The Magnussen Legacy
Chapter 10
It is the fate of glass to break.
(Old French proverb)
He staggered back to his feet, fighting through the chairs he had scattered as he landed on the ground below the stage, and decided that he was hurting. Also angry, embarrassed, surprised, humiliated, betrayed….but above all - challenged. Seriously challenged.
And what else was life with Sherlock Holmes in it?
Oh! And how many times had he asked himself that question before? And why did he never learn?
Sherlock Holmes turned away from him immediately he threw the punch, took the Russian girl by the wrist and strode from the stage into the wings without a backwards glance.
John Watson watched him go, nursing his jaw. Not quite believing what had happened to him; not quite registering anything but the pain in his face and his heart. Not quite believing…..
Thinkthinkthinkthinkthink…
Sherlock Holmes did make such public displays of himself. Did not - despite all appearances to the contrary - lose or abandon his self control. Did not give way to impulse, show true emotional anger. He did not, above all and everything, strike his best friend and partner in crime. Not ever. Not….really.
So why had he done that now? In public? Unless there was a very good reason? The very same reason Sherlock Holmes had looked into his eyes without anything at all showing in his own. Not irritation, not surprise nor even recognition. Yet he had shown anger. Expressed it. For whatever reason, whatever trigger.
So John Watson decided to ride with the blow, to play up and play the game. And realised with sudden confidence that this was another great game, albeit a different one.
"You bastard! You hit me! You'll pay for that!"
The man he had once thought he knew better than himself did not break stride nor even appear to hear. Only the girl following in his wake looked back; a look of shock and sympathy. Or something like it.
A thickset, dark young man who had been sitting on the front row bent down and helped him to his feet.
"Are you all right?" he asked in English, with a distinct accent John Watson did not recognise. His eyes and hair were very dark; a Mediterranean heritage, then. In fey fair Denmark the man looked exotic and strikingly handsome.
"Yes. Thanks." He stood up, brushed the dust from the floor off his coat, offered a slight, uncomprehending smile. It was not all acting. "More surprised than anything."
"I assume you know Mr Holmes? Whether he normally does that sort of thing?"
The question seemed pointed rather than polite, something lingering behind the eyes, John Watson thought.
"He is very eccentric and seriously unpredictable, but….not normally, no." John Watson manufactured an expression that could be read as guilty, apologetic or embarrassed, deserving of his fate. "I used to be his partner. His business partner." He crunched up his face and let the young man read there what he may. Let him think they had had some professional or personal disagreement that had broken their connection.
And we had, hadn't we? We have, haven't we? How can I find my way back home…?
Let him, let everyone, think Sherlock was angry, unprepared to repair their relationship. And had just made that resolution known as publicly as possible. And he realised something within him was not surprised by that.
"Ah. I see. My apologies, I did not mean to intrude on your….." he sought a word, came up with "…situation." He stepped back. "Is there anything I may do for you?"
"No. Thank you." He took a step away, then halted. "Why would you think you should need to?"
"My name is Marco de Bono. I am Alyssa Almedova's manager. Perhaps I feel a little responsible for Mr Holmes' behaviour."
"Do you? Why?" The interest was sharp and genuine; he tried to flatten his response, not panic the man into silence.
"We had what you might call a free and frank exchange of words earlier. I think it might have upset him."
John Watson grinned inside, then. Tried not to let that show.
Definitely a ploy, then. Most definitely a plan.
"Not your problem, honestly. He has that effect on people. I had hoped to talk to Sherlock, but I can see that is a waste of time. I'll go. But thanks anyway."
He left the small concert hall, ignoring the curious looks of the few stragglers, the last of the audience to leave, who had seen that flash of Sherlock's reaction.
Outside the concert hall he melted into the departing crowds, ducked behind a hoarding and waited. Silent in the shadows. No-one had followed him. No-one was running to catch him up.
He waited. Would wait until he saw Sherlock. Until he could follow him again. And find out what was going on..
o0o0o
So much going on. So much to organise before he arrived in Denmark.
Sherlock Holmes adjusted the bag on his shoulder, crossing London, heading for the tube and Heathrow to catch his train. Took out his phone. Started to text.
o0o0o
Reply: In Aalborg. Alerted. Later. PB
o0o0o
Reply: Attack under investigation, no lead. Debrief? Bed, tea? CR
o0o0o
Reply: Yes, come! Wonderful to see you, my Azrael! Until then. Your Alyssa.
O0o0o
And a telephone call.
"How are you?"
"Absolutely fine. My masseuse said I should make the most of this, because this would probably be the last chance I would ever have to have peace and quiet all on my own. So I thought about it, decided she was right, and now that is exactly what I am doing!"
Mary Watson's voice was bubbly with laughter and good health, and for a moment Sherlock Holmes felt completely off balance.
What am I doing? This is what the real world should be - happy and relaxed. Easy.
Totally boring!
"At this very moment I am lying back and having a pedicure."
"I don't even know what that means," he said dismissively, allowing a whinge into his voice, then smiling to himself when he achieved a giggle from her in response.
"Poor soul!" she laughed back at him. And then sobered.
"How are you? How is John?"
"I am fine. John is fine. We had a meal at Angelo's last night. I left him fast asleep, having a lie-in."
Well, that's the truth. And what she doesn't know won't hurt her.
"What are you doing?"
"This and that. Finding intel. Getting background."
"The truth now, Sherlock."
He hadn't fooled her; she always said she knew when he was fibbing; or being economical with the truth.
"I am going to Denmark. Without John. He doesn't need to be there, and what he doesn't know won't hurt him. Just a couple more days, Mary, and then this should be over. Then you can come home."
"I am safe here, Sherlock," her voice was low, the sincerity palpable. It made him flinch, screw up his eyes as he walked. A luxury, as no-one who knew him could see him do it.
"Security is strong, this place is efficient and peaceful. You chose well. My time here should not be a pressure on you, not as far as I am concerned."
