Chapter 12
In which cleverness abounds.
###
Knocking back a scotch and then quickly pouring herself a second, Andrea leaned blearily against the window frame in her Canary Wharf flat. Looking out over the brightly-lit darkness of London, her thoughts returned yet again to the ghastly images that had filled her sight less than an hour before. So grotesque and yet somehow she had seen through the wanton violence and deliberate bloodlust into a kind of logic, as if the killer had been enacting some bizarre, ritualistic routine. There was method in what she had witnessed, she was sure, though what she wasn't sure about was what it was she'd seen that had given her such an idea. Perhaps it would come to her later, after she'd had time to digest ... everything.
Sipping the second measure of spirit more carefully, staring out across Limehouse Reach and back up the Thames towards the City, Andrea found her thoughts wandering inevitably towards Mycroft Holmes. Especially the Mycroft Holmes that had made himself apparent this evening. Not that he'd really ever had an opportunity to behave like that before, not that she'd ever needed his support like that before, but she thought it strange, nevertheless. Strange that a man of whom she had been told such awful things, a man with no reason other than basic civilised behaviour, should pay such attention to the welfare of an underling. A well-paid and personal underling to be sure, but still. Nothing in the man's behaviour tonight had gelled at all with the personality she'd been told to expect, that she'd been warned to expect. Something didn't fit somewhere and the situation felt just ... wrong. Chewing her bottom lip in thought, she found herself in the bathroom; clearly, her subconscious knew what she wanted to do far better than her waking mind. In seconds, she'd reached into the secret wall-cavity and removed the heavy yellow envelope. Back in the darkened lounge, Andrea sorted through the pile of old photographs and official documents, until she found the most recent of the several hand-penned letters.
My darling Tsarevna ... forgive me, forgive me for making you the one to right the terrible wrong that was done to your mama and papa. You had not yet been born when your loving father was forced to his untimely death by the vile executioner who was also directly responsible for the final illness and unhappy demise of your beloved mother, my only and much-missed daughter. The man responsible for all the suffering you have endured and no doubt will continue to endure, sits at the very heart of Britain's power. I am too old and too weak to strike at him directly, but you are young and strong and clever ...
Dropping the letter in her lap and finishing the scotch, Andrea looked thoughtful. Her grandfather was quite correct; she was young and strong. She was quite clever, too. There were things here that made no sense, that spoke of two different perceptions of truth. Finishing the last of the scotch, she realised it was up to her to discover which was which.
###
Closing his eyes, Mycroft exhaled gustily. They were so clever, the both of them. So intelligent and knowledgeable, so filled up with facts and the logic of things. How then, did they always seem to make such a hash of the simplest communication? How did they manage to mangle such a straightforward human act, forcing anything of personal import between them to distort and descend into angst-ridden rancour? When had the trust between them vanished? Mycroft was far too aware of his own faults to make the mistake of entirely blaming Sherlock for his outburst, but the younger man was not without his own weaknesses and flaws.
"It was Kit's choice," he murmured, opening his eyes slowly to meet the livid glare of the human he had long considered as his own child. "She made me promise not to tell you," Mycroft lifted a hand towards a still-furious Sherlock. "It was not simply to keep you in ignorance that Kit asked for this," he said. "She cares for you so deeply and she knew you would be ... upset."
"Upset?" Sherlock tilted his head sideways, a bitter cast to his features, his pale blue eyes narrowed and icy cold. "Upset?" He stood so rigid and still that he seemed in physical pain. "I'm no good at dealing with this ... stuff," he hissed through clenched teeth. "Losing one mother was terrible enough ... I don't know how to lose two."
"My dear boy," Mycroft took a step closer. "Death is the mark of humanity," he said, gently. "The ability to die is what makes the act of living so wonderful," he added softly. "It will come to us all," he nodded soberly. "Even to me."
"But not for years," Sherlock's shocked gaze and white face burned with a sudden inexpressible fervour. "Not for a very long time," he swallowed convulsively. "You can ... you can help her," he said. "You could ..." he flapped an abstracted hand and looked away.
