9. A last farewell
Mycroft watched his brother furtively when they approached the underground car park.
The 'point of no return'. Try as he might, the elder Holmes couldn't get that awful label out of his mind, once it had conjured itself up there. Again and again he told himself that it would only be for a short while, two or three hours at most, before Sherlock would be back and Midair would be arrested, hopefully with a certain John Watson getting all the care and treatment Mycroft's staff could provide.
"You know the plan, Sherlock" Mycroft said for the umpteenth time, and not even he would've taken offence had the younger brother yelled at him for the constant pestering.
However, Sherlock was understanding and empathy itself. Obediently he repeated the details of the plan once more. He'd change cars in the garage, rendezvous with Midair, apparently to surrender himself to the man. John would be released, Sherlock would follow his captor willingly but a microchip hidden in his shirt collar would give their position away until the Secret Service agents on their track would stop them and arrest Midair.
"Piece of cake, big brother" Sherlock smiled. He seemed perfectly at ease, relaxed even. Relieved that, after four weeks of meticulous planning and baiting the intended prey had finally agreed to be walked into the trap.
The younger Holmes had made small appearances, at Lestrade's place, at Mycroft's office, finally at 221B Baker Street. He had visited Sarah, then Harry. Both women were not aware of the plan to bait John's kidnapper, therefore their reaction had been completely natural and spontaneous. They had not been pleased to see Sherlock alive and free, as both had assumed that it had something to do with John's kidnapping. They had made their feelings plain, publicly, and it had not been a very pleasant experience for the Detective.
For weeks Sherlock had roamed the streets of London, showing his face, but then they'd been successful: The Detective had received a message from Midair. Naturally he had sworn that Mycroft didn't know and miraculously the criminal had believed him.
Mycroft had done everything in his power to strengthen this belief. Against all his instincts he had allowed his brother to act independently, unguarded. All communications with Midair had been Sherlock's business and his alone, albeit Anthea and her colleagues had had cold sweat running down their spines every time the younger Holmes had worked alone, like a circus artist in lofty height without a safety net.
Today their efforts should finally be rewarded. Each and every man and woman were in place. All eventualities had been provided for.
Nothing could go awry. All was taken care of.
The plan was absolutely waterproof.
And still, Mycroft hated every single part of it.
When the car stopped in the garage the elder brother couldn't help himself. "You will take care Sherlock, won't you."
"Yes. Of course."
"Don't finger the collar dear boy. You might give the chip away."
"No, of course not."
"And remember: No unnecessary risks. Just stick to the plan."
Meanwhile they had both left the car. The parting could no longer be avoided.
Sherlock had already taken the keys for the car he had rented for the trip to the rendezvous point. Mycroft, who detested seeing his brother drive a car almost as much as Sherlock himself, winced at the sight. "I have every confidence in you, little brother" he said, more to reassure himself than Sherlock. "Every confidence. Always had."
The Detective nodded curtly and turned away. He had already made it half way to the other car when he suddenly turned round, came back and gave Mycroft the first bear hug in almost thirty years.
For a second Tarantula was perplexed. His knees wobbled in a slightly embarrassing way. Then he returned the hug, most awkwardly.
"I'm sorry, Mycroft" Sherlock said softly. "And grateful for all the things you did for me. Please don't forget that."
The embrace ended as abruptly as it had begun and Sherlock was gone, driving by far too fast and aggressively for Mycroft's taste, as always.
Tarantula leaned back in the seat of his own car and they made it to the rented office that served as the operation's headquarters.
Anthea watched him in the mirror and shook her head.
She knew it was impossible but still she could have sworn her boss had a somewhat red-ish nose and hot cheeks.
They settled in their office and the waiting began.
Everything went according to plan; a smooth, unproblematic operation.
Four hours later Mycroft's men stopped the car, arrested the driver, the elderly gentleman and the young man who occupied the back seats.
In the boot they found an unconscious Dr Watson as well as Sherlock's jacket and shirt, with the microchip in the collar still sending the signal.
Other than that, there was no trace of the younger Holmes or of Ronald Midair. Both had vanished into thin air without a trace.