"Yes. Thank you." He paused. Tried to stop the timbre of his voice changing. "Mary. It is possible I may not return from this. So I need you to promise something."
"Anything. Go on."
There was an unusual and untypical pause.
"Look after him for me. If I die a second time…I mean…properly this time…. he must have someone to turn to."
"I promised you that before. At the airfield. You know it anyway. I'm not reneging on that promise. I never would. I love him."
"I know."
"I love you too."
"Don't."
He instantly ended the call even as he heard her start to reply. Took the Tube. Travelled onwards. Flew to Paris and then Hamburg, a torturous route to Aalborg, a pretence at disguising his final destination, that he already knew Baldissi was there. To look cautious, not obvious.
Alert to being followed, unsure where his trail would be picked up - or who by. The airport was logical. There were Harry Baldwin cousins still unidentified - Danish Italians? Mafia gofers. Magnussen underlings and functionaries. Connections that linked a new generation of de Bono's to a new generation of Baldissi's. Mafia family connections ran long and deep. It could be anyone. With Baldissi already in Aalborg - who knew what he was planning?
Investigate, be ready and alert. Bring the hawk to the lure, distract dangerous young Harry Baldwin from all his other targets so all he could see, all he could focus on, before his eyes and within touching distance, taunting him, was Sherlock Holmes.
Well. That was the theory.
He was self absorbed during his journey. There was a bubble of something at the base of his throat always threatening to rise, and that something was fear. He didn't do fear. Did not admit to it. Allow it in.
But he had gone through too much over the past two weeks. Even for him. And he knew it. Christmas, murder, attack, imprisonment. Justice and punishment denied, a suicide mission abandoned, a drug overdose of epic proportions. Another task to undertake against an unexpected and unpredictable foe who had too much advantage, and had already defiled too much of the hidden part of him.
This time there were too many people to protect. This time it was just too personal. This time it was a campaign focussed against him alone - the murderer - yet planned to make others suffer on his behalf. The burden of this knowledge was almost too much to bear. And Baldissi knew that.
Logic was taking him to Aalborg. Revenge had turned on the remaining Magnussen brothers first; and there were others in Denmark to target. But he knew both opening Magnussen attacks had merely been feints, to tease and frighten. The next hits would be more serious. And he must be there to foil them.
Carving letters into Johan Magnussen's forehead had been childishly evil - and spiteful - warning. The attack on Alyssa Almedova and the attempt to steal the Holderness Guaneri violin had been more calculating and had been foiled, and he had foiled it.
And yet…there was something else. He knew it. Was Alyssa victim, conspirator or sacrificial lamb? Was the violin a real target or a distraction? And where was Marco de Bono in this?
Was his family part of Enrico Baldissi's Mafia connection? Or was he an innocent who just looked guilty? Was there any Mafia connection at all? And who was Alfredo Catalani? His role in this complicated game of posture and peril?
Aalborg would give the answers. When he pushed the Almedova connection and tested it: when he faced the girl and her manager. When he plumbed their reactions and emotions.
Visit Johan Magnussen, wait for Pedder. Triangulate intelligence with Piet Bruhl. Follow Christina Ravn's investigation of the attack on Johan, locate Baldissi.
Harry Baldwin had truly become Enrico Baldissi. And Enrico Baldissi was finding it too easy to disappear, both in London and Denmark. Someone must be helping him. Shielding him. But Sherlock Holmes did not know who. Not yet. And he disliked not knowing.
At least, he thought, as he journeyed north and east, at least Mary and Baby Watson were safe. Thanks to his own drugs John Watson was also safe and sleeping at home, with no idea where he was or how to find him.
Don't be angry with me, John! Well….no angrier than normal! Stay asleep and comfortable and safe. This is not your problem to solve. It is mine. Not your job to keep me safe any more. Keeping Mary safe, and the baby: that is your job now.
Any misery and any mistakes are mine, and mine alone. Mine to put right alone. Stand back, John, stay clear. Just let me do this thing. End it as quickly as possible. Not be distracted by you. Stay away from me, John.
You won't like it. You won't understand what I am about to do. Another reason for keeping you out of this. You think you know me so well, and think I would never do this. But I have told you before. I will do anything to win. Did you hear me then? Hear me now? Know exactly what that means?
So don't look.
o0o0o
The soundproof door squeaked as he opened it. And again as he closed it. The intrusion sounded above the music being made, and fourteen faces turned towards him. Twelve blank, slightly quizzical. One stormy and critical. The other…..
"My Azrael! You are here! I never thought…..!"
She had put the violin down and run into his arms before he really registered what she was going to do and was doing it. She ran towards him, the length of the room, scattering her students before her, and launched herself into his arms.
He caught her automatically, a reactive sort of self preservation, and drew her to him in a movement that was as much her own physical impetus as his reaction. He felt himself quiver with something like shock or sex or delight or revulsion, then pulled himself together.
I will do this. Secrets and sex and availability. This is bringing the hawk to the lure. Remember that. Touch. Contact.
Smiled charmingly down at her as if she was the only person in the universe, tightened his arms around her and bent his head to kiss her, apparently heedless of the encouraging whistles and catcalls from the class.
Lowering her to the ground he kept his lips on hers - mouth subtly shifting, tongue teasing - until she breathed a soft laugh into his mouth and broke away, a little excited, a little flustered.
"A charming welcome," he said, softly, but not too softly to be heard around the room.
She blushed.
"Sherlock. My choknuttyj," she laughed up into his face, as flustered by her own action as his reaction. "I forget myself."
"Beautifully so," he agreed in his best seductive purr. Took her hand, kissed her fingertips. "You asked me to come, So here I am."
As if suddenly aware of the rapt attention of the students - but in an entirely different way to before he came - she waved a hand vaguely at them.
"He is a violinist," she said in lame excuse. Blushed endearingly as her students laughed. So he took a little pity upon her. Lifted her Guarneri to his shoulder and trilled a little Paganini pizzicato with his fingers without even looking what he was doing; coat still on, bag still settled on his shoulders. Busking it.
