Genre: Drama, angst, friendship
Spoilers: End of series 2, "The Reichenbach Fall"
Warnings: Spoilers, angst, some violence, mentions of drugs, swearing

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A Narrow Escape


Morbier´s study looks more inviting this late March afternoon than it did in December. The heavy green velvet curtains are drawn and rays of evening sunlight lighten the surface of his oaken desk. The man himself looks as cheesy as ever, his cheeks an unhealthy red colour, his eyes a cold grey, his posture indicating displeasure.

When we arrived, I half expected to be guided down to the cellars, where several soundproof and tighty locked rooms wait for the confessions of the less faithful members of the web. But our guards led us to the study immediately, making it clear that Morbier wanted to get straight to business. Didier couldn´t resist to jostle me on the last stairs of the marble stairway, and I tripped and hurt my knee.

Now the bulky, bald leader of the web´s financial organization is eyeing me, taking in my bruised face and the way I balance on my right leg to take as much weight from the left as possible. He nods, meeting Didier´s gaze with an expression of approval.

Clasping his meaty fingers, he leans forward on his desk. "Sigerson. I am very grateful that you followed my invitation," he greets me with an inviting air and a false smile. "I am sorry that I can´t offer you a chair. You seem to be… a bit unstable compared to your usual appearance," he offers and leans back again. "You probably wonder why I wanted to see you. Didier might not have told you all the details," he says.

I sway slightly, regaining my balance only for the price of sharp pain shooting through my left leg. "He accused me of being a traitor," I answer.

Morbier´s false smile widens. "And of course you answered that you are none," he says. "But we both know that this is not true. You called the police to Rieger´s flat and you called the Belgian police earlier today. These are only the occasions we know of." He swivels his chair away from the desk, picking his fingernails.

"I am highly disappointed, Sigerson. You were a very promising addition to our force. You could have been richer than you ever imagined. And still you risked everything for a minor deal with the authorities." He looks up, his gaze boring into me. "Or should I assume that you were never really one of us?"

"How do you mean?" I prod, instantly alert that he might know more about me than is safe.

His scrutinizing gaze never leaves my face. "You know, Sigerson, I have seen many people join and leave the web. We´ve had our fair share of agents from all kinds of police or secret service forces worming their way into the web, too, due to our… unorthodox methods. It is not always easy to tell from the start who is an agent, but in my experience, the better the agents are, the more desperate they act. As if they had nothing to lose, in fact." He smirks at Didier. "But they are sorely mistaken. They can lose their sanity, their health, their life." Didier nods, smirking back.

Morbier continues picking his fingernails. "Clearly you have no interest in money, because if you had, you would never jeopardize our plan. No, you are drawn by ethics, your mission is one of honour. You are a knight in shining armour." Again, his blue eyes bore into my fake brown ones. "Since the web doesn´t have much time left until our big event, I am dying to know what your mission is and who sent you."

"Nobody sent me," I reply sternly.

Morbier snorts. "Of course you would say that. Don´t be stupid. I would suggest Didier accompanies you down to one of our special rooms and we´ll have a more… intensive brainstorming later." He leans forward, pointing at me. "It really is a shame, you know. I liked you. You would have been a fitting addition to the inner circles of the web." With this, he nods at Didier, who grabs my arm and turns to leave.

"Didier," Morbier calls him back. "I would be very obliged if you could leave the forthcoming reception to Moran and our special team. Please make sure our guest feels at home."

Didier nods and hauls me towards the door, his grip not as brutal as earlier. Still, I hardly manage to keep pace. The fifty-fifty chance I had has been diminished to an eighty-twenty one.

As I hobble downstairs, Didier at my side, I know that my hands are tied not only in reality but also literally. My mission of bringing down the web will be ended should Morbier´s people succeed in looseing my tongue with their refined interrogation methods. It is highly probable that they will pry the secret of my identity from me. If they succeed, my fall and disappearance will have been in vain, my friend´s deaths inevitable.

These unpleasant thoughts come to an abrupt halt when a shot roars outside. Everyone in the hall - there are at least ten members of the web on their respective ways up- and downstairs, the place practically thriving with activity – stops what he is doing, more than one weapon is being drawn. More shots outside and the crashing of the doors spurs the men to sprint into cover as several policemen with helmets and bulletproof vests storm the building. A megaphone call announces that eyerybody is to stay put and to drop any weapon, while several of the police men storm the stairs, already on their way to the first floor, to Morbier´s office.

Didier still clings to me, the idiot points his gun at one of the armed policemen and fires. Another member of the force has seen this coming and takes aim at Didier. His first shot hits my arm, as Didier has hauled me towards him to use me as a shield. But thankfully my left leg sags and the second bullet meets with Didier´s chest. He crashes down hard on me, pinning me to the floor. When the shooter approaches, I notice two policemen descending the stairs, Morbier in their middle, handcuffed. In the hall, the web´s people have already dropped their weapons, most of them are standing sprawled against the walls, getting shackled by the police.

The man who shot Didier bends down to me, shifting the criminal´s body away. He cries out to his colleagues that I´ve been shot. Then he notices the handcuffs on my wrists and his eyes widen. "What happened?" he asks me, in Dutch.

Concentrating on his face, I try to blend out the pain in my arm and the bleeding. "I am Sigerson," I answer him in French. "Your informant. Please call the British MI6, ask for Mycroft Holmes." He retrieves his wireless to contact a superior while I slip into welcoming darkness.