Understanding immediately, Mycroft exhaled hard again. He could not do what Sherlock was suggesting. In his entire existence, he had never ... never taken a life in that way, never attempted to do what he was now being asked to do. It was a monstrous idea. Examining the shined toe of his shoe, he slowly shook his head. "No."
"Why not?!" Sherlock crossed the distance between them in two strides. "Why can't you do it?" he demanded, staring up into Mycroft's blank face. "Based on your own experience, you know it would heal Kit of all her physical debilities, it would allow her to ... live," his voice strangling into silence, Sherlock stood beside the old vampire, forlorn and seemingly bereft.
Mycroft closed his eyes once more, looking inward to find the right words to express this most critical of thoughts. "I can't," he repeated. "It would not be ... the right thing to do."
"Damn you to hell, Mycroft!" Sherlock raged now, both hands clawing through his long hair. "Right or wrong doesn't matter here! It's Kit's life you're dismissing so casually ... she'll die, Mycroft, Kit will die and you can save her!" He stopped suddenly, shoulders drooping, his voice breaking at his last words. Covering his face with thin fingers, his voice was barely audible. "Please save her, Mycroft ... please ... I beg you ..."
It was true. If he did to Kit what had been done to him, then she would indeed change into that which he had become all those many years ago. It was also true that the change would rid her of all her infirmities and ailments, though it would not turn back the clock; Kit would not become young again, but stay as she was now until the very last moment of her extended existence. Yet she deserved the chance, didn't she? Deserved to reap the benefits of the secret, his secret, she had kept so faithfully and for so long? But she would no longer be human, and that, in itself, was a dreadful loss to ask of anyone, least of all Kit whose own humanity was magnificent and all-encompassing. Had such a choice been given to him even in the final moments of dying, Mycroft knew he would still have refused it to his last breath. He had struggled so terribly hard with his own inner demon; striven not to become the hideous creature he knew might so easily dwell within were it permitted to do so. Did he have the right to impose such a pyrrhic contest upon anyone, least of all one whom he had grown to cherish as a precious companion and friend?
Torn horribly between what he felt was the right thing to do and what was the human thing to do, Mycroft sighed heavily, but made the decision regardless. It had been Kit's decision not to tell Sherlock, let it be her decision now. "If Kit wishes me to ... change ... her," he whispered. "I shall, though I have never done it before and cannot guarantee the outcome."
That there was at least some hope seemed to weaken Sherlock's already depleted strength. Placing a hand on the older man's shoulder, he lowered his head until it rested heavily against his own fingers. "Thank you," he whispered, the compromise acceptable. "It's all I would ask."
"My dear, dear boy," Mycroft's own hand crept up until he could feel the thick waves of Sherlock's hair pressed against his palm. "And people imagine you unfeeling," he murmured, wrapping his other arm around the slim torso of the younger man, embracing him fully. "Such passion, Sherlock," his words so soft as to be barely heard. "Such emotion."
A clock ticked away uncounted seconds as they stood together, taking strength from each other in a way they had not done in decades.
"Very well, then," Sherlock stood upright and stepped away, the flat of one hand dashing cursorily across both eyes. "You will speak with Kit on this matter?"
Nodding slowly, Mycroft confirmed his assent. "Or you may, if you prefer," he said. "Or you may be present when I do," he added. "I leave it to you, but remember that this must be entirely Kit's choice; the issue is not to be forced, either way."
"I'm perfectly content for you to broach the subject with her," Sherlock said, his manner suddenly brisk as he straightened his suit jacket beneath the long coat. "Just ... don't leave it too long," he finished. "She's very ill."
"I promise, Sherlock," Mycroft decided he would speak to Kit as soon as this present debacle had been brought under some measure of control. Which reminded him. "You said you had some information for me resulting from the tests you undertook earlier?"
Inhaling hard to clear his thoughts, Sherlock nodded. "But I need a sample from you against which to compare it," he pursed his mouth. "One thing I can say is that Lestrade's forensic people weren't entirely wrong in their analysis," he said. "It's human blood but appears to have been altered in some bizarre way and I'd like to evaluate it beside your own before I formulate any definitive conclusion," he reached into one of his coat's deep pockets, withdrawing a sealed blood-testing kit. "Now's as good a time as any ..." he paused, extracting a small tube-sealed hypodermic from the pack, a questioning look in his eyes.
