Monday, 8 Mar 2010
"But who does this? This is completely mad," Lestrade was saying with his usual talent for stating the obvious.
Tanker truck full of salt water. Utility basement by Canary Wharf. A dead Portuguese man o'war.
A criminal enterprise gone wrong? Some petty conflict over money or drugs or power? Sherlock paced, circling around the puddle, coat swirling around his calves as he thought. He ignored the scurrying lab rats in their blue coveralls and the detectives in their cheap suits.
His gaze fell on the tire tracks, but they were wrong for the tanker. New tires — very new, very expensive, judging by the complex tread pattern. They were light, too. Low-profile tires, lightweight vehicle, probably a sports car. Expensive. Imported.
Money, then, or status. It wasn't government, or Mycroft would be involved. Nothing so petty as drug dealing, unless it was on some vast scale, controlling millions of pounds in import profits. So, drugs. No other explanation quite fit. He turned to tell Lestrade when his gaze fixed on the detective's profile, the light hitting his skin almost exactly as it had yesterday, seen through the morgue's viewing window.
John. Sherlock's thoughts scattered under a wash of memory, and he felt his lips start to twitch into a smile before he caught himself in sudden horror. He was surrounded by Lestrade's trained monkeys. The last thing he wanted was for them to catch him grinning.
"Drugs," he told Lestrade a few seconds later, once his thoughts had slotted back into their proper configuration.
Lestrade gave him a pleasingly blank look. "How do you figure that?" he asked.
This time, Sherlock allowed himself a grin, knowing Lestrade would assume it was smug. He launched into the explanation almost absently, putting most of his considerable intellect toward a greater mystery: Would John call him? Could he call, or was he supposed to text? Or should he wait?
Once again, he had no idea what to expect, and that was better than any simple crime Lestrade had ever offered him.
A phone call distracted Lestrade. Sherlock went back to looking at the crime scene without seeing it, losing himself in his thoughts of John, until Lestrade asked sharply, "What? Who is this?"
Sherlock wasn't the only one who looked over at him. He was frowning, motioning for the technicians to get on with collecting the evidence Sherlock had marked for them. Curiosity roused, Sherlock walked over to him, trying to listen in on both sides of the conversation, but the caller's voice was frustratingly soft.
"Right, when?" Lestrade asked, trapping the phone against his shoulder as he took a pen and notepad from his jacket. "What's the address?"
Another lead, Sherlock thought, glad that he was already here. Maybe he could get to this next scene before the forensics morons contaminated it.
"Right. And your name? Hello?" With a curse, Lestrade took the phone down and looked at the screen. Sherlock peered at it but saw the caller's number had been blocked.
"Informant?" Sherlock guessed.
"Maybe." Lestrade frowned, showing Sherlock the notebook. "This address mean anything to you?"
Sherlock had spent years memorizing London, from its tourist traps to its back alleys. He placed it on his mental map and nodded. "Excellent place to dump a body. Abandoned warehouses and factories, mostly."
"Shit. Come on," Lestrade said, heading for his car as he shouted orders for the rest of his team to finish up here.
Monday, 8 Mar 2010
Lestrade had driven his personal car, so Sherlock went with him, correcting the satnav when the automatic directions added unnecessary minutes to the trip. Lestrade knew better than to argue and finally turned the computer off, to Sherlock's satisfaction.
The warehouse was one of three in a line across the street from a closed-down factory. The whole neighborhood reeked of abandonment, walls covered with graffiti, weeds bursting through the carpet of broken glass and cracked pavement.
Sherlock unbuckled his seatbelt and opened the door, but Lestrade caught him by the sleeve. "You don't rush ahead of me, Sherlock. Stay behind me or I swear, I'll lock you to the steering wheel."
"Your cuffs can't hold me," Sherlock bragged, unable to hide his smile as he considered proving that very fact to John, perhaps even later that night. Then he had to turn away and get out of the car, cursing the way his body apparently had decided to compensate for all those years of sexual disinterest. No wonder normal people couldn't think, if this was constantly cluttering up their minds.
"I don't know what we're gonna find in there," Lestrade said insistently. "The caller said she –"
"Don't!" Sherlock shot a glare Lestrade's way. "Don't say anything else! You're just cluttering everything up. Don't talk, don't breathe, don't even think. Just go. Go!" He waved Lestrade ahead and closed his eyes, clearing his mind.
