A hearty thanks to reviewers of chapter nine: Justa Girl, Elliesmeow, Pip-2250, GottaGetM3sumPIE, broadwayb, AvoidedIsland, varjaks, squibalicious, , katdemon1895, Doctor WTF, and two guests!
A couple of you are just so onto where I'm going with the plot I sometimes worry that you've somehow hacked my computer...others, such as squibilicious, I am glad that I am not disappointing you! Varjaks: the answer to Stamford's role is to be found in one of Jims POV segments, and that is all I shall say until much, much later on in the story. And everyone else, just GAH I love you so much I am so glad you take time to read this story!
I hope to have another update up by the end of the week :)
Enjoy!
Mycroft saw his brother off personally—going to the Thames house and watching the live video feeds of Sherlock showing Molly Hooper into the car, driving off, and then varying shots as the cameras followed them out of London. The wireless earpiece he had on fed him a constant update on the estimated time before Sherlock arrived at the train station and any delays which he might be able to eliminate. Modern heists of people in broad daylight weren't impossible but they were a bit difficult in the long-run. Luckily Sherlock had Mycroft on his side.
It would be a shame if the woman, Molly, did not work out for Sherlock but Mycroft at least resolved not to blame her. His brother was not an easy man to know or care for or even love, and it was a testament to Molly's character that she'd ever wanted to know Sherlock at all. He sighed and took out his mobile, flicking through his contacts until he came up with the one he needed. It rang three times before finally getting picked up—the other man knew full well who was calling and was trying a power-play by answering in his own time.
"Mycroft, how are things across the water?"
"Pierre, yes, lovely day here thank you for asking. Now, my brother and I have just set in motion a titan of an event that I need you to let run its course for a while. He will be in your territory within the next few hours, shouldn't stay around for more than a week. If you let him through then I promise you'll have what you want handed to you on a silver platter."
"You're going to resolve things with the Irish then?"
"Yes. Do we have an agreement that you let him have the run of the place until he needs to move on?"
"Of course, Mycroft, of course." The joy in the other man's tone was gratifying to hear—most importantly because Pierre had asked no questions on how in particular Mycroft was going to resolve the issue about Magda Hudson. The French, and a good many others, had never forgiven Mummy or Mrs. H for murdering their entire court—or for relocating themselves to England. There were people in the world who remembered the bloody events at the end of the 18th century, particularly German and Spanish courts whose members had fed hatred into the hastily formed replacement group in France. Mummy and her deeply talented Thanatos had left the country in utter shambles—and all for love. Father had wanted to go home, a place where Mummy could not follow unless she took on new responsibilities in a new area, in England. Mrs. Hudson had never thought to work for another Hades, and didn't want to at the time, and had helped with enthusiasm.
She would likely help again, having been quite fretful over Sherlock's wellbeing. His chance at happiness would come at the ruin of others—but that was nothing new in their shadowy world, and Magda, Mycroft knew, had wanted nothing more in the last few years other than seeing Sherlock properly settled. He was about to be, and she would likely do anything to keep him that way. Mycroft liked the notion of anything. The kidnap of Persephone was, after all, a metaphor for the harvest—for winter of a sort. He was going to visit a hell of a winter on Pierre and his cronies.
There would be a bit of rioting or a deadly heatwave or a freak coldsnap or something to account for and create the deaths in the meantime as a new French court was formed and furnished, but it wasn't Mycroft's country to worry about. This would also serve as a teaching moment to those who didn't want to play nicely with the English—full cooperation was expected, anything less was not worth Mycroft Holmes' time. Perhaps then the Americans would get off his back about things.
"Anthea—I need you to send word to the landlady to watch the dog. I'm going out to get a drink of water, killer headache you know." His assistant nodded, not looking up from her workstation as she switched tasks quickly. As her fingers flew over the keys, Mycroft took a private moment and sent a quick text message.
Meet me at home?
So needy, Daddy-boy. When?
An hour. S. is on his way to his happily ever after and I find I am in need of the same.
The word is castle, then. See you in an hour.
The case was a real one, but one he'd solved remotely several weeks before. Part of John's if you're bored lists usually included cases he'd rejected, and they were surprisingly helpful. Of course what was more helpful was Molly's presence. For the first time in months he had felt comfortable enough to strip off his coat and jacket. He carried them, hooked on his fingers, over his shoulder. His other arm was taken up with seeing that Molly didn't wander too far from him—she radiated the most pleasant sort of heat where he touched her shoulder to guide her through the crowds up and out of the tube station.
Sherlock resisted grinning as he spotted the car Mycroft had planted for him, and he didn't glance around to see if anyone was watching him usher Molly towards the vehicle. The only people who would notice him already knew to look away. Everyone else was too oblivious to see the tall man hurrying the long-haired woman. At least if they did they felt it a safe gesture or none of their business.
