9.
"AGRA," John said. Mary nodded. "You said it was your initials." He glared at her when she insisted they were her initials … in a way. "So many lies. I don't just mean you."
"What?" Mary asked.
"Alex, Gabriel, Ajay … you're 'R'." John paused, watching Mary as she nodded once. Suddenly he realised. He thought of his daughter waiting for him back at home, wondering if she was aware of his and Mary's absence or if she knew she wasn't sleeping in her own bed. Maybe she was just too young to realise any of it; John certainly hoped that was the case. He briefly wondered how Elspeth was coping with Rosie, then decided to focus on the matter at hand. "Rosamund Mary."
"I always liked Mary," she admitted, smiling a little. She knew psychiatrists would have a field day with the reasoning behind giving her daughter her former name, but she'd been so fond of it and couldn't bear to part with it.
"Yeah, me too," John said. He smiled too, but only for a second before his face hardened once more. "I used to." He stood up, walking away a few paces and staring out the window because he couldn't bear to look at Mary for much longer. She made him angry; so angry. "You could have stayed," he continued, turning back to face her. "You could have talked to me. That's what couples are supposed to do – work things through." Mary nodded, murmuring her agreement under her breath. "Mary, I may not be a very good man, but I think I'm a bit better than you give me credit for, most of the time."
"All the time," Mary corrected softly, trying to calm her husband. The hardness of John's features faded. She had that effect on him. No matter how angry he was, she could make things better with a few words. He didn't know whether she calmed him or talked him out of the anger. "You're always a good man, John. I've never doubted that. You never judge, you never complain. I don't deserve you. I . . ." Her voice trailed off. "All I ever wanted to do was keep you and Rosie safe, that's all."
John sat down and reached out, putting his hand on top of Mary's clasped ones.
Sitting in a chair at the other end of the room, Sherlock watched them both. "I will keep you safe," he said, standing up. "But it has to be in London. It's my city, I know the turf. Come home and everything will be alright, I promise you." The red dot of a laser appeared on the wall behind John and Mary. Sherlock yelled out, "Get down!"
Mary grabbed John and pulled him down. Sherlock flipped the low table to one side as a barrier against the shooter. Mary ran to the far side of the room, rummaging in her shoulder bag. Several shots were fired before Ajay kicked the door open and marched in, his rifle raised in front of him. Mary fired three shots from her pistol, Ajay taking cover around the corner of the doorway. Sherlock knelt between the bureau and a cabinet with Mary crouching on the other side, John hiding behind the upturned table as all four of them caught their breath.
"Hello again," Ajay called.
Lifting her head at the sound of a familiar voice, Mary asked, "Ajay?"
"You remember me. I'm touched."
"Look, I thought you were dead," Mary said. "Believe me, I did."
"I've been looking forward to this for longer than you can imagine," Ajay said.
"I swear to you, I thought you were dead," Mary insisted. "I thought I was the only one who got out."
Ajay responded by firing a single shot into the upturned table John hid behind, obscured from Mary and Sherlock's view. Sherlock stretched a hand towards Mary, taking the pistol she handed to him. As Ajay revealed he'd found them by following Sherlock – he was a clever man, but not so much so he realised he was being traced the entire time he searched for Mary – and Sherlock shot to his feet, the bullet he fired shattering the light above them. He swung the pistol round to aim at Ajay, who dropped into a crouch.
"Listen," John said, feeling desperation creep in his voice. "Whatever you think you know, we can talk about this. We can work it out."
"She thought I was dead." Ajay's voice turned bitter. "I might as well have been."
"It was always just the four of us, always – remember?" Mary asked. "So why do you want to kill me?"
"Do you know how long they kept me prisoner? What they did to me? They tortured Alex to death," Ajay said. Mary closed her eyes at the sound of Ajay's sigh, trying not to think about her old friend. "I can still hear the sound of his back breaking. But you . . . you – where were you?"
"That day at the embassy, I escaped. But I lost sight of you too, so you explain: where were you?"
