DEAREST – Chapter 14
Story by Hrlyqin, based on works owned by Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss and the estate of Arthur Conan Doyle
"Three..." he began, and then his vision blurred as he felt an incredibly sharp crack at the back of his skull and he slid sideways. Distantly, he heard Callie screaming.
When Mycroft awoke, he still had the screams ringing in his ears. His instincts moved him to leap up, to save the girl, to save the day. But he couldn't move. As he attempted to flex his hands, arms, legs and head he began to more fully grasp the situation he was in.
His head was pounding and his stomach churned with dizzy nausea. The area on his left side, around his ear, was sticky and he was able to infer that the blow to the head had caused bleeding, and then the blood remained in place long enough to clot. He wiggled his jaw and felt the crunch of the dried blood on his skin. An hour, at least, had passed.
His upper chest was free enough for him to take ragged breaths but he was restrained by ropes below that. Since he was sitting up and not lying down, a chair. The height of the chair told him it was not bedroom furniture, so likely he was downstairs or in another room entirely. He had been tied to the chair at the sternum, the wrists, the thighs and the ankles. Whoever had done this was obviously experienced in restraint.
So where was he? His vision swam in and out but he tried to focus and observe his surroundings. He was inside. There were no lights on but in the faint nighttime glow, he could make out a table in front of him. Wood. Walnut. Dining Table. Six places. He counted five chairs of similar height to his own and could only deduce that he was seated in the last one. The table was far enough away that he could tell his chair had been pushed back so that he would have no concealment to work with if he tried to free himself.
He let his head rest on his chest to see the floors. It was the same carpeting he had seen earlier, so he was still in Callie's house. This was the interior of the dining room he had glanced at earlier as he inspected the bodies. Those were gone, as were all traces of them. It was becoming clearer what his attackers had spent their hour doing.
But why bother at all? Why not simply kill him? That was the most logical choice, it was what he would have done under these circumstances. There were several possibilities. First, he was useful in some way so he needed to be kept alive. Second, the ire and complications that killing him would bring was not worth the trouble of doing it. Third...
Third...maybe they had planned something worse. There were many things worse than death.
Suppose it was death? Maybe they just wanted him to be awake and aware as he was murdered. Mycroft found himself strangely accepting of the idea of dying. He could finally catch up on all that sleep he missed. Blissful rest. No more worrying. No more dashing about trying to fix everyone's problems and then trying to fix the problems solutions created. No more waiting for thank yous that rarely came. No more loneliness.
It sounded so peaceful.
For him at least.
But what about those left behind? Sherlock may be insufferably independent and have no sense of familial loyalty, but without Mycroft, he would surely wind up in jail or dead before long no matter how much John Watson cared. John had never picked Sherlock up out of gutters and shooting galleries and holding cells. He had never dealt with the endless diatribe of abuse and obscenities hurled at him while Sherlock detoxed. He had never had to deal with one of the most endlessly creative minds figuring out how to trick drug councilors and break out of one rehabilitation center after another. He had never had to deal with the piss and shit and smell of an addict on a binge, never needed to clean up the mess. He had never had to sit and watch a clock and wonder if this time Sherlock had finally managed to kill himself. He had never had to come up with answers to questions asked when a gifted man is at his lowest and doesn't understand why the people he saves from criminal and thugs hate him so.
Not only had John Watson never done any of those things, but Mycroft simply couldn't trust that he would. He knew that John would go to the ends of the earth for Sherlock but he wasn't family. He wasn't his brother. He hadn't watched after him his entire life.
If he died tonight, Sherlock would be lost. John would follow him into the jaws of hell and be gone too. That left Molly and when she finally needed one of them to be there, they would all be gone. Jamie, he couldn't even think of Jamie without a fist clenching around his heart. Not his blood, no, not his family, but a child and so innocent. If he died now, he would never see Jamie grow up into the fine man he knew he would become with Molly's love.
All things considered, no, death wasn't an option. His schedule was just too full.
He had been testing his bonds while he thought. His initial conclusion, that this was familiar work done well, had been correct. There was not an immediate and effective means of escape with the available resources.
He analyzed a few scenarios and finally had to pick an option: he loudly cleared his throat and waited to see if anyone was waiting for him to wake up.
As soon as he did it, the lights came on as two men entered the room. He blinked rapidly as his eyes adjusted and they approached him. The first one was his friend with the broken nose, which had been packed and bandaged but was obviously still painful. The second he had no bruises on his neck so it was not the man he had choked out. No, this was the elusive third attacker and cause of Mycroft's thudding head. He took in as many details about each of them as possible, planning on finding them again if the opportunity ever presented itself.
Instead of speaking, Broken Nose opened up a phone and punched in a number, then held it up to Mycroft's ear so he could speak and hear freely. It was a curious pose and obviously uncomfortable for the man, which Mycroft relished as he tentatively said "Hello?"