There was a reason after so many thousands of years humans still needed Hades and other assorted gods of death—they ignored the wrongs in their societies, and opened gateways for violent, unnatural death. Sherlock knew it wouldn't change in his lifetime, but he did hold out forlorn hopes that someday there would be no need for one such as him.
"Sherlock—what was it that Mike thought—"
"No earthly idea. Only that he was most willing to cover for you, and for that I am deeply grateful. Car?"
She hesitated, for the first time all afternoon not readily bending to his will, and Sherlock panicked. Sheer bloody panic that had her face cupped between his hands and his lips pressed up against hers in seconds. The very moment she responded he changed the angle and broke contact, leaning his forehead against hers. His tongue, traitor, darted out and tasted the barest smear of lipstick that had rubbed off on his mouth. It seemed like she was holding her breath, and by contrast it seemed that he was breathing like he'd sprinted a block.
"There is no case, is there?"
With what he was about to do to Molly Hooper, he wouldn't lie to her now. Not when she was being clever.
"No. Had to—I can't explain everything here. I want to be away from distractions, and it's just for a day—okay?" At least, he wouldn't lie to her about things she asked about.
"I want to sort—I don't even know—you," this was all wildly off the plan, but Sherlock was good at recovering from setbacks, "you were with that man. I couldn't stand it. I can't stand it. I want things to be right with—I—the car—"
"Okay," she said softly, closing her eyes and lifting up on her toes just slightly to rub her nose on his. "Okay." Sherlock relaxed, sweeping his thumbs over the apples of her cheeks and pecking her lips once before letting go entirely and opening up the door of the car for her. Once he was also inside, another dose of panicked adrenaline shot through his system and left his heart racing once more.
"There are always too many distractions at Barts to focus properly, so I told John I'm taking the day—maybe tomorrow too—and I told Mike a lie and you and I are going to go to the seaside and talk things out and—"
"Sherlock stop worrying, I'm not about to bolt away. No one is going to snatch me away from you before you've said your piece," she laughed softly and gestured towards the roadway he had yet to signal to enter, "so drive. Hopefully you can do that as well as you kiss."
As he edited his plans in his head, Sherlock couldn't help but smile just a little. Now Molly wouldn't be asking questions about a case he'd already solved—and she wouldn't be surprised when they didn't actually head towards Dover. He'd be able to nearly pull right into the train station and get the car loaded before Molly suspected a thing. Neither he nor Mycroft had deluded themselves yesterday during their planning—Sherlock and Molly would be locked into the compartment with the car, because as soon as they were well on the train the game would be up. Molly would start to realize a little of what was happening, and it was best if she wasn't around anyone who could or would help her escape.
The long ride would also let Sherlock have the chance to explain as much as he could to her.
As he turned the car into the street, Sherlock took his left hand from the wheel and stretched it out across the console towards Molly. With her near him, or touching him even, it didn't feel like the world was made of ash and ice. He hadn't realized just how long he'd been in the shade of melancholy but it would end today hopefully. Sherlock Holmes would feel as normal a man as he ever would, with Molly at his side.
"You didn't have to be a git yesterday," she said as she put her hand in his.
"I didn't know what to do."
Molly was staring at him with a speculative squint to her eyes.
"And now you do."
Sherlock laughed and shook his head in a 'no' as he squeezed her fingers once.
"I think I do, Molly."
Magda Hudson put on the kettle and waited for it to boil. She had already laid out a full formal tea for two, and hoped that it wouldn't be a waste. John thought she was dotty enough already, he didn't need to be invited for a real teatime by his landlady. No, she rather hoped that another man would be paying her a visit. A young Irishman named Jim Moriarty who had so far proven to be almost as good a Thanatos as herself—the only differing factor being in at what scale could he dispose of those who stood in his way. She would not entrust him with her dearest friend's son if Jim was not as able as herself.
It would be magnificent if he was able to complete her task as well as the awful—but also awfully necessary—one that young Mycroft had in mind.
The kettle had just clicked off when the buzzer went, and Magda was at the door in an instant. One of the few 'superpowers'—as a twelve year old Sherlock had called being a seed—afforded to her was something between teleportation and super speed. She, even after three hundred years, was still torn as to how to describe it properly.
Jim Moriarty was barely three inches taller than her, a small man without anything particularly imposing about him. A model Thanatos if she had ever seen or heard of one. Death was routine and normal, there was no need to be ostentatious. His confident smile froze at the sight of her and then slowly dropped away into a dazed pout.
"Oh, it was too good to be true, yes, Jim, but come in for a cuppa. I've something to talk to you about young man."
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