In a roomful of top class violinists he had made his point in seconds without even speaking. Was thus instantly accepted within the group, within the room.
"You have been travelling, Sherlock? Perhaps you would like the chance to freshen up and have coffee while Alyssa continues her class?"
Marco de Bono's intervention was smooth. Sherlock Holmes looked across at him and nodded slowly. There were words to be shared in private now. Words not for the Russian girl's ears.
So he relinquished the Guarneri to it's true partner, withdrew from the back of the stage to a ripple of applause from the pupils.
In the workaday backstage space the two men faced each other. Marco de Bono pulled his eyes away first, gestured vaguely towards double doors.
"Coffee then?" he said awkwardly and led the way to the Green Room; empty save for a single waitress behind the counter, who presented hot drinks and pastries on a tray de Bono carried to a corner and sat down.
Sherlock Holmes sat opposite him. Cool and poised. Waiting.
"What are you doing here?"
"Alyssa invited me."
"Why?"
"I don't know. Have you thought of asking her?"
"I'm not sure she would tell me."
"You are her manager."
"And that's all."
"Not my fault. Not my problem."
There was a moment's silence, a pause for mutual assessment.
"She is very young," de Bono said. "Has had a sheltered life because of her musical gift. Is very open hearted."
"Yes, she is. Which makes her charming and attractive."
"And easy to take advantage of."
"I am the last person to take advantage of her."
"Really? I see you with her and it sickens me. You are rich. Handsome and powerful. Her hero because you saved her - and her treasured violin - from thieves." He paused, waited for Sherlock Holmes to be offended and angry. Which did not happen. So another prod.
"Did you set that up yourself? To become her hero? Wrap her round your little finger?"
"Why would I?"
"I don't know! You might be a manic fan, an ambitious musician, a scheming potential lover! Anything!"
Sherlock absorbed that easily and riposted with a new strike.
"Why was she alone on Waterloo Bridge so late at night?"
"Admiring the view…."
"No. She was waiting for someone. Waiting for you?"
"Why me?"
"You exhibit symptoms of a jealous lover. So I could make the same accusations back at you. Did you plan to seduce her? Steal the Guarneri for yourself? Blackmail Alyssa?"
"You're mad! Arrogant and…."
"Heard all that before. Boring. And I wouldn't want the violin for myself. I have my own Guarneri. ….."
"What? Alyssa said as much, but I thought she was just talking you up…..?"
"No. She has seen it. Played it. My Guarneri has been in my family for generations. It is known as the Vernet Guarneri. After my great grandfather, who left it to my mother, who gave it to me. A matter of record." He paused. "So why was Alyssa on the bridge? Waiting?"
De Bono conceded the issue.
"I got a telephone message while she was on stage. Someone from her sponsors wanted to meet her, but was delayed. If he did not arrive for the reception afterwards, could she meet him later, on Waterloo Bridge? I asked her, she agreed. She thought it sounded romantic." He shook his head.
"Who was it? A name, Marco!"
"I had no name. Just a telephone message."
"Sounds feeble. Not necessarily true, and you have no proof."
"How dare you say that? "
"Your name is de Bono. I know all about the Maltese Mafia connections of the de Bono family, the Messinas. Has that anything to do with your manipulation of Alyssa?"
Marco de Bono leant across the table, grabbed Sherlock Holmes by the lapels of his coat and flung him across the room. The taller man hit the opposite wall and was immediately back on his feet. Standing tall, and smiling, waving away the waitress rushing to his aid.
"Nothing to worry about," she said with quiet assurance. "Just a little misunderstanding. Artistic temperament, you know."
And calmly sat back down.
"Sit down, Marco, and start behaving like an adult. Instead of a guilty man in denial of himself and his own motives."
"You are a total bastard."
"Told that before. So are you in the Mafia, like the rest of your family? Or are you trying to prove you are pure as the driven snow?"
"You are so clever, work it out for yourself," he breathed.
Got up and walked away.
o0o0o
John Watson stood quietly, resting invisibly in the shadows, waiting for Sherlock Holmes to reappear He did not have long to wait, had barely gathered his thoughts, when the side door burst open. Sherlock and Alyssa hand in hand, moving swiftly and furtively…..
He put his hand into his pocket for the comforting touch of the Beretta. In case it was needed, In case he was needed. Huffed a gasp of surprise and frustration when their urgent movement merely put them into a dark angle of the building before they slammed together in a quick and urgent kiss of heat and passion.
She had her arms around him, hands clasped high behind his head, pressing herself tightly to him as his hands grasped her sides and lifted her into his lips. Watson could not suppress the twist of something like disgust and embarrassment that crossed his face as he watched.
He mentally shook himself at his reaction. He was neither a prude nor an innocent. He was no voyeur either…..but this was Sherlock Holmes! A man he had known for years, a man who professed to have no heart, no emotion of his own, who abhorred and scorned emotion in others.
Yet here he was: caressing a young woman possessively, irresistibly. Passionately, even. And she was kissing him back as if her hunger for him could not be sated.
So John Watson kept looking. Watched as Sherlock lowered the slight girl back onto her feet, cupped that gamine face in his long pale hands and whispered words urgently. Love? Promise? Assignation?
He was too far away to hear, and cursed the distance between them.
Marco de Bono sprang through the side door, looked round wildly, spotted the couple in their corner just as they saw him, and leapt apart.
Sharp words from the shorter man as he reached out for the hands Sherlock had just dropped, and sprung away from. The usual arrogance was replaced by placatory words, a distinct backing away. Whatever Marco de Bono said was scathing - John Watson could recognise the tone if not the individual words - and he saw Sherlock allow the manager to lead his violin virtuoso away.
For a moment Sherlock Holmes simply stood and watched them go. Then he dipped a hand into a coat pocket, produced a packet and gold lighter, bent his head to light a cigarette.