Mycroft called in every favour, used all his connections. The Secret Service turned every stone in the country and found - exactly nothing.
As it turned out, the three men that had been arrested in the fateful car were actors. They had been engaged to play a bunch of rascals that molested a young woman on her wedding day, in a mock version of the continental rite of 'abducting the bride'. They had been absolutely clueless that a man had been hidden in the boot of the car rented for them by their employer.
This employer's address, his telephone number and his bank account were fakes, or had been cancelled by the time Mycroft's staff checked up on them.
As all their frantic efforts led to nothing, again and again, Tarantula came, as Anthea called it, 'apart at the seams'. He questioned John for hours on end and went mad with fury when Watson had to tell him the one thing that Mycroft didn't want to hear: That his brother had obviously lied to him. Ronald Midair and James Moriarty were one and the same. The man who had allegedly been thrown over the side of a fisher boat was very much alive.
Other than that, John had been kept in the dark – and literally so. He had come to in a room conspicuously inconspicuous. Approximately 14 m2, whitewashed walls, a bed, a chair, a table and a door without an inside handle.
The windows had been heavily barred; impossible to open them as they had no handles either. Double glass, non-transparent and very thick.
The masked men who had fed the prisoner and given him fresh clothes – cheap, ordinary things that could be bought in a shop around the corner in almost every place of the world – had hardly spoken at all. No questions answered, no threats, no hints, no nothing. A week of isolation in the completely soundproof cell and John had felt the urge to meekly thank his jailers for a stupid pocketbook novel he'd never honoured with a second glance under normal circumstances.
On the very first day John had tried to fight and run which had been the reason why he'd had to spend the next few weeks with a chain round his neck that was fastened to the wall. He had not heard or seen Moriarty after their encounter in the car.
The sedative on his last day in the cell had been in his food.
That Sherlock was alive – or had been on the day of John's release – he only learned from Mycroft.
In his pain and fear, Tarantula wasn't very tactful. He blamed John for Sherlock's disappearance and he was very frank about it.
As John was devastated enough by his own guilty conscience this wasn't very helpful. Both men lost their nerves during their last meeting and it was Anthea who avoided the ensuing physical battle by resolutely throwing John out of the office in spite of Mycroft's protests.
Alas, it wasn't much use. Mycroft was not to be persuaded to concentrate on other matters for a while. Day and night Sherlock's whereabouts and fate occupied his mind exclusively. When Anthea reminded him of the upcoming presentation of the submarine weapon system, Tarantula - otherwise an obsessed perfectionist when it came to his professional affairs - crossly ordered her to take care of that alone.
Meanwhile Sarah and Harry were more successful with a little plot of their own. Nolens volens John Watson found himself in a small guesthouse resort on the German island Rügen in the Baltic Sea. Again he was heavily guarded and found his every move and word watched but this time by two fiercely caring women, hell-bent on making him better with or without his consent.
It took him two weeks to notice that Harry drank water or apple juice, nothing else. For years he had chastised her, begged her or tried to trick her into giving up her drinking habits, without as much as a hint on success.
As he finally realized she was making a sacrifice to cheer him up he took his sister into his arms until she sobbed.
Sobbed just once, of course.
Harry being Harry, she punched his stomach immediately afterwards but there was no doubt that the message had been understood on both ends of the line.
John Watson, though still upset and grieving, appreciated it as Sarah snuggled up to him in that night. He wanted to say something that was troubling him ever since he had heard what had happened. But he gulped it down for Sarah's sake, knowing that it would spoil the moment for her.
However, her love for him made her clear-sighted and she read his thoughts. "It's hard to believe that Sherlock should give himself up to save you. He always seemed so cold and remote. Completely self-reliant, selfish even. Heartless. Now I hate myself for thinking that of him."
John buried his face in her neck. "He once told me I shouldn't see him as a hero. He said that heroes don't exist and if they did, he wouldn't be one of them."
