, by which point her name would have been pencilled in at the bottom. No, the fact that he was alive meant that she could focus on being angry, both with the shooter and the detective. Janine had seen Sherlock idly torture terrorists for Christ's sake – the idea of the detective getting shot was positively moronic! Idiot. At least he was breathing, one way or another, and would have a happy supply of morphine for the next few weeks. Being trapped in a sickbed would surely teach him a lesson. But what would this mean for Janine? Now that their relationship had been thrust into a flickering limelight she would have to hot-foot it over to one of London's many hospitals, where far too many questions would be asked of her. Additionally, Janine could imagine a lucid Sherlock's reaction if she rocked up, dumping a bag of cheap grapes on his bed with a false smile. It wouldn't be healthy for either party. Nevertheless, it would be expected of her. The pair of them would be stifled by the rest of Sherlock's overprotective inner circle. All because the danger junkie had won himself a bullet hole. Janine sized up the regrettably uninjured other Holmes once more; that last train of thought raised another curious question.
'Then why are you here? One of your aides - and I think it's fair to say that you have lackeys and all that bollocks – could have told me this and it wouldn't have made any difference. It's not that I don't appreciate you telling me in person, but isn't there somewhere you should be?' In fact, Janine would have even been relieved to talk to Mycroft, if only she had thought that he was being the least bit sincere. As it was, Janine felt the need to press her point home; she sensed a bout of irritating Holmesian logic coming her way.
'There are a great many places requiring my attention, yet complications have forced my hand on this matter.'
'The only complication I can see is that Sherlock is fighting for his life!' She hissed. 'You should be with him.'
'To what avail?' Mycroft enquired; Janine felt his eyes pierce her once more. 'Tears and anxieties cannot heal wounds, Janine. Why should I waste my time on them? To return to my decision to meet with you –.'
You're just a heartless prick, aren't you?' Janine replied, feeling slightly gobsmacked. All things considered, she thought she was handling this conversation well, but there were some details which she hadn't quite managed to process. The fact that Mycroft was even more unfeeling than his little brother just happened to be one of them.
'You have spent the months prior to this conversation involved in a tryst with Sherlock Holmes. If you had truly adapted to his lifestyle, you would not be asking that question.' Mycroft waved the insult away and commandeered the nearest chair, his long fingers pressed into a business-like steeple. Suddenly wary, Janine followed his example and perched on the end of her desk. She was of the distinct impression that attempted murder was the least relevant part of their encounter; the elder Holmes was about to cut to a very different chase. 'Any matter, you are of course aware that, prior to his incapacitation Sherlock was of the mind to gain access to this office?'
'Of course he bloody well was!' She snorted, suppressing her previous doubts over her boyfriend. It didn't seem fair to Sherlock at the moment; the fact that he had been shot did, after all, suggest that he had indeed made it up here. In a way, it was comforting to know that he hadn't fled. 'He had just proposed to me, for Christ's sake.'
'Allow me to offer my congratulations, although you may wish to reconsider.'
'I didn't actually give Sherl an answer, Mike.'
'The invitation is there, regardless.' Mycroft continued. 'The fact of the matter is that you were not my brother's primary target. Or rather, you were, but merely for your connections. Sherlock has been interested in one Charles Augustus Magnussen for some time and you, Janine, have provided a convenient back door.'
'You're saying that he's been using me.' All major concerns for Sherlock's wellbeing went out the window. Her headache had now reached sickening new heights. Janine felt winded, like she had been whacked with a shovel; only a tide of confused adrenaline was preventing her from passing out again.
'If that is the common phrase, then yes. I deeply regret that I had not put a stop to this messy business sooner. Magnussen is somewhat of a necessary evil.'
'I don't give a shit about Magnussen.' Janine said flatly, fighting an impending bout of frustrated tears. The elder Holmes was expecting her to break; his raised eyebrow and condescending stare dared Janine to cave into female hysteria. No; she wouldn't give him or his twisted little brother the satisfaction. Janine wanted to squeeze Sherlock's testicles in a vice. She also wanted to be alone.
'Evidently you lack a wider perspective. Your employer holds more sway over this great nation than you could possibly comprehend, yet you dwell on your misuse. Your attachment to Sherlock clings to the slight tremble of your upper lip. Your disappointment regarding a lack of greater things is indicated in the whiteness of your knuckles. The accelerated rise and fall of your chest suggests physical overexertion is in combat with a cavalcade of heightened brainwaves. Contain your feelings, Janine. Quaint though they may be, they will hardly serve you well at present.'