"Of course," Mycroft nodded cursorily, removing his suit jacket and unfastening the cufflink on his left shirt sleeve. In seconds, he had bared his arm to reveal the median cubital vein so beloved of phlebotomists the world around.
Tapping the skin carefully, Sherlock noted the pallor of both flesh and the vein itself, almost as if the man that Mycroft had once been had since faded into himself to become some form of bleached-out mannequin. It was difficult to see the best place to insert the needle.
"Allow me," Mycroft took the hypo in his own fingers, locating a particular spot that seemed no different to Sherlock's eyes from any other place. In moments, the sample had been taken and Mycroft handed the filled vial back.
"That must make things difficult for the medicos in those clinics you attend each year," Sherlock held the sealed sample of blood up to the light; its colour less a dark red and more a royal purple.
"The light in here is hardly conducive to medical practice," Mycroft swiftly redid his cuff, though he left the jacket where it lay. "Rarely do my doctors undertake their procedures by firelight these days," he smiled faintly.
"I need to run my tests on this sample immediately," Sherlock was already heading to the lift, when he paused. "I take it you are alright with me staying at home until I can find another flat?"
Pouring himself a second glass of malt, Mycroft looked up, smiling. "You may live in any of my properties for as long as you wish," he said. "Or tell me what you want and I'll have sufficient funds made over to you within a day if you wish to purchase your own dwelling," he added. "You know that money has never been an issue, Sherlock."
Nodding as he stepped into the now-open lift, Sherlock allowed an answering smile to curve his mouth. "I'll probably see you at home later," his finger found the 'Up' button.
Saluting him with his glass, Mycroft waited until the sound of the lift had entirely died away before he took the seat closest to the fire, stretching out his legs until he could feel a heat on the outside of his body that matched the internal glow from the scotch. He sighed lengthily. What the hell was he going to do if Kit said yes?
###
Arriving back at the SoHo cordon, Lestrade wondered again about the conversation he'd just had with the Holmes brothers. It had been less of a conversation, really, and more of an interrogation; he had learned nothing new. Thinking about it though, neither of the Holmes had revealed anything at all, other than Sherlock's farcical outburst about Mycroft being a vampire. Typical. The boy swore up and down he wasn't using these days, but any more little episodes like that one, Greg thought, and the drug situation would be revisited. Besides, he smiled grimly as he left his car, walking back towards the garishly-lit crime scene, Mycroft Holmes, with his precise suits, umbrella and swanky government cars did not exactly seem the type to go for florid opera cloaks and moonlit graveyards. Mad. The whole bloody family.
"Same as before, Gov," Sally Donovan baled him up as soon as he stepped inside the premises. "Same MO, same victim profile that we can see so far, exact same crime scene layout," she scowled. "Though this one is a little more ... ah ..."
"Theatrical?" Lestrade nodded as he walked deeper into the murder room. "Yeah, I noticed that earlier. It's as if the killer's trying to show us something; a pattern or something, maybe."
"Either way, we've got another two corpses to identify," Donovan sighed and puffed out her cheeks as she exhaled. "As if there wasn't already enough to do from the last two."
"Anything on CCTV this time?" Greg was ever hopeful, especially since these murders hadn't taken place in abandoned factories out in the middle of nowhere, but bang smack in the middle of a bustling city. There had to be cameras everywhere.
"Checking now, Boss," Sally handed his her phone, its screen lit by a photograph. "Know what these are?" she pointed to a series of small round dots on the floor. "They're over there, she indicated with a bent thumb. "By the far door."
Swapping his gaze from the photo to the actual scene itself, Lestrade narrowed his eyes, squinting in the brilliance of the industrial lights whiting-out the entire ground floor of the building. For some reason, the dots looked almost familiar, as if he'd seen them somewhere else really recently, somewhere ... He shook his head, surprised that Sherlock hadn't said anything, since he would obviously have seen them before anyone else had. Dots were dots; they could be anything. "What are they?"
