I still haven't heard anything of Sherlock. We needed him out of sight as soon as he could walk without a limp; I know he checked in with my contacts in Spain a week after his death. That was in June; I heard from UCLAT at the beginning of August, Spain again a week later. It's October 10th.
His silence should not be on my mind the way it has been. If he were a normal agent of my department's will, I could be more certain what had or had not happened to him (only _more_ certain; not altogether). I would know there were more eyes and ears than the very few I wholly trust looking out for him, looking after him, looking for him benignly. I care too much to endanger his mission by risking its exposure. Before mid-June I would have said it was because of Moriarty's business; I can't tell myself that these last weeks. But the cause he is pursuing and his safety are inseparable.
The 'freelance consulting criminal' is a business model likely to rise in popularity, as patriotism fades. I've tried to make my department aware of this; some of my counterparts in other countries share my concern. Multinational corporations replace kingdoms, and loopholes in international law, constitutions. Moriarty is a harbinger, a pioneer species, and my brother has gone to play weedkiller.
He would never even train for the eventuality, never allowed me to give him what I could, until he found one day—or rather was shown— our interests coinciding in the person of James Moriarty. A name that had indeed crossed my desk, but it wasn't something I thought to ask Sherlock about until the incident in Glasgow. Even then he was mulish. So was I, of course. I've had easier negotiations with powers who had offered to bury us than I did with him.
A few weeks later, the 'scandal in Belgravia' forced us together once more. He was, I believe, contrite; his affairs in Greater London—even England as a whole—had rarely crossed into my sphere, and we were content — no. He was content, more than content, to refuse my interest, my concern, my offers. I never (intentionally) tried to consume him, never intended to show him disrespect (much), but he felt threatened by my supervision and stifled by my concern. The more because once or twice he has had to accept my interference: he's never forgiven me for helping him get off cocaine, for —he _has_ admitted this in so many words— saving his life. I bear the burden of his inability to forgive himself for the excessive indulgence in the drugs and for the remarks that effectively ended our childhood.
"What a terrible thing. He must have felt like a gun he hadn't known was loaded," Kenneth said at our lunch. One of our lunches. I've become aware that his interest in my brother has become a tool for prying me open, like an oyster. I have been amazed to notice I don't mind. Talking about Sherlock is still easier than saying anything about myself.
"No one knew he was loaded. I should have done, but—"
"You could not have known that a child would make a childish remark."
"We, all of us, knew Sherlock observed things. We rather enjoyed it. He was six, for heaven's sake, we didn't think anything of it when he went from paying attention to cat-footprints to human ones, and our father ought to have had more sense. Lipstick on his collar was — he was asking for it."
"Do you know, that's the first time you've put any of the blame on your father, where it belongs? It's all been 'what a bad brother you are' for not somehow censoring a little kid."
"Sherlock was never a little kid."
"Of course he was. Just as you were a self-centred adolescent. I wonder how much either of you changed since that dinner? Sherlock, from everything I've heard, never quite learned when to keep quiet; and you still feel everything that happened to him like broken glass on your own skin. Bleeding yourself makes giving first-aid to anyone else rather hit-and-miss."
I've learned lately that some barristers are more psychologists than the actors people make them out to be. Very useful in cross-examinations. It is delightful to see someone in front of me who deserves to be smug; most of the time they are fools, whom I dismantle. Delight soothes the sting when I am the object of his scrutiny.
We talk about Sherlock again today, about the more recent past. I am at a loss to understand how Kenneth discovers my preoccupation or how he persuades me to explore it. It's a strange form of conversation for me: neither giving orders nor taking them, neither briefing nor being brought up to date. They are more like philosophical discussions, of unpacking a mission that has lasted since the tenth year of my life, a very theoretical kind of debriefing. Less theoretical than Kenneth knows; I hope with a pang that my relationship with my brother has a future.
"One of the difficulties with the level of power I have is that I am responsible for a great deal, and I failed him." I haven't said this to anyone before. Some of my department might understand it, though, again: very few are familiar with the details. It's not a vulnerability I would show them. No one but perhaps John Watson is in any position to respond. He would be almost as severe upon myself as I am; it would be welcome. But even though I don't deserve Kenneth's cool mercy, I listen to him. He challenges my perceptions.
"One of the difficulties with the level of responsibility you erroneously assume is yours is the amount of power you have accrued. It's pathological, Mycroft. It's an unwholesome habit. You continue to believe you could have changed the outcome. From what you've said about Moriarty and Sherlock, they would have torn one another to pieces with or without your department's involvement."
"I should have had Moriarty killed. Or done so myself." Things not to say to your date. (He is not my 'date.' I don't have dates.) Things not to say to civilians. Things not to say to anyone but your lunatic, equally amoral, brother. Perhaps he will take it as a normal man's hyperbole. No. He's looking at me. Not in the appropriate horror. He's thinking several different things, weighing which to say.