'Bastard.' Was all she could whisper in reply, 'Bastard son of a bitch.'
'I sincerely recommend that you refrain from involving my mother in all future scorn.' Mycroft tersely responded. 'I ask of you Janine, did you really expect my brother to behave otherwise?'
Janine really hadn't, and that was her problem. It was just the way that Sherlock should behave; the dark quality which she had been inexplicably attracted to. All of Janine's tiny doubts, niggles and what-ifs were rushing back to haunt her. She should've got out when she had the chance. She needed to slap Sherlock and then herself, for good measure. At least her tear ducts no longer burned.
'Nope.'
'Then there is nothing more to say on this matter.'
Oh, there was plenty more to say, just not to the likes of Mycroft. Janine could feel another screaming row coming on; only this time she would refuse to be cajoled by a poorly-worded apology. She would say her piece, suppress the urge to strangle her ex and throw herself back into a hedonistic world of dodgy one night stands as if nothing had happened. It had worked before and it would work again. However, before she walked out on the madly self-centred world of Sherlock Holmes, Janine had one more question to ask of Mycroft. She had a feeling that the answer wouldn't be straightforward.
'Why are you telling me this? It's not like you care about me, so there's really nothing in it for you.'
'Not on a personal level, I agree. Sherlock Holmes is an extremely persistent man; however, it would be inadvisable for him to pursue this Magnussen investigation any further.' The office tingled, echoing his eloquent sigh. 'Contrary to popular belief, my brother's long-term wellbeing is one of my many concerns. Your involvement – the so-called woman's wrath – may prove a suitable distraction. You will be a barrier sorts, preventing further damage.'
'Oh, will I?' Janine spat, fuming. Her head was spinning with a million insults, none of which would come out. How could this family be so presumptuous and inhuman? Sherlock Holmes may have been shot and Mycroft Holmes most definitely had a stick up his arse, but she was the one who had been abused. It was her own fault for asking, but that didn't mean that Janine was obliged to like what she heard.
'Indeed, you will. Reports have advised that you are a tenacious young woman.' Mycroft pulled a bent brown file from inside his jacket and began thumbing through it. 'Only a simpleton would deny that sentiment is advantageous. I am no such being. Historically, your issues with previous relationships have causes several minor public disturbances. A little unrefined but, for all intents and purposes, you achieved your objective. On behalf of the British government I insist that you utilise your vehemence and skills appropriately. If you truly love my brother, you will do as I say.'
The room fell silent as Janine considered Mycroft's speech. Those last words had been spoken with barely a hint of malice or scepticism. She was confused, angry and now not entirely sure that she loved Sherlock, but she certainly cared for him. Even if he had been a selfish, manipulative shit, it wasn't something which Janine could just switch off. She wanted him to hurt, not dead. That was the bottom line. Mycroft was offering her a unique opportunity; the most productive thing she could do short of applying thumb screws to Sherlock's wound. If it weren't for a slight snag, what he was suggesting could make her rich; she could finally stick two fingers up at CAM's cleavage-hungry corporate ocean. It also sounded much better than her original plan of driving home and drinking herself into oblivion.
'And do what exactly? I hate to break it to you, Mike, but even The Metro wouldn't buy my story. Nothing actually happened.'
'Then lie.' Mycroft emphasised. 'Journalistic integrity is irrelevant here, Janine.'
'Fair point.'
Janine paused, scrunching up her nose in thought. A small part of her couldn't believe that she was being handed Sherlock's reputation by the man's own brother; the rest of her didn't care. The cogs of her mind whirred, reciting contacts and endless possibilities. The world already knew that Sherlock was a different kind of heartless; it was just a matter of finding the right angle. Janine could be cruel and break him. Equally, she could make him want her. Whatever happened, Janine would have to play her cards carefully. She stood up, flicked lint from her skirt and strode across the room with her head held high, mindful not to stagger. She retrieved her handbag from a locker, all the while aware of the eyes watching her from the chair. Janine ignored them and continued walking, fishing for her car keys. She punched the lift controls, listening for a final discourse of sanctimonious advice. Sherlock's brother seemed like the type who wanted to have the last word.
'I would suggest waiting four days before confronting him; my brother's brain was without oxygen for seven seconds and his present sluggishness would not yield the desired effect. You have my unreserved permission to exact your revenge as you see fit.'
Only when the lift doors opened did Janine turn around. She offered him what she hoped was a dangerous smile.
'With all due respect, Mr Holmes, I don't need your permission.'
The doors closed. The metal box fell silent. The game was on.
So that's Part Eight. Let me know what you think; reviews are still adored. :) MC. xx