"And yet I bow to his heroism" Sarah replied softly. Her finger caressed John's shoulder very tenderly. As usual he winced at her using the past tense but he kept silent. She took her courage in both hands. "And you have no right to spoil it for him, sweetheart. The decision was his to make and he found you worthy of the sacrifice. Even more so than his own brother. It's an obligation you must live up to, John. He bought your life with his own; you cannot throw that away by making your existence a living hell."
Watson freed himself and jumped out of the bed. "That's easy for you to say" he pressed out. Irrational enough, a tremendous anger rose in him. As if she was spitting on a friend's grave to serve her own vengeful spite.
"You once said that for all his brilliance Sherlock Holmes was a very unhappy man" she continued "Lonely. Always searching for a fulfilment that wouldn't come or if it came, it wouldn't outlive the day." She swallowed painfully. "I'm sure he knew that, John. He was incomplete; the human parts of him were missing, until he met you."
Her husband stared at her, his mouth open. What?
His blank, defiant stare fuelled a fury inside her that matched her husband's. "Who are you, John Watson, to tell your friend what he may or may not do? He longed to give his life meaning and importance! I know that in Mycroft's eyes Sherlock had no right to make his own choices. But in yours?"
Silently, John crawled back into the bed and buried himself under his blankets, turning his back on her. For long minutes nobody spoke. Sarah closed her eyes, willing herself to sleep.
When John muttered something she didn't get it at first. "What did you say?"
"I said" he repeated, muffled by the layers of wool and cotton between his face and the outside world "I'll try my best to live up to the obligation but I can't make any promises. I'm not very good at regarding myself worthy of such sacrifices."
"No" she replied, stealthily wiping away some very untimely and therefore annoying tears. "You're much better at making them. Perhaps Sherlock found living with a saint a bit humbling at times. I do."
That brought him into the open again. "Humbling?"
"Sherlock was, in his own way, a great man. All right, he was an arrogant asshole sometimes, but he wasn't a coward, he was a fighter. Yet you're so brave, so very selfless, caring, understanding – god damn it, John Watson you're so fucking perfect you'd humble divinity sometimes. Maybe Sherlock just wanted an opportunity to break even with you. Whatever it was, stop punishing yourself and anyone around you for the one occasion on which he humbled you. Take defeat like a good sport and get on with the life he's bestowed on you."
"For your information" John grumbled after another spell of sulking silence "he humbled me all the time, with this 'brain the size of a planet' thing he had."
Sarah covered her face with both hands and fell back on the bed with a loud, despairing moan, so John spoke louder. "But you're right. The decision was his and I must respect that. That doesn't mean I've to like it."
"As long as you like yourself" she replied, her voice a bit shaky, "and me – a bit…. it's enough."
"I love you Sarah. More than anything in this world. It's just that I….."
"NOOOO!" Sarah darted upwards, barely avoiding knocking him out in the process. "No justs, no buts, no ifs – cut it out, John Watson, once and for all, or I'll pack my bag and you'll never see me again, I swear it!"
"Sarah, I can't help it…"
"But I can help it, John. And I will. I've seen a house at the coast that's for sale, we could settle down here whenever we want. They're looking for experienced medics all over Eastern Germany."
"But London…."
"To hell with London. We wouldn't have one single happy moment there."
"Our house in Notting Hill…."
"We sell it. Houses are much cheaper here."
"I don't speak German…."
"I do. Besides, many of the guests and tourists don't either."
John saw her trembling, her breath ragged and her fists closed so hard, her knuckles were white. "It's all right, sweetheart" he said soothingly. "I like it here. Very much. It's a nice place. We can make plans in the morning, can't we? You can show me the house you found."
She knew he was handling her but she let it go, hoping that she had at least achieved a stage win. She wouldn't give up now, though. Somehow Sherlock Holmes' unhappy ghost had to be destroyed and in London, where every street, every corner reminded her husband of his friend, this would never happen. Sensible, down-to-the-earth German realism facilitated much better opportunities.
She hugged her husband closely and fleetingly John thought of his wife not as a willow, as he usually did, but as a Venus Flytrap. Yet the feeling passed. She meant well. Always had and always would.
If only she didn't.