"Leaving aside, for as long as you wish," he begins slowly, "whether you _could_ have done so; and leaving also the much larger question of whether you _should_ have done so, or not, with its many grounds for discussion: tell me, why _would_ you not have done so?"
"You recall my brother's self-sabotaged testimony at Moriarty's trial?"
" 'A spider at the centre of a criminal web with a thousand radiations'?"
"Close enough. He wasn't exaggerating. We wanted know more."
"You wanted information; Moriarty wasn't forthcoming. You interrogated him in ways I personally and professionally despise and disapprove—"
"I, too," I interrupt. Kenneth looks at me. He is too carefully focussed to glare. "Though yes," I admit, "much less than you disapprove."
"Methods to no avail, even while you came to understand his weakest point was the same as yours: your brother."
"May I speak in my defence?"
The barrister recedes from front and centre, leaving a quiet, serious man. He must be quite terrifying in his natural habitat. "I do apologise," he says. Mildness, courtesy. Not warmth. It's all right; I don't like myself much either.
"I do understand."
"It's wrong to attack people with whom I am sharing food."
"An anthropologist's morality."
"You take it where you can find it. Ethnologist, really."
"Does it help that Sherlock told me he was Moriarty's weakest point? That he _asked_ to blunder into the web, in hope of drawing the spider out?" Yes, it does. His face snaps out of some of the coldness the 'barrister on attack' has left in it. How strange; he doesn't want to loathe me.
"But if you believe that mattered, why are you so—" he pauses, allowing me to choose the least harmful, most accurate adjective.
I need to be careful now. I walk the sword's edge every day, enjoying my balance, but I have not wanted to speak truth so much to someone in many years. I don't doubt he's worthy of it, but it's not my call. There, that's my absolution — Sherlock, one day I hope to tell you: I kept faith. Perhaps I'll have the chance. Perhaps you won't laugh. Perhaps by then you'll have learned kindness, among the dead. Perhaps then love won't hurt you so much, not even mine.
The sword's edge is wide enough to tell a deal of truth. "Why am I so—guilty? Because we learned less than we hoped. Because I didn't expect him to have to die. Possibly to be shot or knifed or poisoned, but not…the way it happened." All true. Because I had no idea how much it would hurt.
"You couldn't have known—"
Actually, we discussed the possibility at length, in the little time we had for preparation. It was Moriarty's personal threat to Sherlock (my stupid, brilliant brother. How you hated giving hostages to fortune. I saw all of you, and they were keeping you alive in ways you never wanted to admit you needed. Caring's not an advantage; denying that you do is much more foolish), sealed by his own death, that made it all so much harder. Not that, as I told Sherlock, TOLD him, it would in any way be easy. He was always convinced he knew best. I sigh.
"Mycroft, I'm sorry—"
"You're entirely right to—"
"No, the question I asked the first time we had lunch— suicide? Why did he jump?" And that really is the question, and one I may answer.
"This part—" I say. "This part may soon be less of a secret, because I owe it to — but for the moment—?"
"You have my word."
"It isn't defence of the realm, it's not even defence of myself, and as I said, soon enough it may be in _News of the World_—"
"Well, hardly—"
"_The Sun_, then —but for now, it's not known, and we may be able to get farther into Moriarty's web the longer it stays unknown." Kenneth nods. "Moriarty told my brother there were assassins waiting, and if they did not hear of his death, they would kill three of his dearest friends."
"Your brother _believed_ Moriarty wouldn't have them killed just as soon as he was dead? Because I wouldn't have."
"I wouldn't have either, but Moriarty killed himself rather than call his snipers off. Sherlock felt he had no choice but to trust him. He jumped."
Kenneth flinches. "It's a bloody story," he says, after a moment. "It would make a good opera. God, that's awful." He shakes his head a little. "How do you know what happened?"
"We bugged his phone, of course. His coat. He was observed, surveilled, wired. And after, we doubled what surveillance we had on his friends. For all the good that would have been against a sniper."
"Are they all right?"
"So far. One of the assassins is known dead. One's in Slovakia, cashing in on the leadership vacuum, or he was two weeks ago."
"And the third?"
"The third is going to disappear, I believe. We think he's the only one in a working cell of Moriarty's left in London. We'd like to get the others in the cell, if we can."
Kenneth shakes his head again, and I ask for more coffee. Though depressants sound more attractive than stimulants, we both anticipate returning to our offices. "Do Sherlock's friends know?"
"Not yet." Gregory Lestrade called my office this morning, asking me to meet with him and Dr. Watson: tomorrow. I've been let off lightly so far.
"I assume one of them is John Watson."
"Of course it is."
"How is he doing, do you know?"