After Lestrade's presence had faded, Sherlock opened his eyes and looked at the weed-choked area outside the warehouse. Three sets of fresh tire tracks, one from a flashy sports car similar (but not identical) to the ones at the other kill site. Scuff marks through the debris, as if two people had been dragged. Or, no — one person, dragged in and then out.
Curious, Sherlock turned, debating following the trail, but Lestrade shouted, "Sherlock! Get in here!"
Frustrated, Sherlock turned back and ran inside, hoping Lestrade had found a body. This scene had to be connected to the other. Why else would Lestrade have received a tip on his mobile, rather than through the main switchboard?
It would be fascinating if the drugs connection was faked to throw them off the correct trail. Truly clever killers were so very rare. The other warehouse had quite a few clues that would help the police with their grunt work, but a body would tell Sherlock everything, if he could observe the scene undisturbed.
Lestrade was in a hallway, shining a torch into a side room, away from the abandoned street. Sherlock rushed to his side and looked in, disappointment hitting him a moment later. There was no body — just a sturdy chair made of bent metal bars and cracked vinyl padding, and a pair of handcuffs.
He stared at them, snatching the torch out of Lestrade's hand. They were police-issue Hiatt speedcuffs identical to the ones he'd stolen from Lestrade six weeks earlier.
"Let me," he said, holding a hand out to stop Lestrade from walking into the room. The floor was dirty, scuffed by multiple tracks, but he could clearly pick out at least one pair of men's dress shoes, trainers, women's dress flats, and heels.
He glanced around, momentarily struck with confusion. How many people had been here?
Carefully, he knelt and put the torch in his mouth, freeing his hands to wield his magnifying glass. The dress flats were stylish and new, crisp edges, no noticeable wear pattern. The heels — kitten heels, not stilettos, if he had to guess — weren't quite as new, but were still in very good condition, a size larger than the flats. The women had run into the room but then had paced back and forth from the doorway to the chair.
The men, on the other hand... Not counting the one in trainers, there were three of them, not one. Gucci shoes, size nine; far cheaper square-toe loafers, possibly Autograph, size eleven; and an off-brand too damaged to quickly identify, size eleven and a half.
Gucci, size nine, Sherlock thought, momentarily rattled. Mycroft wore a size nine. But he'd been wearing Yves Saint Laurents earlier, not Guccis. He shook off the distraction and went back to his examination.
"Three men in dress shoes. Two entered, supporting between them someone in trainers — a man. There was a fight here. Look," he said, sweeping his hand as his mind translated scuffed marks into three-dimensional movement. "They ended here, facing off, and the man in trainers went to the chair."
"A fight? How do you know?"
"Look!" Sherlock at the marks on the floor, so clear to his eyes, amazed that Lestrade could be so blind. "One man stood here, off to the side of the one in trainers. The way he moved..." — Sherlock stepped carefully over the tracks, looking down, positioning himself to match. The scene seemed to draw itself in his imagination. "Ah. One man here, the other in front of him, facing to the side. Possibly held by a gun? The one in trainers stepped into the other, twisted — see the marks? — and they struggled. Yes, definitely a gun."
On fire now, he stepped over the tracks toward the chair, looking at the back. "Ah, yes. As I expected," he said, looking at the gleam of silver along the bars.
"'Ah' what?" Lestrade demanded. "Can I come in?"
"No!" Sherlock used the magnifier again, saying, "He struggled against the cuffs. His wrists were thrust through the bars, here and here. You can see the scoring from the cuffs on the bars between."
"So we've got someone cuffed somewhere in here. Should I call in the dogs to find a body?"
"Be patient!" He moved around to the front of the chair and crouched carefully. "The women both came to this spot, crouching down — more weight on the toes."
"Women?"
"Two — one in heels, one in flats."
"Bloody hell, Sherlock. If you're just taking the piss —"
"Would you rather your team spend a week trying to reconstruct this? It's your overtime budget."
Lestrade grimaced. "Get on with it, then."
Smirking, Sherlock read the tracks, saying, "This happened after, at the end. They came in and helped the man in trainers to leave. So you're not looking for a body."
"You sure?"
"Well, perhaps, but only if they killed him elsewhere. There's minimal blood and no other biological release."
"Define 'minimal'."
Sherlock rolled his eyes and used the torch to indicate the blood splatters. "You can see it more clearly with luminol, later," he said dismissively, moving around behind the chair. "This, though... This man stayed here the whole time. He didn't come in with the women, because he didn't assist them with carrying the victim out. So, he was here before, not after — their tracks overlay his. He paced —"
Sherlock froze.