Early next morning John went for a little walk, to clear his thoughts. Somehow he had to talk Sarah out of this mad scheme but he didn't know how. Lost in his thoughts he walked on and bumped into someone. "Oh Verzeihung" he scrambled his few German words together "ich wollte…".
He looked up and his face fell.
He was staring directly into the face of Detective Inspector Lestrade.
"Where's your wife and sister?" the policeman asked sharply; a cordial welcoming indeed.
"In the hotel, getting ready for breakfast I guess…." John stammered, still stupefied by the unexpected encounter. Most of all because he'd been sure nobody in England knew his whereabouts.
"Good" was the clipped reply. "We're going to have breakfast too, you and I."
By the time Lestrade banged a cup of coffee and a sad looking cheese and egg sandwich – how came people here preferred crude bread with the colour of dirty rain water? - on the table of a small Turkish coffee shop, Watson had overcome his surprise and began to feel a bit annoyed. "What's the rush, Lestrade? Surely we could have a proper breakfast with Sarah and Harry."
Instead of an answer, the Inspector threw a bunch of newspapers into Watson's lap. "Did you see that?"
Now outright angry, John took the papers to hand them back as his gaze fell on the front headline of the first. "Scandal in Whitehall" it read. "Mole in MI 5 unmasked?" yelled another. "How much for just the country, Mr. Holmes?" headed the leading article of the third. And the fourth one had a very interesting lead on the front page, too. "Bigwig felt too small for this world."
With increasing dread, John studied the papers, until he looked at Lestrade, helplessly. "Does this mean what I think it does?"
"In a nutshell" the Inspector retorted sourly "the submarine weapon system plans Mycroft had kept safe were a fake. Someone must have stolen the real plans and replaced them with flawed plans. The cover was blown in the most harmful way, when the firm presented the plans to a group of high ranking officials from NATO and several European Defence Departments. Millions, perhaps billions are lost, together with the know-how of a very dangerous weapon system."
"And Midair?" John avoided the more obvious inquiry.
"Killed himself" Lestrade said bluntly. "Burned to death in his study on the family estate. Identification by teeth and by genetic material. No doubt possible. He left a farewell message on his homepage, saying that his cancer had returned and that he felt 'too small in a threatening world.' Hence the headline."
John didn't get it. "Moriarty is dead?"
Lestrade exhaled audibly. "Ronald Midair is dead. Whoever abducted you had nothing to do with Midair. Mycroft Holmes, the star of British Intelligence, grey eminence behind Downing Street No. 10, has pestered a completely innocent man, possibly strengthened Midair's suicidal tendencies, whilst his younger brother fooled us all into believing that he'd become a crime victim, only to steal the plans from under the great Mycroft's nose."
"Sherlock? You say Sherlock stole the plans?" John didn't trust his hearing.
"Nobody else, not even his closest assistants, knew where Mycroft had put them. Sherlock made the exchange, staged his own abduction – again! – and passed the plans on to Moriarty. End of story." Lestrade shrugged dismissively. "Obviously you were abducted as a cover up for the real operation, nothing more." He looked at John's bland face intently. "Don't say it, I've already told myself a hundred times: Sergeant Donovan was right. One day our hero was bound to become the villain in the game."
"I don't believe it" John muttered. Then, much louder: "I don't believe it!"
"Our investigations led to that result…."
"Fuck your investigations! It's a lie. He'd never do that, not to his brother, not to me. Never!"
The Turkish landlord looked at the two men at the front table, unsure what to do. There was trouble in the air and trouble he had enough already, most of it due to the insensible, airy-fairy Germans. He decided that the men's fight wasn't his business and vanished in the back room.
Silently Lestrade reached into his pocket, took out what looked like a stack of photos and gave them to the doctor. John went through them, one by one, slowly and thoroughly, before he gave them back. "Primitive forgery! What should they tell me?"
Suddenly Lestrade's tiredness and sadness were clearly visible. "They're not fakes, John. They've been put to every possible test. No manipulations, no tricks. They're real."
John looked at the pictures which now lay on the table, shimmering in the electric light and the first rays of sun that filtered through the window. Sherlock, Moriarty's arm around his shoulders, laughing at the man who held the camera. Moriarty and Mycroft's brother together in a restaurant, obviously in high spirits. The same setting, over and over again, at a luxurious pool, in a hotel, in front of a theatre.