Of course I know. I keep a close eye on him because I believe him to be in more pain than I am, which means he's not doing well at all. "Better than he was, I think."
"Have you considered how he's going to take this news?"
"That my brother wasn't motivated by the loss of his reputation to take his life? I should think it would be welcome."
"That your brother was motivated to protect him, at the cost of his life? Better lean pretty hard on the other two people's involvement, if I were you."
I acknowledge this, he's right. But I can't take as tender care of Dr. Watson as I might like, because I have to break another man's heart.
Kenneth looks at my expression and asks exactly what I mean about the third assassin's proposed 'disappearance.'
"This is much pleasanter than a parking garage," Watson tells me, unfolding the snowy napkin and putting it on his lap. He sits at attention, not so much stiff as poised for flight or fight.
"I hope to put you more at ease than on that occasion."
"Because three-star restaurants are our usual environment," Lestrade says. "You've still chosen the ground."
"I am told people are less likely to attack one another if they're sharing food." They look at me gravely. In despair I have ordered all of us the day's luncheon special. Fumbling with the menu would be more than any of us could endure. "You're not denying that attack is a reasonable likelihood."
"It seems too much to hope it won't come to that," says Lestrade. He must be playing the good cop today. I suppose he would. "I wanted to do a number of things after John told me how you spilled Sherlock's secrets to a madman who wanted him dead. Though he didn't seem clear on why you had Moriarty to interrogate in the first place."
"The bombing in Glasgow. Some extremely ill-advised incursions into our counter-terrorism schemata. An alarming number of extortion, money-laundering, and drug-trafficking connections."
"And yet none of these were made known to the Metropolitan Police? Was Moriarty somehow avoiding London, and asking about him in Leeds or Birmingham, perhaps, would have given my department information that might have been useful in the case where he was actually brought to trial?"
"It's not always advantageous for the right hand to know what the left hand is doing, Inspector."
I'm wondering whether the roles are about to switch as I watch Lestrade attempt to control himself. Watson watches us both. Lestrade succeeds. "It may seem a little strange, Mycroft, being what I am, but I dislike being told I live in a police state."
"Not nearly so much of one as both of us might like."
"You have me wrong there, you know. No more than John wants to live in a military dictatorship. But that might be too subtle for you to understand." He smiles. He's preparing a move. "John told me that you had exchanged information about your brother for some kind of information from Moriarty. We were very disappointed in you. Bargaining with terrorists. Endangering a civilian, let alone a relative."
"I don't know," says Watson. "Disappointment would mean I expected something better from him." Alone of the three of us, he's eating. He really doesn't like me.
"And yet," says Lestrade. The earlier remarks were a feint. Here comes his move. "What was really interesting was that most of the information Mycroft gave Moriarty— at least, as quoted by Miss Kitty Riley—was wrong." Very nice, Inspector. "Sherlock was only in rehab formally twice, not three times. He did, in fact complete his Cambridge degree; a couple of years late, and without any apparent pride, but at least one of his professors insisted—Sherlock was co-author with him of a scientific paper and he wanted him to have respectable credentials. Things like that. Facts that took some digging, though I knew those two from having been around at the time. It didn't take particularly vigorous investigation to find IMDB and BBC1 had been hacked, not even very convincingly. That wouldn't have mattered to Riley, who doesn't give much of a damn for the facts as long as she has her scoop and her front pages."
Dr. Watson has stopped chewing. This is news to him. Lestrade, having made his move, is able to pick up his own fork. Enjoy the free-range pork with Calvados and cream while you may.
"So that's why Sherlock was so…unsurprised by the things Kitty Riley was publishing. He knew you had stuffed Moriarty full of lies. And that you could prove the fraud accusations were —"
"Entirely without basis, yes."
"You might have said something before the IPCC," Lestrade says. Watson is processing, speechless.
"I would never interfere with the Met on an internal investigation. They had doubts. They have none, now, and you have a pay rise."
"You _let_ all this happen. You _allowed_ your brother's reputation to be destroyed—"
"Not in the long term, Dr. Watson, as I think you are well aware—"
"The 'short term' was the rest of Sherlock's life."
Watson is within a moment of stalking out of the dining room. Lestrade is less choleric; he's used to dealing with someone he hates. Watson is still shocked by the indecency of my actions, or my inactions. What will give him more peace? What will further the work? The second question is always the one that matters to me, but sooner or later—
"Please stay," I tell him.
"Why?"
"Because you prefer more truth to less." Because that was how Sherlock lived, and one of his qualities you admired, even though it hurt you often enough. Why should that be any different after his death?
"And I'm going to believe anything you say?"
"You may decide which improbable thing is more or less likely. It doesn't reflect much better on me than what you believe now. It may make you think differently of my brother." Oh, Dr. Watson, you think Moriarty wanted information about Sherlock? His mania was nothing compared to your…dedication. Your very stillness gives you away.