The expression the flare of the match illuminated on that patrician face moved from something like lust to cold calculation. It chilled the watcher who still liked to think of himself as Sherlock Holmes' best friend.
Watched his best friend take two hard drags on the cigarette and stride away at speed.
From the direction he was taking Watson knew where he would be heading. Studying the city map, he had established the two addresses Mycroft Holmes had given him were in opposite parts of the city: one a white painted apartment block almost within sight of the Utzon Centre itself, the other on the edge of the city centre's mediaeval quarter.
And that was where Sherlock must be heading now. So Watson ran towards the main road behind the Utzon onto Nyhavnsgade, waved down a taxi, and was quickly delivered to the address. A tiny half timbered cottage on a narrow cobbled street that reminded him eerily of a similar part of Norwich. He found himself a recessed doorway fifty yards further along the street in a convenient pool of darkness and stepped backwards into his niche.
The little lane was quiet, and late night strollers few, so when footsteps were heard approaching, Watson recognised the familiar tread.
Sherlock Holmes was walking down the centre of the road, making no attempt at concealment, and went unerringly to the oak door of the cottage. The four raps on the knocker seemed impossibly loud, and the door was opened quickly.
A shadowy figure in denims and blue hoodie pulled low over the face, fists in pockets, slipped out of the door and was away so quickly it could have been a ghost. John Watson barely noticed, all concentration on Sherlock.
Another man appeared in the lighted doorway, one hand holding the door. Sherlock said something very quietly and the man stepped forward, light behind him from inside showing a dark silhouette. But Watson saw a man older but shorter than Sherlock, with broad shoulders, a compact sturdy figure, unmistakeable military bearing.
He looks like me, John Watson thought, shocked Darker hair, squarer face, taller and stronger. Clearly an officer and a gentleman. But. A lot. Like me.
Watched in something between horror and disbelief as Sherlock lifted his hands, captured the man's face between them, stepped forward and drew the two of them together, body tight pressed to body, kissing the other man deeply and with something that looked like both passion and desperation.
The other man yielded as if shocked for mere seconds, then pulled back, dragged his mouth away.
"Good lord, Sherlock!"
He knows him, then! Who is this man? Boyfriend? Lover? A relationship that began when Sherlock was here in Denmark, convalescing from being shot by Mary? Someone known for years? A relationship Sherlock had hidden? Who? And why?
How had he never known? Known this was Sherlock? This really was Sherlock?
The other man took Sherlock Holmes by the biceps and pushed him away to look up into the younger man's face.
"You have hunger," John Watson heard the other man say. It was not a question but a statement.
There was no reply, but the man quietly raised a hand and rested it softly on Sherlock Holmes' face, a gentle curve around the jaw and over a sharp cheekbone.
"Come inside. Let me see what I can do for you."
And John Watson looked on in something like amazement as Sherlock Holmes stepped inside and the door closed behind him.
After a few moments of stunned reaction he found he had a hand clamped over his mouth. Froze as footsteps passed the cottage, slowed a little, and walked by. A young man in a dark trench coat, collar flipped high. John Watson ducked his head, confident that in his dark blue coat and hat he was invisible in his dark corner.
Listened to the footsteps recede in the darkness, paralysed in what felt like betrayal as much as shock. Which was a ridiculous way to feel! There had never been anything like that between them.
He wanted to confront Sherlock. He wanted to talk to Mycroft. He wanted to be a fly on the wall inside that little cottage. He wanted to know what was going on, what he was meant to be finding out. However much it hurt. Because here in Denmark he did not like what he was finding, what he was experiencing. So, unsure and indecisive, he waited.
Within thirty minutes the door opened again. Sherlock emerged. He was still shrugging himself into his coat and jacket, most shirt buttons undone. John Watson's stomach turned over.
What had gone on in the house in that brief time could not have been more obvious. And the younger man who had disappeared into the night as Sherlock arrived? Who was he? What had he been doing?
The older man patted Sherlock on the shoulder, squeezed his hand.
"Take care of yourself," he said briefly, and closed the door.
Sherlock Holmes turned and began to walk towards John Watson, and for one moment of rising panic, he thought he had been seen. But Sherlock merely strode past, within inches of his hiding place, and Watson could smell whisky on him, see wet and scraped back hair.
Swift sex and a shower was it? And a drink or two to see him on his way?
This was madness!
Was this really Sherlock Holmes he was following, or was this some sort of body double? A man who looked like Sherlock, dressed and moved like Sherlock….but did everything Sherlock did not do? Touch and vulnerability and sex….male and female alike?
He was aware, just like in all the cheap novels, that his head was spinning and he felt queasy. As if he wanted to unsee what he had just seen; unlearn everything he had learnt in the past two days.
Watching, but giving Sherlock plenty of time to get ahead of him, he knew where he was heading now; to the other address Mycroft had given him, to the fourth floor apartment close to the Utzon Centre.
Somehow he again managed to reach the building first, and found himself a new hiding place in a small triangular area beneath a set of stairs.
Again, he listened for the sound of Sherlock's footsteps approaching, and again he watched as Sherlock knocked upon a door.
A tall woman, almost as tall as Sherlock himself, opened it. She wore a black dressing gown over mannish striped pyjamas, incongruous pink fluffy slippers on her feet, and in her hand she held a glass of wine.
"You're late," she said in greeting. "I had gone to bed."
A tumble of long dark hair, dark eyes, high cheekbones to match Sherlock's own.
They did not kiss, and she did not even reach out and touch him. But her quiet words carried to the hiding place.
"Bed," she said. "You look terrible."
He did not reply, simply put one hand on a shoulder, and let her draw him inside. As he passed her he put his forehead to hers in a rare gesture of trust and appreciation.
And then they were inside. All dark and silent again in the empty walkway
John Watson sighed the sigh of a disillusioned man and settled himself more comfortably. Tried to make sense of what he had seen this evening.