"Hello Mycroft Holmes." said the voice on the other end. "You spoiled my party."
"Moriarty."
"A rose by any other name, Mycroft. You don't mind if I call you Mycroft, do you? I just feel so close to you after all we've been through. I try to blow up your brother, you throw my best friend off a balcony, I make a visit to your ex-girlfriend. Although I think you need to admit, that last one was kind of a favor. You can't be too sad her lover's dead. Really, you should be saying thank you."
Mycroft inhaled deeply and took his time to speak. "Should I?"
"I mean, I took out the competition for you! You're cleared for landing now. She's alive, by the way, the woman. It's up to you if it stays that way."
There was a break in conversation and he heard a radio being turned on, then adjusted. Something loud and in Japanese started playing and then got softer as the volume was turned down. "Sorry. Mood music. Where was I...no don't tell me. ...Right! Callie is alive and it's really up to you if she stays that way. That's got such a punch to it, doesn't it? Almost like a Bond villain. I feel like I should have a pussy cat and a fireplace. Do you like James Bond? Oh you must, you're British. Who's your favorite?"
When Mycroft didn't answer, Moriarty said, "I just told you that I hold the life of the woman you love in my hands and you won't answer a question as easy as 'Who is your favorite Bond'? Well I can just kill her right now the.."
"Connery." Mycroft interrupted. His mind spun rapidly and he found himself laughing nervously. "I thought it must be trick question because everyone's favorite Bond is Connery."
"I dunno, I've always liked Timothy Dalton. He's really more of a villain himself but as you can tell, that's kind of what I go for. There is something to be said for Daniel Craig, good abs. I really need to get to the gym more often."
"What is it that you want from me, Moriarty?"
"Please, call me Jim."
"Jim, then. What do you want?"
"A woman who will love me for all my faults." he answered in the same tone that belied neither seriousness nor levity.
"What do you want that I can give you?"
"A truce."
Negotiating was such a natural state for Mycroft that he momentarily forgot the danger of his situation and who he was dealing with. He laughed. "Pardon?"
"Now Mycroft, My Croft. What exactly is a croft, anyway? You heard me. I think it's time we call a truce."
"Why should I agree to that?"
"Apart from the fact that you're tied to a chair with a gun on you and your lady love is in my evil grasp? It makes sense. Neither of us is benefiting from this little war of ours. I've got bigger fish to fry than Sherlock and Mycroft Holmes and you surely would like to be able to enjoy fatherhood. Good pull on Molly by the way. She's just a tiger in bed, right? So...needy. I always liked that. Basically, no one else that you love needs to die. You can prevent that."
"Why should I believe you won't just kill me at the first chance? Or Sherlock, or Callie?"
"Because I don't want to be hunted. It's not how I operate. I'm a little flamboyant, love a show, hate to cower. It's a good deal I'm offering you here. I stay out of England and you leave me alone to do what I please. Everyone wins."
"Except the people you'll hurt."
"People get hurt every day. It's the nature of life. I can tell you're not really on board with this but I think you're missing the bigger picture."
"Enlighten me."
"Say yes. I go away, for awhile at least. Your son grows up. You can read him his bedtime stories. Give your brother time to learn a little self-control. Callie gets a nice cocktail so she won't remember any of the names or face and goes to the hospital. You can sleep easy. Say no, then I kill Callie. But first I rape her. Then I let my friends have a turn. I make her wish for death but I won't give it to her for days and days. When she's broken and barely even human anymore, then I'll kill her. Now think about this, you're in her house. Her fiance is dead. You've got blood all over you. Whose to say where her body would wind up? Whose to say it wouldn't look an awful lot like you murdered her? Police aren't that smart Mycroft, don't count on them to save you."
"I believe I am beginning to see your point."
"So like I said, a truce."
"For how long?"
"For as long as it can last. For long enough."
Was there another choice? He didn't see one. He felt like a lobster over a pot, a mouse in a trap, a bird in the cross hairs. If he said no, it would be over, for everyone and everything he cared about. His hand was being forced, and it was done so perfectly even he had to admire it.
"Agreed."
Ans: Special Thanks to Roxanne-Michal. You guys should see my stuff before she reads it. I always write better even if all she does is peek. She also finally updated her story so make sure to check it out. Also thanks to Tadpole for taking a real interest in the story and all of my repeat readers and reviewers; I feel like people are invested and it makes me not want to disappoint anyone - Meredith Riddle, IbegtoDreamandDiffer, BroadwayB, Miggs, Chalcedony Rivers, Volce Voice and Sylvia Griffin to name a few.
If you enjoyed, please 1) keep reading! 2) review if you'd like to 3) Go read Roxanne-Michael's excellent FINALLY updated Sherlock fic.