"They're also in the photos from the other two killings, sir, though we could barely see them there before," Donovan sounded serious. "These ones are much more obvious. It could be important. I've asked for three wall-screens to be put up in the incident room so we can view all the recorded images from all three sites digitally and simultaneously," she said.
"Then let's see what else all three sites have in common apart from the obvious, shall we?" Greg looked thoughtful. "Are we done here for now?"
"Yup. Forensics have almost finished and then we can get the bodies shifted," Sally peered around, checking that everyone was clearing things up and away. "What a bloody mess," she shook her head and looked sour.
"All part of the job, Sal," Lestrade watched as several officers made their way to the street exit carrying various large sealed containers. An ambulance awaited their burdens, though there was nothing now that any human office could do that would aid either of the two victims. It was all down to him and his team now to find and apprehend the killer, and they would. He felt his mouth settle into a hard line; they had to. "Let's go watch some TV."
###
The main pathology lab at Barts was brightly lit and still relatively bustling when he arrived; it was early as far as the hospital's shifts went, Sherlock realised. Not yet nine. It might be a while before sufficient people left to give him a much-desired privacy in order to get on with his critical comparative tests in peace and quiet. Privacy, in this particular instance, was of paramount importance, despite his earlier announcement to the inspector. Of course, Graham Lestrade wouldn't have believed that Mycroft was a vampire; he'd expected no other response. However, it had reinforced the knowledge that the police were still only interested in a logical, empirical result, not one they'd have to expand their narrow little minds to encompass. He sighed in mild disgust. So pedestrian, all of them. It was a wonder that Mycroft hadn't snapped and slaughtered the entire Metropolitan police force decades ago.
Looking around, Sherlock realised that the main lab wasn't going to clear for him at any convenient point in the near future, short of an unexpected fire alarm sending everyone outside ... though that was a thought ... he'd either have to contain his impatience or risk discovery. Deciding that neither option suited, he chose a third alternative which meant locating another lab. Barts was a teaching hospital; there were labs of all shapes and sizes all over the place, though not all with the equipment he needed tonight. He also knew there was a much smaller and very well equipped lab just along the corridor ... Ducking his head so as not to alert anyone to his presence as he passed by the half-glassed doors, he walked swiftly down the long, featureless passageway until he reached a large and very solid door set deeply into the wall. Not only was the lab entrance deliberately set away from any of the other labs down here, it was unambiguously evident why.
BIOSAFETY LABORATORY: LEVEL TWO. Pathogenic Agent Protocols Enacted. DO NOT ENTER without appropriate authority and protective clothing.
The door was locked but though of higher security, it was a relatively standard disk tumbler lock. While it offered a bit of a challenge, it was nothing he hadn't overcome several times before. Slipping through first one and then a second set of airtight doors into the darkened room beyond, Sherlock took note of the lab's layout; the pungent burn of floor and hard-surface disinfectant in his nose, the sharp lines of white benchtops and cabinetry. Four stainless steel refrigerators and four glass-fronted biosafety cabinets stood equidistant around the room, with steel benchtops, several capacious steel sinks and scrub-room facilities in between. The whole place was dutifully aseptic and as sterile as it might be outside of operating theatre conventions. Perfect. While anyone else might have thought twice and then perhaps a few more times before breaking into a secure biohazard area, Sherlock knew the worst thing he could contract in a Level Two lab was probably a case of the measles. And since he'd caught measles the very first week he'd attended prep school, he wasn't terribly bothered by the notion.
Switching on a small steel angle-lamp in the corner least likely to be noticed from the corridor, he opened his VAIO notebook to the blood-testing results spreadsheet he'd been developing for several years, using his own blood as a standard control. His eyes, as they always did, glanced briefly down and across the results taken from samples while he was experimenting with a variety of drugs, both hard and soft, until, of course, it was no longer an experiment, but an addiction. It had been tougher to break that cycle than even he had anticipated, but it was in the past and he had no need to revisit those particular experiences. Yet still he looked, every time.