And reflected this could be a long cold night to come.
o0o0o
He made a show of punching John Watson as quickly and as hard as he could, watched him fly off the edge of the stage, turning away and checking with his peripheral vision that John Watson had landed safely. He could reassuringly hear the doctor now in his best shouting soldier mode. Tried not to smile.
He grasped Alyssa's hand, strode off the stage and hoped he had done enough to deflect and protect.
"Sherlock? What was that about?"
Once backstage she turned to him, more in curiosity than fear.
"My past got up and bit me. Not important," he said dismissively. Then: "I told you I was no angel."
"And that, my choknuttyj, is why you are so irresistible."
He could not decide whether to admire her nerve or commiserate on her naivety. His eyes met those of Marco de Bono, and for a second her feared he himself was going to be thumped in turn.
"That ruined the day," de Bono said with deliberate flatness. "And it had been going so well."
"Nonsense! A little fillip for the audience to remember her by. A great marketing ploy, Marco."
She swept them both into her dressing room, heedless of the tension, happy and high on the events of the day. The violin went into it's backpack, which she handed to her manager, and she grabbed her coat; and Sherlock's hand.
"I have to go, moya krasavista," he said regretfully - my beautiful girl. "I have work to do."
"And she has to sleep. Sleep alone. For there is another busy day tomorrow."
Marco was stern, but she laughed in his face, spun through the door and down the corridor despite his protesting cry, tugging Sherlock Holmes after her. He complied, but once out of the side door and into the cool fresh air spun her to a stop - it would not do for her to be too far from Marco's watchful eye - and stilled her laughter and her movement by trapping her between his arms against the wall and kissing her.
Human it is, then. Is this what you do? Is this what people like?
Lifted her off her feet and into his mouth, registering how slight and warm and compliant she was, and how her openness was as unusual as it was dangerous.
"Go with Marco."
"I would rather go with you."
"You need to sleep."
"If you came with me. We would do more than sleep."
"Never be so eager. Save yourself for a man worthy of you. What you would learn cannot be unlearnt."
And at that point, before she could reply, Marco de Bono crashed through the side door, said harsh words Sherlock Holmes did not even bother to register. But he made the right noises in response, the right gestures, and watched the Maltese manager and musician who might - or might not - be Mafia, be a relation of Harry Baldwin or a tool of Enrico Baldissi. Might be a plotter and a planner. Or might even be just what he appeared to be: a worried, and harassed, and over protective manager.
Sherlock Holmes watched them walk away from him, disappear round the side of the silver roofed building and towards the serviced accommodation further along the Limnfjord the centre provided for visiting artists.
He drew himself up to his full height and thought for a moment. The hairs on the back of his neck had risen into hackles, and he knew that somewhere beyond the flat open darkness there were eyes upon him.
So he lit a cigarette to create a little pool of light which would draw any - all - of the eyes that might be looking, allow him to be seen. Took two deep drags of the soothing carcinogens amid the 43,00 chemicals in a typical cigarette, turned on his heel and walked away. Ears alert for footsteps, eyes darting onto any reflective surfaces to catch a glimpse of the follower he expected. Or any other.
o0o0o
The little mediaeval cottage in the ancient centre of Aalborg was very different to the tall elegant pied de terre in Copenhagen, but probably reflected the complex character of the owner of both.
He knocked at the oak front door, which opened almost immediately. An unsmiling young blond man nodded to him as he slipped out and away, and Sherlock Holmes locked eyes - honey brown, keen assessing eyes - for a moment as neither the visitor nor the man inside the house showed any reaction. As if each waiting for the other to make a move.
"Go with this, Piet, " Sherlock Holmes' voice was the slightest whisper, and for answer a single blink was slow and deliberate. "And step into the street."
One step was all that was needed. A stronger, even harder man than he remembered from Copenhagen. Not so tall. Casual in grey sweatshirt and chinos. Relaxed, but poised for action, as always.
Sherlock Holmes stepped deliberately into the other man's personal space, slotted one long leg between strong thighs and pressed their bodies close. Possessed the strong lined face between his hands. Ignored the rush of surprise he saw reflected back at him and dipped his head, crushing his long mobile mouth against warm slightly chapped lips.
Gave every impression of sucking the life out of the man before him and absorbing it into himself.
"Good lord, Sherlock!"
The man called Piet tore his mouth away from that of Sherlock Holmes and put his hands onto the taller man's biceps to push him gently away a little. There was shock in the mellow voice, despite the silent promise. And keenly observed what he saw in the revealing light from within the house onto the face of Sherlock Holmes.
"You have hunger." A flat statement. No reply, just a slight sideways dip of the head, a movement behind those enigmatic eyes, pale and opalescent in the light upon him.
Piet Bruhl felt the exhaustion, raised a hand to cup Sherlock Holmes' jaw, his face, rubbing the sharp cheekbone a little with his thumb.
"Come inside. Let me see what I can do for you."
Without a word Sherlock Holmes stepped across the threshold and Piet Bruhl closed the door behind him.
They were in a tiny, low ceilinged sitting room full of antique rustic furniture. Comfortable and cosy.
"This is nice…."
"Shut up, Sherlock." This was a voice used to command. So it commanded. "What the hell was that about? That loving display out there? If my husband saw that….."
"Fredrik would laugh and tell you it was me being devious. He would be right. I'm sorry. Needs must."
Colonel Piet Bruhl of the Danish Jaegerkorps, released some deep internal tension and gestured the consulting detective into an armchair.
"Sit down before you fall down." He waited until his guest did so. "A drink?"
"Whisky."
He crossed the room to a buffet sideboard, busied himself at a silver drinks tray, returned with two tumblers of Laphroaig, no ice or water. Sat down in his own chair and passed one glass to Sherlock Holmes and took a long appreciative sip of his own before leaning forward and instructing simply: "So tell me."