"I got out, for a while," Ajay said. "Long enough to hide my memory stick. I didn't want that to fall into their hands. I was loyal, you see. Loyal to my friends. But they took me, tortured me. Not for information. Not for anything except fun." He remembered the pain. Endless pain. Laughter at his expense. He still dreamed about it. "They thought I'd give in, die, but I didn't. I lived, and eventually they forgot about me rotting in a cell somewhere. Six years they kept me there, until one day I saw my chance. I made them pay. You know," Ajay added. "All the time I was there, I just kept picking up things. Little whispers, laughter, gossip. How the clever agents had been betrayed. Brought down by you."
John looked at the open bag lying on the floor a short distance away. There was a pistol in it.
The high pitched ringing of a train whistle echoed as it passed the window, the light illuminating the room for a brief moment. Ajay rose from his hiding place. Mary grabbed the pistol Sherlock held out for her as John scrambled for the bag. Ajay rounded the corner, Mary waiting for him with her pistol aiming at his head and his aiming at hers. John held his own gun in his hands as he aimed it at Ajay.
"You know I'll kill you too," Mary said calmly. "You know I will, Ajay."
"What, you think I care if I die?" Ajay asked. "I've dreamed of killing you every night for six years, of squeezing the life out of your treacherous, lying throat."
Sherlock spoke up then, his voice quiet. "What did you hear, Ajay? When you were a prisoner, what exactly did you hear?"
"What did I hear?" Ajay repeated. "Ammo. Every day they tore into me. Ammo. Ammo." His voice trembled. "Ammo." He inhaled a shaky breath. "Ammo. We were betrayed!"
"And they said it was her?"
"You betrayed us," Ajay said to Mary.
"They said her name?" Sherlock demanded.
"Yeah, they said it was the English woman."
Before anyone could respond, a Moroccan policeman burst in and fired two shots into Ajay's back. Mary's screams filled the room.
"You know you aren't supposed to be in here," Mycroft said as he walked into his office at the Diogenes Club. He closed the door behind him and Elspeth looked over her shoulder, smiling at her uncle as though she was the perfect picture of innocence. Mycroft sighed. "And to what do I owe the pleasure of this unannounced visit?"
"Careful Mycroft, you almost sound pleased to see me," Elspeth teased.
"I'm a very busy man. I don't have the time to entertain you and keep an eye on Sherlock, wherever he's run off to this time," Mycroft said. Elspeth raised her eyebrows at the revelation Mycroft was, in fact, still keeping tabs on Sherlock. That meant he was probably still keeping an eye on her, which didn't bode well considering Moriarty was alive and she had still neglected to mention it to anyone. She sincerely hoped Mycroft didn't have footage of the happenings in 221B. "Why are you here, Elspeth?"
"I'm bored. And I'm lonely." Elspeth slumped in her seat and glowered at Mycroft. "I've been stuck at home keeping an eye on Rosie and helping Mrs Hudson, and when Rosie isn't there I'm sleeping because no one tells you how many times a baby will wake up in one night when you offer to babysit. I'm completely and utterly bored and –" She cut herself off. Mycroft looked at her expectantly for her to continue. Straightening up, Elspeth reluctantly finished, "And I miss Dad. Like . . . a lot more than I thought I would when I said I'd stay behind. Which sucks majorly, because I'm a legal adult and I shouldn't be so dependent on him all the time. Most people my age have moved out by now, or are at university, or have great jobs where they're earning loads of money, and I'm still at home."
"Clearly, you're trying to distance yourself from Sherlock," Mycroft said. Elspeth glanced at him. "Otherwise you would be with him right now, instead of using my office as some sort of therapy session."
"That is the most literal interpretation of distancing oneself I've ever heard," Elspeth said with a straight face.
"You may not realise, Elspeth, but I do observe these things. You're spending less time with him than usual, and you're not communicating as you did before," Mycroft pointed out. Elspeth straightened up in her chair and turned her head to the side, biting her bottom lip as she considered everything he said. "I don't know what your intentions are, but if you plan to move on from Baker Street I suggest you talk to Sherlock rather than spend your time moping."
Elspeth was quiet for a moment. "You would miss me if I went, wouldn't you?"
Mycroft looked at her. "That depends where you're planning on going," he remarked. "Do I need to prepare a farewell party any time soon?"