There were three indentations in the debris, slight marks that were barely visible at an angle, where the shadow of dust changed, revealing perfect circles, bare the size of a fingertip. They were identical to the brolly-trail that Mycroft left in the carpet every time he came to visit.
Guccis.
The imprint of an umbrella.
"Who called you?" Sherlock asked suspiciously as he rose to his feet.
"Some woman." Lestrade shrugged. "Didn't give a name."
"Accent? Phrasing?"
"I dunno... educated. No real accent. Adult female, didn't sound too old." Lestrade frowned, leaning against the doorway, running a hand through his silvering hair. "Said she'd heard screams here, like someone was being tortured."
Sherlock shook his head. "She was lying. It's too deserted here. Our attackers chose this place well. No one in this neighborhood would report anything to the police."
"Maybe she's one of them?" he proposed, pointing at the footsteps.
"Perhaps, but why?" It was rhetorical, and by now, Lestrade knew him well enough to not bother trying to answer. Sherlock crouched down to look at the cuffs, and was immediately relieved to see that they weren't the ones he'd stolen and then left with John. These were gleaming new, with no scratches around the keyhole. They were dirty, though, and Sherlock counted three distinct splatters of blood, drops fallen from a height of only two feet, give or take, judging by the deformation.
"All right. Call in your sniffer dogs. Photos of the footprints, run fingerprints, analyze this blood for drugs or —"
"Sherlock," Lestrade interrupted, already on his phone. "I know how to do my job."
"If you could do your job, you wouldn't need me," Sherlock snapped, though without any particular heat. He could trust Lestrade with this scene, now that he'd finished his preliminary investigation, and the forensic data would be useful to him later.
Was Mycroft slipping? He usually was thorough, good at covering all possible angles. This was a little too obvious. It would have been simple to obscure the most obvious traces with a broom.
So, no. Not slipping. The evidence had been deliberately left behind. Which meant that the phone call to Lestrade had also been intentional.
Why, then? Why call Lestrade here? Had Mycroft known Sherlock was with Lestrade? Had he assumed Sherlock would stay with Lestrade for this?
Was there something here that Sherlock was supposed to see?
He played the torchlight around the room, searching for some secret message only he could decipher, but by the time the techs arrived, he still had found nothing.
Perhaps he was wrong altogether. Perhaps this wasn't Mycroft — the Gucci size nines might be a coincidence. It wasn't as if the shoes were bespoke, but Mycroft reserved those for special occasions, not... whatever this was. The umbrella was Mycroft's trademark, though he was hardly the only man who used an umbrella as a walking stick in London.
Frustrated by the uncertainty, Sherlock left the techs to their work, ordered Lestrade to send him the data as soon as possible, and went to find a taxi. He needed to have a long talk with the skull to clear his thoughts.
Monday, 8 Mar 2010
John had never visited Irene's home, which proved to be a sleekly modern detached house not too far from the office. Though his concussion was mild, the headache it caused was absolutely blinding. Without his cane, his wrenched knee was especially troublesome, and it took an embarrassingly long time for him to get up the stairs to the guest room even with Irene's help.
Finally he was able to lay down on his stomach, sinking into a high, thick mattress and close his eyes, trying not to think about what had just happened. He'd survived. He'd survived and his friends and family were safe. That was all that mattered for now.
"Mr. Murray's on his way," Kate said as she entered.
"Thank you, Kate," Irene answered. More gently, she asked, "John? Kate's brought the ice."
"Thanks." God, even speaking set off his headache. "Head and wrist," he instructed as succinctly as he could.
He guessed it was Kate who went around the other side of the bed to gently hold an ice pack to the back of his head. Irene, who was sitting on the edge beside him, surrounded his left wrist with more ice, saying, "You should see a doctor, John. X-rays —"
Fear stabbed through him. "No," he said as sternly as he could manage. If he went to the hospital, they'd want a report. They'd get suspicious when he refused, and that might drag in the police. Even if he said nothing, just being seen talking to the police might be enough to send that insane fucking bastard after John's family.
He could picture Irene's glare, but she remained mercifully silent until the doorbell chimed. "I'll answer it," she said, allowing Kate to keep hold of the ice pack against the back of John's skull.
"Dear God. Can't we just meet at the pub like normal mates, Captain?" Bill asked a minute later as he walked to the side of the bed.