Listened with quiet concentration to the brief tale of murder and death and being hit with a chair. Of the man who escaped Appledore in the confusion created by an unconscious consulting detective, of solitary confinement and history rewritten, of a threat spray painted on a sitting room wall. Of target and attack, of a girl and a violin and another man damaged with a knife. Of revenge and persecution.
And, because this was Piet Bruhl, and because Piet Bruhl had saved him from drowning before he even knew him, had seen him naked and had cut a tracking device from beneath his skin, had lent him his private island on which to recover, he also told him about rape and attack and a bitten hip bone.
And because Sherlock Holmes had been instrumental in making sure he married the love of his life, had saved everyone close to him from blackmail and extortion, had saved his husband from being killed and caught his assailant. And because he knew and often worked in association with Sherlock Holmes' brother, Piet Bruhl listened, and understood and empathised.
He did not interrupt. He watched the impassive face and the expressive hands, the dispassionate voice and saw the frozen wall of pain behind them all. And understood. Knew the man before him would not want sympathy, kindness or advice. Nor even active help.
So when Sherlock Holmes had finished his narrative, Piet Bruhl merely said:
"Mycroft asked me to smooth the path for Doctor Watson. He is in Aalborg. He is equipped with a Beretta .22."
"I know. I don't want him here. Mycroft knows that. As does Watson. Withdraw him. Tell Mycroft whatever you like. But don't betray me by cooperating with him against me like that again."
"Not betraying. Watching your back."
"Huh!"
Sherlock Holmes leapt to his feet. Piet Bruhl stood also.
"What are you going to do now? Tell me. Tell me what that kiss was about?"
A dismissive shrug, eyes sliding away.
"I do what I must to win. Distract the hawk from lesser targets, draw it to the lure."
"You."
"Me."
"Be careful how you step into such danger. This boy is dangerous. Unlike Magnussen, he is wild, unpredictable. Quick."
"I know."
Piet Bruhl watched as Sherlock Holmes - with a sly, glittering grin in his direction - unbuttoned his shirt, hauled aside the collar. Lifted the untouched whisky from the Georgian occasional table by his side and tipped it over his head without comment. Raked his fingers through his wetted hair and pushed it back with a flick of his head, curls dripping. Licked a trail of Laphraoig from his lips.
"Waste of good whisky," Bruhl commented inconsequentially. "But you look suitably debauched."
"Good whisky is never wasted, Piet. Get Watson off my back."
"If I can…but Mycroft won't be pleased."
"Stuff Mycroft!" the words were an explosion; and he pulled back from the brink of losing self control with a rare visible effort. "This is my call, not his. He has fucked it up enough already" He snatched a breath. "Apologies."
"No need. Shout if you need me. Shout anyway."
"Yes."
Piet Bruhl crossed to the door, and opened it.
"You look fucked," he said honestly.
"Smoke and mirrors," Sherlock Holmes observed. "Thank you, Piet."
The older man patted the younger on the shoulder, squeezed his hand.
"Look after yourself," he said.
And closed the door behind him.
o0o0o
He was late. But she still opened the door and welcomed him in. Dressing gown, pyjamas, silly slippers and wine.
She's home, and off duty, And I am neither.
"You're late. I had gone to bed," she said It was not much of a greeting.
He simply looked at her. And she looked back, not reacting at what she saw. The eyes that were the heart and fire and the magnetism of him were tired and dull. Normally immaculate beneath the enveloping Belstaff, this time his shirt was deeply unbuttoned, showing pale and concave chest, the collar crumpled. He smelt of alcohol. And yet she knew he rarely drank.
She frowned at him, read mental and physical exhaustion in the words he did not say
"Bed. You look terrible," she said.
Still without speaking she stepped back to let him inside, and as she did so he put one hand on her shoulder, moved a little closer to lightly put his forehead to hers in a wordless gesture unlike anything she had ever seen from him before.
Her heart lurched and she drew him inside, closed the door.
"I offered tea and a bed. But you smell of booze. So a glass of wine with me instead?"
He stood in the centre of her sitting room looking dazed.
John gave me drugs to make me sleep a lifetime ago. No. Just a day ago. Made me still, made me sleep. How long ago was that? Really? Not a week, not a lifetime?
"Tea would be lovely," he said demurely.
He followed her to the kitchen, propped a shoulder in the doorway, dropping his bag down his arm, as she busied herself with the simple task.
"Detektiv Inspektor Christina Ravn," he said almost absently, almost to himself. And she turned and looked at him as he spoke her name.
"Who did this to you?" she asked.
"Myself. I did it to myself." He spoke loudly, brightly, as if repeating a joke.
"Are you going to tell me?"
"No. I am going to ask you. About the attack on Johan Magnussen."
"Someone picked their spot well. No CCTV in the university car park at that point. No witnesses. Hr Magnussen is not a good victim witness." She shrugged, handed him his tea and propelled him gently into the sitting room.
He took his usual place, the sofa in the far corner of the room, as far as possible from her.
"That is not a criticism. He is a gentle soul, other worldly, even. His mind refuses his memory. He cannot believe how this happened to him, why he was targeted."
"Because he is the brother of Charles Augustus Magnussen. And an easy target."
"Yes." She paused. "We did not know of Baldwin coming to Denmark until it was too late to pick him up at the airport. We cannot trace him, either as Baldwin or Baldissi, in any hotel in the city. I am sorry."
"Someone is sheltering him here. Someone was sheltering him in London also."
"So this is more than just a boy trying for revenge on you as killer of his hero?"
"I think so. I think the intent to kill me remains his driving force, but there is more to it. I think there is someone else behind him."
"But who?"
The voice in his head screamed: Moriarty! But then, the voice in his head always screamed Moriarty. He had taken down Moriarty's international crime network. He had seen no evidence of the man still being alive. He had seen Moriarty shoot himself through the head, fall to the ground. And move no more.
But the fact remained that the bloodied corpse had disappeared from the roof after he had dived off it while he, the other dead body, was claiming all the attention. And although he knew - thought he knew - the source of the 'Miss Me?' TV transmission that had saved him from the one way trip to Eastern Europe, he had not been told in so many words. And the need for that showed the threat officialdom still considered a dead man to be.