The pictures were dated. Each and every one had been taken during the months and years in which John Watson had thought his friend to be dead. Murdered by the man who was so obviously a closer friend to Sherlock Holmes than John Watson had ever been.
"How did you come by them?" Watson asked softly. He felt numb. Empty. Somewhere in the distance a dull pain began to throb. Given time it would come nearer to the core; it would become bigger and bigger, but right now there was only a vast nothingness.
"They were send to Mycroft the day after he'd been released from custody. Anonymously, of course." Lestrade rubbed his face with one hand, an abrupt, aggressive gesture. "Doubtlessly our dear friend James Moriarty's special idea of a fitting farewell present."
"Mycroft has been arrested?"
"You have no idea of the witch hunt the press has called on. The government are shaky on their legs, to put it very mildly, MPs and other bigwigs got involved. Home Office and Foreign Office are trying to cut their losses and presently it looks as if even bigger damage might be avoided. But Mycroft is done for. There will be no court case of course; otherwise too much dirty laundry would be washed in public. Sherlock has earned his big brother a shameful dismissal, on the grounds of a mental illness…."
John huffed disbelievingly. Mycroft Holmes and mentally afflicted!
"Incurable depression and manic tendencies I think it was" Lestrade continued "which result in a prolonged stay in a sanatorium and later on a permanent retirement in the country. Which brings me to the reason for my being here."
Watson looked at him, uncomprehending. It was all too much, too sudden. As if he'd went to the movies to see a film he knew by heart and suddenly found he'd ended up in some trash movie, without a clue as to where he'd taken the wrong turn .
The Inspector leaned towards Watson and spoke more softly now. "So far, Sherlock's involvement is not known to the press or to anyone else. If it were publicly known, Mycroft would suffer even more. One or two journalists have remembered the connection between your abduction and Ronald Midair but so far they've not traced you down. Couldn't you just stay here? I know you've got all the money you need from what Mycroft has given to Sarah on Sherlock's behalf, and surely you'd want….."
"A moment, please" John said sharply. "What was that about Mycroft giving money to Sarah?"
Lestrade sighed impatiently. "Mycroft thought Sherlock was dead, remember? You were his only friend, so he thought the inheritance should go to you. The Holmes' family fortune is a considerable one and the two brothers were to share it equally among them. Besides, there was the capital Sherlock had on his own accounts, the ones I opened for him- fool that I was!" Lestrade shrugged once more. "As soon as Mycroft gathered what was to come, he phoned me and I transferred the rest of Sherlock's money from these accounts to yours. Some 30.000 Pounds. In addition to what Sarah's got from Mycroft directly earlier, you're a wealthy man, John."
There was another short pause, then the doctor inhaled sharply. "Get out of my sight!" he said.
"You didn't know? Sarah didn't tell you?"
"I said, get out of my sight!"
"John, I'm sorry, I had no idea…."
The next instant found Detective Inspector Lestrade pressed against the wall, his chin aching terribly where apparently a steam hammer had hit it, his arm twisted almost until the shoulder came out of joint. The voice that hissed into his ear had nothing familiar. "You will leave these premises now and I'll never see you again or by God I swear you will regret it!"
It was on his way back to the ferry that should bring him back to Stralsund and the train to Berlin airport that Lestrade remembered Sherlock's 'shock talking' after the 'study in pink' had been resolved. "A crack shot, a man accustomed to violence, probably someone with a lot of experience in military action." Then Sherlock had interrupted himself, when his eyes had fallen on Watson standing unobtrusively in the background. "Forget what I've said, Lestrade. It was the shock – see? I've got a blanket! Now I've to discuss the rent!"
"The innocent looking bastard" Lestrade muttered under his breath. "Where did I have my head back then?" As he left the ferry he forced himself to look at the bright side of things. At least he now knew who had shot the serial killer with the two pills.
"Admittedly" he thought "the spot is not very bright at all."
Truth be told, he felt like vomiting.
