Chapter Twelve
Mycroft leaped out of his seat in the sitting room and rushed to the Fox's room at the first hoarse yell just as Anthea blearily poked her head out of her bedroom door.
They quickly arrived at the Fox's room and opened the door. The only door in the house without a lock.
The Fox was in a right unconscious state of panic, sweating and thrashing, tangled in his sheets. Mycroft and Anthea exchanged concerned glances before cautiously nearing the bed.
The Fox instinctively twisted jerkily away from the noise and curled in on himself, gasping in shaky breaths.
Mycroft reached out slowly and tentatively touched the Fox's shoulder. "Der Fuchs..." he called quietly so as not to startle.
The Fox's deep brown, terrified eyes flew open and his lips parted in a soundless scream and he immediately snapped his mouth shut. He saw Mycroft, and after a long second, Anthea.
"Oh..." he panted. "I'm sorry." he said, eyes wide and afraid. Childlike.
Mycroft shook his head. "Don't be-..."
His sentence was cut off by another shout. Everybody jumped. It had come from the flat next to theirs... 221b.
Mycroft looked at Anthea sharply. "Check on them. I will remain here." he ordered.
Anthea nodded sternly and ran out in her dressing gown.
Mycroft stayed where he stood, a foot or two away from the Fox. "Bad dream?" he asked conversationally. The Fox nodded. "Would you like to tell me about it?"
The Fox looked up at him sharply. "Is that an order?"
Mycroft thought about it. "No." he decided. "It is not."
They fell into silence again. This time, it was the Fox who broke it. "In Romainville, there were only two English speakers, you know?" he said. "One was me, the other was a stranger... we were the only two Brits in the Fort."
Mycroft leaned his hip against the nightstand. "What happened to him?"
The Fox shrugged miserably. "I don't know. The Germans said they'd keep a hold of him to make sure I followed orders."
"A leash." Mycroft mused. "Freedom never comes without a catch. They didn't want to risk you running off."
The Fox nodded his head. "He's still in there." he said slowly. Mycroft nodded his understanding. "Mister Holmes, before I agreed to work with the Abwehr, I was in solitary confinement with my friend, both of us were being punished for trying to escape together." The German agent took a deep breath and slowly let it out. "I hadn't eaten for three days, hadn't seen the sun for the same." he looked haunted. "Hadn't eaten what you would call properly edible food in three years." He looked at Mycroft with empty eyes. "You know what it's like to have regular beatings without any idea why, in those conditions? Some days they'd march groups of inmates out into the courtyard and execute them for no reason known to us. Do you know what it's like? Waking up each morning not knowing if this was the day you were going to die?"
Mycroft confessed that he didn't.
The Fox just nodded to himself. "Good." he said. "That's good."
Seeing the the spy had calmed himself considerably, Mycroft turned to leave, reminding himself sternly not to feel sympathy for the traitor.
"You may think little of me for betraying my country, but that's alright." the Fox shrugged. "I don't regret doing what I had to do to survive. And I couldn't care less about what you think of that."
Mycroft made a mistake by glancing over his shoulder at the German agent as the man turned away, staring out of the barred windows.
There were countless white scars criss-crossing along his back and arms under his damp and transparent white night shirt. Obvious remnants of countless whippings. His ribs protruded gently from his torso like that of a man who is unaccustomed to eating much. His bare feet looked leathery from walking over sharp, gravelly surfaces without footwear.
He had lived in that Hell hole for three years.
"Goodnight, Fuchs." Mycroft said, almost inaudibly and closed the door.
He turned around, face pale, and stalked back to the sitting room.
Anthea met him there. "That was Doctor Watson." she told him. "Nightmares from the war."
They both sat down and said nothing until the sun rose.
"I believe that Agents Napoleon and Heinz were given orders to assassinate a list of British Intelligence Agents and you got in their way, so I was sent to eliminate you." the Fox said the next day, over lunch. It was the first time he had given information without being asked.
Mycroft looked at him. "Do you have any information to support your theory?" he asked.
The Fox fidgeted a little. "When I left la Bretonniere, I was given a parcel to keep safe until the time came when one of their other agents needed to pick it up." Mycroft sipped his head and nodded for him to go on. "I was specifically told not to open the parcel... but I did." Mycroft almost smiled at that. "I found various fake documentations, a sniper rifle, and a book of Grimm's Fairytales."
Mycroft's eyebrows jumped. "Some light reading?" he joked humorlessly. The Fox's face was unreadable, Mycroft noticed it. "What?"
"I thought it was suspicious... some sort of book code." the Fox drew out his words, procrastinating. "I copied it down." His German handlers would probably have his skin for that. Mycroft understood his caution.
But, at the moment, Mycroft could've kissed him. Obviously, he refrained from doing so. He couldn't quite hide his smile fast enough, though.
"What?" the Fox said, eyes narrowing.
Mycroft caught his eye and broke out into mirthful chuckles. "Oh, I feel sorry for your handler." he said, covering his mouth with his hand. "You're quite extraordinary, Fuchs, I really do mean it. You're a rather troublesome man."
The Fox smiled back, then broke out into laughter. "I suppose I am."
Later that day, under the sharp eye of Sherlock, the Fox scribed out a message to his German handlers.
OBJECTIVE REACHED. MYCROFT HOLMES DEAD. DER FUCHS. The Fox paused for a split second and made his final decision. PARIS.
All was well, he lied to his German handlers. Mycroft Holmes is dead. The Fox had, in that moment, become a full-fledged double agent.
There was no going back.