"Normal's not our style," John said, feeling some of the tension drain from him. Bill Murray was the only reason John was alive. Some people dismissed nurses as half-trained amateurs, but John knew better, and there was no one he'd trust more to help patch him back up — and not ask questions.
"Whatever you need, Mr. Murray, just let me know," Kate offered.
"Tell me what happened. Not you, Watson," he added as John took a breath. "Kate?"
She hesitated until John nodded as carefully as he could, though even that motion was enough to make him dizzy. "I don't entirely know, but he called Miss Adler for help. We found him in a warehouse, handcuffed to a chair. I don't think it was... related to work," she finished delicately.
"They were military," John lied briefly. "Asked about an op in Afghanistan." The last thing he needed was any of them thinking he'd been involved in some masochistic diversion gone horribly wrong.
"You weren't in Military Intelligence," Bill protested, digging around in the bag he set down at his feet. "What's the summary?"
"Mild concussion; possible fracture and nerve damage, left wrist; possible torn right ACL," John answered. "The rest is trivial."
"You never did do things by half-measures. Let me see under there, love," Bill said, carefully kneeling against the edge of the bed so he could lean over. Obligingly, Kate moved the ice pack aside, and Bill prodded gently through John's hair. "You're going to be stubborn about a CT scan, I take it?"
"GCS 15. I'm fine," John insisted. "Just make sure it won't start bleeding again."
With a snort, Bill dug through his bag again, producing a small torch. He lifted each of John's eyelids in turn, using the torch to check pupillary response. "You'd think you would've learned, after the last time we went through this. Can you take it easy for the next forty-eight hours?"
"I'll make certain of that, Corporal Murray," Irene said ominously from somewhere behind Bill.
Bill shot John a smirk, though the humor didn't quite reach his eyes. "Finally met your match, did you?" he asked, tossing the torch back into his bag. "I need to undress you. Can you move?"
John took stock of his condition. The headache was still there, of course, and would be for several hours. His left shoulder wasn't aching quite so badly, but his hand was tingling violently.
"I'd really rather not," he finally said, much as he hated being an invalid all over again. Better that, though, than to end up vomiting all over Irene's carpet.
"Right." Bill set to work with shears, cutting through John's jumper. "If this was about an op, you have to report it."
John grunted assent, closing his eyes. He hoped like hell that Bill's kit included something to take the edge off the pain, though he'd refuse anything too strong. He needed his wits; he hated being helpless. He hated being scared. And that fucking bastard had managed to scare ten years off of his life with his threats — not against John, but against everyone he loved. Harry and Clara and their baby girl. His second-in-command and the rest of his old squad. Even Irene and Kate.
Sherlock, he thought, because he couldn't not think of him and the one night they'd spent together. Their first and last night together.
It hadn't been what that bastard had accused him of doing. It hadn't. John had resisted every temptation to bring power exchange into it, deliberately taking things more slowly than Sherlock had wanted. Still, he couldn't quite forget that madman's accusations.
God, he hadn't taken advantage of Sherlock, had he? For all of Sherlock's talk of safewords and no limits, he'd been an absolute innocent. Had he been so desperate for John's attention — John's approval — that he'd forced himself to do something he didn't want, for John's sake?
Bill checked his pulse and listened to his heart and lungs. "Can I get you on your back for a minute?"
"Watch the leg," John cautioned, not trying to move until Bill was supporting his left leg, above and below the knee. Together, they managed to get John onto his back, though the pressure of the pillow against his head was torture all over again.
"Let me know if this hurts," Bill said, cautiously pressing his fingertips into John's abdomen, feeling for any damage to his internal organs. As he did, he looked at Kate and said, "If he starts vomiting, get him to hospital, no matter what he tells you."
"Corporal," John warned.
"You're not so bloody terrifying when you're on your back like this, Captain," Bill countered. He'd said it the last time, too, hands covered to the elbows in John's blood as he struggled to keep John conscious. "All right. Let's turn you back over."
Moving was easier this time, perhaps because of the incentive of getting his skull off the pillow. He let out a sigh of relief when Kate gently put the ice pack back in place.
Bill examined John's left wrist quickly and quietly. "Elevate, ice, you know the drill," he finally said, piling two pillows beside John and using them to somewhat awkwardly prop up his wrist. "You can get away with a splint for about a week, but —"
"I know," John interrupted grimly. If his wrist was broken, he'd need a cast; if there was nerve damage, he might need surgery. Hell, it needed treatment now, and more than Bill could provide. His hands were his life — as a doctor and, well, everything else. He couldn't afford permanent nerve damage or loss of movement.