"What happened while John was away, Mycroft? What happened on the roof?" Lestrade is there, picking up the thread while his friend is too fascinated to respond.
"My brother was quite wrong about you, Inspector. You're far from an idiot."
"Someone cleaned up quite a lot—of blood? It wasn't the grounds-keepers, they knew nothing about it. I saw you there the day of Sherlock's death. I don't imagine I would have smelled bleach on your own hands, but you use other people's most of the time, don't you?"
"Far more efficient." This part is difficult. Sherlock would never have offered his life for stupid men. I'm only relieved Mrs. Hudson's not here; she's nearly as good at misdirection as I am. Every day that Sherlock can stay safely dead, he's more likely to succeed in his mission (always assuming he's still only _safely_ dead). "Dr. Watson was drawn away so Sherlock could meet Moriarty alone. On the roof."
"Why?" demands Lestrade.
"Because it was the way both their minds worked, " I say, truthfully. "Because Moriarty wanted to see Sherlock abject, and Sherlock wanted to know if he could tempt Moriarty into making a mistake. By then he'd realised the computer code was an entirely different sort of Trojan Horse, a trick played on Moriarty's clients as much as on my department. Moriarty had run many proof-of-concept raids on computers in Central Europe and North America; even though our experts said there could be no such thing as a key to open every programmed door, he kept pulling off what appeared to be just that.
"Some of it was hacking, some was sleight of hand. He persuaded us and half the Secret Services of the industrialised world, and the assassins on Baker Street I told you of, Dr. Watson. A splendid occasion for threats and international extortion. But given what happened, I think all that was secondary to the assault on my brother. He wanted him dead, in as messy and dishonoured a fashion as he could devise."
"He made it look like Sherlock cared what people thought of him," says Watson. "And we know that, for the most part, Sherlock didn't. Not nearly enough. In that one way—making Sherlock look like he cared what people who read _The Sun_ might think of him—Moriarty made him look like a fraud." I need to get him away from the barest thread that might catch on his fingertips. If he pulls too hard on Sherlock's final words to him, the whole fabric might unravel. Too soon.
"_You_ believed he cared."
"Not once I caught my breath. Not once Lestrade pulled my head out of my self-pity."
Misdirection. Well, a lie. Well, worse, the truth. "Moriarty did not rely on my brother's concern for his reputation to be his undoing. He had hostages of a kind; three targets, three gunmen trained on them. If my brother would not follow his reputation into destruction, and right at that time, they would be killed. My people were aware that some kind of threat like this was likely but we were unprepared."
For which my brother was as much to blame as anyone. Or perhaps Lestrade's colleagues. The events of the night before compressed the timeline in Moriarty's favour. Putting all of them—anyone my brother had ever looked upon with anything less than scorn, interning Southern England—protective custody was out of the question. It would only have delayed Moriarty's threat until the next opportunity and this time, we had a plan. My brother lived through his death that time, at least.
"He was bluffing," said Lestrade. "He might have been bluffing."
"He might have been, but my brother thought not. And then Moriarty made sure no one could ever recall his order, by shooting himself. Deadly earnest." And very messy. We had not expected any death but my brother's. We reacted; Molly Hooper coped; Moriarty was buried. Watson and Lestrade look stunned. It won't last. It doesn't.
"Are you sure?" Watson asks. "No offence, Mycroft, but your record with dead bodies is not …"
"We never had any DNA to match for Moriarty to begin with, nor for Richard Brook. He blew the back of his head off, Dr. Watson. You know better than I how much that disfigures a person. We have audio of Sherlock greeting a man as Moriarty, and of their conversation, ending in a single gunshot. There was one body, and the evidence my people removed—and documented, Inspector—was consistent with a self-administered wound. We are reasonably certain that there was no one but those two on the roof. Fingerprints on the dead man match those that of Jim Westlake, formerly employed by St. Bart's Hospital Information Technology Department. I am confident that the man you knew is dead. For whatever that turns out to be worth."
For a couple of heartbeats, Watson sits, his expression of studied not-quite-neutrality unchanged. Then he glances at the waiter, who hastens over from across the room. "I think we will have that wine after all, please?" He dismisses the ritually offered sip for approval. The waiter pours for us all and retreats. "I know it's not quite done to toast someone's death," Watson says. "So I won't say 'better late than never.' Here's to your forensics department, Mycroft. May their accuracy be unparalleled and the targets of their investigations always have had it coming."
I think even Kenneth could approve of that. Lovely paraleipsis. Watson looked like such a quiet, ordinary man when I first met him; nothing like his army records. I'm still not sure what made my brother so very loyal to him so very quickly; it wasn't just response to Watson's own ridiculously rapid allegiance. Or maybe it was, but how did Sherlock recognise its value?
Lestrade and I raise our glasses to his; we drink.