Scrolling back up to the more recent test results, he found himself staring at the biochemical analysis he'd managed to complete on the small sample of the killer's saliva Lestrade had been able to provide. Testing saliva wasn't the best way of determining an individual's blood makeup, but since it contained a relatively high percentage of the same proteins as blood, it would do. Removing the vial containing Mycroft's blood sample from his pocket he paused, holding it in his fingers. Based on the distinctive pallor of Mycroft's skin, Sherlock anticipated red blood cell aplasia at the very least.
It was what he had already found in the killer's saliva.
Locating a convenient Microhematocrit Centrifuge and a coagulation analyser, Sherlock assembled a rack of test tubes and a box of sterilised pipettes. Hunting around the cupboards until he had ample supplies of control solution, proteolytic enzyme gel and a variety of plasma and serum separators, he looked around for the nearest microscope, smiling when he saw the hospital had done the decent thing and lashed out on several of Nikon's latest fly-eye CFI technology. Christmas. Knowing that little or no sound would emanate into the corridor and that the low-level lighting would not be seen through the glass-panelled door, Sherlock settled down to explore exactly what was in this blood that made Mycroft immortal.
###
Though it was only a little after ten, Ellis was strangely tired. However, considering everything that had happened since the afternoon, it was probably little wonder she felt weary. Since she'd left her work earlier than normal, she wanted to get in well before her usual time in the morning to make the time up, so an early night seemed on the cards. She yawned. All that champagne and then the brandy that Mycroft had given her ... hardly surprising she felt ready to sleep. Working through her nightly ablutions, her bed was so soft and welcoming that she didn't even feel the desire to read as she normally did. Instead, she turned off the light and rested her warmed cheek against the deliciously cool cotton of her pillow and stretched herself languorously down inside her beautifully soft, warm bed.
And was instantly wide awake.
The cool comfort of her pillow heated swiftly, just as the smooth caress of her sheets turned clingy and uncomfortably hot. She rolled first onto one side and then the other after making a determined effort to blank everything and allow creeping tendrils of sleep into her mind. Following several long minutes lying on her back staring unblinkingly up towards the darkened ceiling of her bedroom, she sighed loudly. Sitting up, she thumped her pillow into a less annoying profile, before lying back down, fingers linked across her stomach. Determined not to sit up reading for an hour simply to meet her brain's expectation of a normal bedtime, Ellis found her thoughts running through the great room that housed Mycroft's library.
That it had been a ballroom at one time seemed likely. The generous expanse of floorspace and the general height of the room suggested little else. The grand nature of the long stained-glass windows down the far wall suggested the room had been purpose-built with the house and nobody would have designed such a room just for a library, would they? It would have to have been created when the house was originally built as the was no sign that anything in the room was modern, nor any signs of remodelling. She was an expert on the antiquity of things and in her estimation, that room was as authentic as the rest of the structure, she'd swear to it. It just didn't strike her as the type of a house to have a ballroom of that size. Nothing in the rest of the residence was anywhere near the same kind of scale; the dining room table for instance, couldn't have seated more than twenty at most. And while that was a very decent sized table on which to have dinner, twenty people certainly weren't enough for a ball. Something felt out of whack, although it had to be said that Britons were nothing if not eccentric in the design of their homes.
Which made her wonder about the kind of a family who had lived in such a wonderful house. How far back did the Holmes line stretch and how come such an obviously important genealogical line had petered out, leaving only Mycroft and Sherlock as the final members? Based on the portraits alone, Ellis could place Mycroft's ancestors back by at least four hundred years without trying terribly hard. Strange that all the ancestors looked like him and not Sherlock. There were no portraits of the women in the family either, which, she had to admit, was actually pretty odd. The last of a line. It was terribly sad, but given the family's clear propensity towards military service, it would not have been uncommon for all the sons to rush off as officers in Britain's imperial wars. Primogeniture was a relatively recent innovation in British inheritance law, only fully embraced after the Great War. Therefore, there may have been few male Holmes left to inherit the estate, including Mycroft's magnificent library collection. Ellis yawned and closed her eyes to better recall the magnificent white Pentelic marble lion she had leaned against, so reminiscent of the Narnia stories. Such a bravura piece of sculpture ... such pure, white translucency; she fancied she could almost hear music playing around it ...