If anyone was going to defy his apparent and public death, it was always going to be Moriarty. The bottom line remained. If he himself could fake bloody death in a public place - then so could Moriarty. That thought always niggled. Always.
"I am not sure. Not yet. A possibility has presented itself…I need more data."
"Tell me when you can. And I will act."
"Hmn."
"I mean it, Sherlock. You are not to take risks. Not put your life on the line."
"Oh, Christina. That is not the right thing to say to me."
There was sudden laughter on his face; gallows humour, the smile on the face of the tiger. She smiled back at him because it was better than crying for him.
"Go shower. Go to bed. Spare room. I'm going to bed."
And she did so. But she couldn't sleep while she heard him still moving quietly around her home. Moving from bathroom to bedroom. And even after half an hour in there alone she could still hear the slight noises he made, imagine him pacing the floor.
Eventually she got up, left her own room and entered his.
He wore a black tee shirt and blue plaid pyjama bottoms, feet bare, standing tall and lean beside the rectangular window that looked back over the city, the nearest plain but pretty apartment block identical to the one he was in.
He had not drawn the curtains and stood looking out, one hand flat on the glass, the other fisting through his hair, deep in thought.
He barely registered her joining him, and when she asked:
"Can't you sleep? Are you OK?" he did not reply directly, but observed:
"There is almost an entire floor next door without lights on, but with curtains drawn closed, or partly so. Why is that?"
She walked softly across the room to join him, stood close beside him and looked where he looked.
"I think that is accommodation allocated to the centre and concert halls for visiting performers and technicians. It may well be empty because there is a big opera staging being installed. So no main house performances or performers this week."
He nodded, slowly and thoughtfully. Muttered something to himself. Put the fingers of both hands to his temples, frowned.
"That looks painful," she said, trying to lighten his mood.
"Not at all," he flashed a grin at her from beneath his brows, and she could not resist smiling back. Just as she began to feel uncomfortable with the silence, to turn and leave him, he spoke.
Screw your courage to the sticking place and we will not fail…..
"Can….can you do something for me please, Christina?"
She frowned at him, not recognising this hesitant voice.
"I owe you for catching me a serial killer, Sherlock. You can ask anything."
He smiled a sweet little smile, but did not turn his eyes to her.
"Really? So may I ask you to come closer? Run your hands over me and take off my tee shirt? Pretend you are attracted to me? Draw me over to the bed?" He shuddered a deep breath. "If that is too much to ask…I understand. Thank you."
She took another step closer. Laid her palms flat on his chest, and looked up into that almost preternaturally controlled, handsome face she had thought until that moment she knew so well. His eyes were downcast, impossibly long lashes resting on his pale cheeks, expression unreadable.
"You hate being touched," she stated. "You repel intimacy. You do not do affection. Love. Sex. Yet you want me to…..do that. To you? " She put a hand to his face, lifted his chin so she could look into his eyes in the half light.
"I am a divorced woman, A policewoman. Older than you. Sex is not cupids and love hearts to me. Are you actually asking me to fuck you? Or have I missed something?"
For a second, as she spoke, he looked sheepish. Then she saw a flash of awkward irony behind his eyes.
" You are a consummate actor, Sherlock Holmes. You are not doing this to make me - or even you - feel good. You are doing this because…." she thought, deduced, concluded. "You think someone is watching you, following you. You think someone is watching you - watching us - even now."
She gave him a little shake.
"Have you considered you may be suffering from hyper vigilance? A common symptom of PTSD. I know you suffer from PTSD. Is that recent? A result of being shot instead of Magnussen? Why you came to Denmark to recover? It's not that long ago."
He exhaled. Took a moment to reply.
"Not that simple. I have had PTSD a long time. Most of my life. Part of who I am. What I do, how and why I do it. Hyper vigilance included. That doesn't bother me."
"So what are we doing now? Showing off? Having fun? Proving a point?"
In contrast to her words, she smoothed her hands up his body, smiled at him, cupped his face gently between her hands, exerted a little pressure on one side so his head tilted towards her. In case he was right, and they really were being watched.
"We are proving….." his voice was soft and level, and did not at all reflect the appalling words he spoke. "…we are proving that I am every sort of trollop. Today I have revealed I will rut with anyone, man or woman, and that I am red hot good at it. We establish I am a slag for use. And by doing so I will distract a despicable man from his other victims and make him concentrate on me. Leave the others alone. Come on to me. First and last."
Her blood ran suddenly cold, and she quelled a shudder before it surfaced on her skin. He must not feel that from her.
"That is the most dangerous and stupid plan I have ever heard."
"Then think of one better."
She kissed him lightly, trailed her hands down his torso and her lips across his jaw, and placed her hands gently under the hem of the tee shirt, then around and behind him to caress his back.
"I wish I could. "
"Well, then."
His body was tensed, and she felt as much as heard him drag in a hard breath, could feel his heart racing against her cheek.
"I'm going to take your shirt off now. Ready?"
"Huh. Yes."
Hands under the tee shirt from behind, she hooked the shirt upwards, forwards over his head, flinging the garment heedlessly behind her to bury her face in his naked chest.
The front of him is too thin, and the back of him has too many scars. But isn't that combination so very attractive on him? She thought that. Then said as much.
And at that he threw his head back and laughed. Closed his arms around her, lifted her without effort, despite her own height and strong musculature, and stepped sideways to place her with graceful gentleness on the bed behind them.
She kept a hold on him, and pulled him down with her.
"That's enough. We are below sight lines now. You can let go of me, thank you."
Voice detached and businesslike again. Purpose served. No longer embarrassed.
But she kept a firm hold of him, pushed him onto his side.
"If we are being watched through the window…..and the watcher thinks this might be play acting….he will be looking for the bedroom door opening, or the curtains being drawn…or any movement at all away from the bed. Just. Stay. Here."