"Sometimes I consider just . . . I don't know, leaving," Elspeth admitted. "I don't know where I would go or what I'd do, but I think about doing something with my life other than being Dad's shadow. And the worst part is I don't even know if anyone would notice, or miss me."
"Your absence would be duly noted by everyone," Mycroft told her. "Myself included."
It wasn't exactly the heartfelt admission that he would miss her every day Elspeth had hoped for, but it was good enough. Elspeth smiled at her uncle and said, "You know, I would notice your absence too if you ever left."
"You needn't ever worry about that," Mycroft said. "I believe England would fall in my absence."
Elspeth smiled, then jumped at the sound of a phone ringing. It wasn't her own; Mycroft took his mobile from his pocket. Judging from his expression, Elspeth knew who it was immediately.
"Sherlock," Mycroft said, the distaste marring his expression. Elspeth smiled a little to herself, then felt a pang of disappointment when she realised her father hadn't called her. She checked her phone in case of any missed calls, but there were none. No, he had decided to call Mycroft for whatever reason. She sighed. "An unexpected phone call, I must say."
"Put him on speaker," Elspeth said. Mycroft shushed her and rose to his feet, resting his elbow on top of the filing cabinet as he tried to listen to what Sherlock was saying. "Mycroft, put him on speaker – there's a button – we can both hear him then."
"Hang on, Sherlock." Mycroft moved the phone down from his ear and glared at Elspeth. "I'm trying to have a conversation here, Elspeth."
"Put him on speaker," she repeated for the third time. "Come on, I haven't spoken to him in ages." Mycroft rolled his eyes, but did as she asked so Elspeth could hear Sherlock while he spoke. "Hey Dad, I'm here too," she called across the room.
"Hello Ellie." She could almost hear the smile in Sherlock's voice. "Are you alright?"
"Yeah," Elspeth said. "Are you coming home soon?"
"Soon," Sherlock promised. Elspeth smiled again and Mycroft glanced her way, his own lips twitching with sentiment. "Mycroft, I need you to listen carefully." And then Sherlock began to relay the events of the few days in Morocco, telling Mycroft and Elspeth about Ajay, everything he had said to them. Elspeth bit her lip at the thought of his threat to Mary and flinched when Sherlock described how the former assassin had been shot in the back. "The English woman," he said, recounting the torture Ajay endured. "That's all he heard. Naturally he assumed it was Mary."
"Couldn't this wait until you're back?" Mycroft asked, exasperated. Elspeth glared at him.
"No, it's not over. Ajay said that they'd been betrayed. The hostage takers knew AGRA were coming," Sherlock said. "There was only a voice on the phone, remember, and a code word."
"Ammo, yes," Mycroft said. "You said."
"How's your Latin, brother dear?"
"My Latin?" Mycroft repeated, frowning. Sherlock listed three words: amo, amas, amat. "I love, you love, he loves. What –" He cut himself off, realisation dawning on him. Elspeth's eyes flickered between Mycroft and the phone, confused.
"Not ammo as in ammunition," Sherlock prompted. "But amo meaning . . .?"
"You'd better be right, Sherlock," Mycroft said, hanging up. "As pleasant as it was to see you, Elspeth, I really must be going. I suggest you do the same."
"Wait, what?" Elspeth asked, rising to her feet and following Mycroft out of the office. "You can't just – what is even going on anyway? Why was Dad going on about Latin? What does amo mean?" She darted past Mycroft and stopped in front of him, folding her arms across her chest as she glared at him so he could no longer pass her. "Why isn't anyone telling me anything?"
"You said so yourself. You're an adult and shouldn't be so dependent on him," Mycroft said. He brushed past her and said over his shoulder, "Perhaps you should start exercising that independence from now on."
Elspeth watched Mycroft go. She didn't call after him, like she was tempted to, but rather counted the steps until he disappeared from view and sighed as she ran a hand through her hair. For the first time in her life, Elspeth began to wonder if Mycroft really did know what was best for her and Sherlock. It did nothing to shake the knot in the pit of her stomach, and as she made her way out of the building, Elspeth realised she felt completely and utterly lost.
Thank you Sophie and afterain for reviewing, and I'm so sorry for the delay in updating. Deadlines are nearly over so hopefully I should be able to update more frequently.