"I believe this dance is mine?" Mycroft spoke quietly as Ellis blinked her eyes open again.
"I'm hardly dressed for dancing," she protested, even as she allowed him to take her hand and lead her into the centre of the now completely empty ballroom where wonderful music played, though there was no visible orchestra. Of course, Mycroft was perfectly attired in formal black tie and evening clothes; the elegant and expensive cut of his dinner suit nothing less than she would have expected. The strains of a gay Viennese waltz filled the enormous space, and she realised her bare feet were moving easily across the polished floor, even as she looked down and saw she was still wearing her old cotton pyjamas. Such an outfit, though perfectly respectable for sleeping, was hardly appropriate for a Grand Ball.
"Don't worry," Mycroft whispered in her ear. "Humans only ever see what they want to see," he said, a smile in his voice. "And you look so incredibly beautiful tonight."
Glancing up at her dance partner, she was drawn in by the deepest of deep blue eyes as he held her captive within his arms and his regard. There was something shockingly intimate about the way they were dancing, even though there was clear space between their bodies and the music swirled them around and around ...
"I appreciate the compliment," Ellis gasped as she was whirled around in a particularly vigorous circle that almost had her feet leave the floor. "Compared to you however, I am the most dowdy of creatures," she batted at a lock of her hair which had fallen into her eyes.
"Dowdy?" Mycroft danced them in front of a massive gold-framed mirror resting against one of the walls, the mirror's height easily that of a house.
Ellis sucked in a shocked breath. In the crystal-clear reflection, she saw the two of them, clasped together in a classic dancers' pose. Mycroft, as she had already seen, was immaculately dressed ... though as she stared, it seemed his formal black evening clothes had developed a distinctly military air, with the appearance of soldierly epaulettes and stylised gold embroidery at both cuff and the stiff, upright collar.
But it was her own appearance that truly limited her ability to breath freely. Instead of an old pair of Marks & Spencer flannelette pyjamas featuring highly scenic views of Cuba, she was wearing ... no, not wearing ...
She was adorned. Gowned in the most extraordinary ball gown she had ever seen, with a fabulously elaborate hunter green silk brocade over a dark gold gauze underskirt, the long tight sleeves covered her arms but left her décolletage and upper back entirely bare. Corseted tight at the waist, the gown flared dramatically out into a wide, billowing skirt that seemed to drift and flow as she moved. And her hair ... No longer falling into her eyes, but coiled and shining in an ornate red-gold chignon, held in place by three long peacock feathers. Dark green silk dancing shoes wrapped her feet in blissful comfort.
"I brought this for you," Mycroft said, dangling a necklace of heavy antique gold and emeralds. "It's from my collection."
"Is there anything you don't have in your collection?" Ellis smiled and laughed as Mycroft began producing ancient gold coins from his pocket and a fabulous blue-white diamond from inside his sleeve ... which was no longer black, but now a rich, heavy scarlet, the colour of a Victorian officer's regimental uniform. In fact, his dark evening clothes had been entirely replaced by that of a high-ranking officer, complete with sword and greatcoat slung carelessly around his shoulders and a polished, white-plumed Guard's helmet under one arm.
The music had faded away and they were no longer dancing but rather standing beneath one of the ballroom's enormous and brilliantly-lit chandeliers, staring at one another.
"Why did you leave all those old uniforms and hats at the museum in the middle of the night?" Ellis was the first to speak. "I can't imagine it was anyone but you who might have done it, you see."
"Infinite history, finite storage," he smiled down at her, almost joyfully. "Something had to give," he shrugged lightly. "The result has been most propitious."
"You've changed," Ellis shook her head, smiling back. "You're different tonight."
"I never change," Mycroft stepped closer. "I am as constant as the heavens." There was a full moon in the darkness over his left shoulder. "Just look at all my portraits."
"They all belong to you?" Ellis found she was whispering as he loomed above her, his eyes glinting in the moonlight.
"They are all mine," he nodded, leaning in so close that she could almost feel the movement of his lips as he spoke. "And you are mine, too," he added softly.