He stilled beside her, back towards her so she could not read his face. And very silent.
Daring now, she put a hand on his warm naked shoulder.
"Go to sleep. You need sleep. The doors are double locked, the alarm on and the windows four storeys up. I'm here with you. You are safe."
"Thank you, Mother."
She laughed, laced the fingertips of one hand into the curls at the nape of his neck.
"You are a terrible man. You know that?"
"Yes."
"Do you need more, Sherlock?"
"More what? I don't understand."
"A hug? Sex? It will relax you. Make you step outside of yourself for a while. And that would be good for you. You seem….beyond endurance, somehow."
There was a long, still silence, and her hand carding his hair froze.
"Kind of you," he said with a deliberate lightness, with disconnection. "But not necessary, thank you. If you could not touch me?"
She knew him too well to be offended, or even surprised, but part of her was disappointed. A deeply human part of her.
She levered herself backwards six inches, trailed her fingers free from his hair.
"I'm still here," she said with quiet determination. " And you still need to sleep."
"Am aware."
It was probably the most human admission she would ever get from him.
So she rearranged her pillow and relaxed, looked at the sky through the window. Listened to him breathe.
Finally he made a quiet little sigh, like a child settling into sleep. His breathing eased, his legs twitched a little, all the muscles relaxed.
"Sherlock? Are you still awake?"
He did not answer her. So she decided he was, finally, asleep. So she relaxed, and slept too.
o0o0o
John Watson sat back in his cramped, cold hiding place and .rearranged his limbs for the hundredth time, trying to find a comfortable position.
He couldn't decide whether to return to the warmth of his hotel, or to stay where he was. Whether he wanted to see what Sherlock Holmes did next - or if he did anything at all.
Whether the tall striking woman in whose flat he was appearing to spend the night was work or something more. And if something more….what was the thing with the Russian girl about?
And who was the military man Sherlock Holmes had snogged - at the very least - with such abandon? What was going on?
And, more importantly - why had Sherlock seen him and punched him so hard, and in public, that he had gone flying off the edge of a stage, scattering chairs and people alike?
None of this made sense! None of it!
The words kept screaming into his head, and he kept trying to stay calm. But it wasn't working. Nothing was working.
He had learnt too much today. And too many things he did not want to know. The identity of Robin. Of Isabel and her fate. The reality of the gunshot wound that had changed forever the life of Sherlock and Mycroft's father. Changed the career path and ambitions of their mother.
But what he did not know was how the events in Sri Lanka had changed Sherlock; changed the boy so much he had had to become another person. From William to Sherlock. Because of things he did not know, reasons John Watson still did not yet understand. And which he had realised from the first he needed to know.
And he also needed to know why Mycroft Holmes was so obsessed with his younger brother's welfare. Why he interfered so much in his life. And whose trust and care of Sherlock was so particular and so selective.
Add that to what he had seen of Sherlock's behaviour when alone and abroad… there were too many things he did not know or understand - or like - about his best friend Sherlock Holmes.
A flurry of texts had not helped explain nor lighten his mood.
Made contact with S. Does not want help.
Did he hit you? MH
Yes.
So he thinks he makes progress MH
How do you work that out? What am I doing here?
Stick with him. He will need you. MH
So John Watson stayed where he was simply because he could not decide what to do next. Or what would be best.
From time to time he dozed. The occasional car passing by on the road below roused him. But no-one came or went on the apartment walkways. And he was very bored.
He was awoken with a jolt, not even realising he had been asleep.
A firm hand shaking his shoulder.
"John! Wake up, John!" An intense whisper. A baritone voice.
"Sh….." he exclaimed, slow and disorientated.
"I am not Sherlock Holmes, Doctor Watson. But I need you out of here."
Leaning into his space he could see a strong profile, aquiline nose, dark hair swept back; an older man used to being in authority.
"No, I'm fine, really. A bit eccentric being here, but that's the English for you! I….."
"Be quiet and do as you are told. Without making a scene, if you don't mind. We don't want to wake the neighbours, now do we?"
And then there was a sound John Watson recognised only too well. The sound of the hammer of a gun being pulled back. That harsh click was unmistakeable. And John Watson's heart turned artic.
The gunhand moved, came into view. What light there was reflected on the barrel. And as a former soldier he recognised the silhouette of a Beretta PX4 Storm. Type C.
A professional's gun.
"Just in case you need persuasion," said the voice behind the gun.
"Well, as you put it so nicely…."
He crawled from the tiny space on hands and knees. Stood up slowly, joints creaking.
As he did so one hand grasped his shoulder again, the other raised the gun and brought it round to line up with his head.
"No dramatics, doctor. Or you will regret them."
Before he could even think of resisting a hand dipped into the pocket of the duffle coat and drew out the smaller Beretta. Which was swiftly transferred into the pocket of an expensive blue Crombie overcoat
"And now you come with me."
The hand on his shoulder, gripped harder, manhandled. But with the PX4 Storm so close there was no argument.
He was being strong armed away from Sherlock. He did not know where to, or who by. And there was no-one to see it happen. He could disappear forever. And no-one would know. Not Sherlock, not Mary, Not even bloody Mycroft!
Bloody Mycroft! This was all his fault!
He threw a backwards look at the apartment where Sherlock remained; just a wall away. Just a wall away….and not know his best friend was being abducted at gunpoint. The frustration was enough to make him furious.
"Calm, Doctor Watson. Now we go."
TO BE CONTINUED…
Author's notes:
Piet Bruhl and Christina Ravn, along with Matti Anker, first appeared in the prequel to this story, Things We Lost In The Flames.
Moriarty's body disappearing from the roof of Bart's is detailed by Sherlock in The Abominable Bride.
Laphroaig: Famous Scottish single malt whisky, know for it's smokey, peaty taste. One for connoisseurs.
Screw your courage to the sticking place, and we will not fail: Macbeth Act 2 Scene 7
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