Letting that pass, Bill asked, "Miss Adler, Kate, will you excuse us for a moment?"
"Of course. Come along, Kate," Irene said, meeting John's eyes and giving him a nervous, encouraging smile before turning away.
When they were gone, Bill asked quietly, "This wasn't anything to do with the military. What's this really about, Captain?"
John listened to the sound of shears cutting through the right leg of his blue jeans. "Bill... Did you ever do anything that you didn't want to? I mean..." He trailed off uncomfortably, suddenly glad that his face was almost completely hidden by the arrangement of pillows. His hesitance was ridiculous, considering that they were both adults — considering what they'd done.
"This will hurt," Bill warned, either avoiding the question or giving John time to settle his thoughts. Carefully, he supported John's ankle and bent his leg back, one hand resting on the kneecap to check for buckling or locking.
"Did... anyone ever make you do anything you didn't want? As a sub, I mean."
Surprised, Bill stopped manipulating John's knee for a moment. "Well, yeah," he said, puzzled. "Kind of the point, though, isn't it? Pushing boundaries and all?"
"Fucking hell," John muttered into the pillow.
"Why do you ask? This… this wasn't a scene, was it? You're not a sub. And these injuries -—"
"God, no!" The outburst rekindled the fire in the back of his skull, making him flinch. He quickly lied, "It's just... something I was reading. Trying to take my mind off this. Or don't they teach nurses bedside manners anymore?"
Relieved, Bill said, "Not to deal with stroppy COs. Besides, you're the last person who should be worrying about that. If anything, you were always too careful, except with your own bloody life."
It wasn't the first time Bill had said that, either. Some of the tension in his chest unknotted, letting him breathe easier, at least until Bill found just the right way to twist. He hissed and tried to jerk his leg free, only to freeze when the pain doubled.
"I think it's just wrenched, not torn," Bill said, carefully easing John's leg back down. "Want me to get rid of the trousers?"
"May as well," John grumbled into the pillow. "Tell me you have something for the pain."
"Paracetamol or aspirin is all you'll get, because I'd never tell you that I illegally possess morphine for emergencies," Bill said primly as he cut through enough fabric to free him from the ruined jeans. Rather than moving John's foot, he cut through his right sock as well, and then stripped the other one off. He tossed the shears aside and carefully covered John with the blankets Kate had turned down before helping him into bed.
The sting of the needle made John remember the track marks on Sherlock's arm. Resolutely, he pushed the thought from his mind. Recovery first.
"I'm going to pop out for an hour," Bill said after hiding the evidence back in his bag. "Pick up a couple of splints and a crutch, assuming you're going to be stubborn and insist on getting out of bed."
"Did you think otherwise?"
"Cura te ipsum," Bill shot back with a snort, and John regretted laughing.
Monday, 8 Mar 2010
Sherlock was distracted by thoughts of Mycroft, which was far less pleasant than being distracted by thoughts of John. His mind had latched onto the puzzle at the warehouse, though, and he couldn't get himself to re-focus.
So he didn't go home. He didn't even think twice about it until he was at John's flat, buzzing for entry. Wasn't this what people did when they were... whatever Sherlock and John now were? They spent time together. Exchanged keys. Shared territory.
He'd seen it before, even if he'd never experienced it himself. He was experiencing a lot of new things now, in fact. The thought made him smile, though the smile faded as the intercom remained dormant.
Had John gone out? It was Monday, his day off. He hadn't mentioned going out.
The café, he thought, walking off without bothering to text or call. He wanted to surprise John the way John had surprised him so many times. He would be surprised, wouldn't he? And happy?
Apprehension made Sherlock's steps slow, before he pushed it aside. This morning, John had been pleasantly focused on Sherlock, and there hadn't been a hint of upset or resentment when Sherlock had announced his intention to meet up with Lestrade. Sherlock had considered inviting John along, in fact — and why not, given that John had been in on the autopsy? — but he'd decided that time apart would help to further cement their relationship. Through observation, he'd learned that there was a delicate balance between time spent together and apart. Too much of one and not enough of the other would start cracking the relationship.
But it wasn't too soon now — not after a month of being apart, communicating solely through texts — so Sherlock's steps were confident as he walked into the café. It was just after one in the afternoon, which meant John would probably be there. It wasn't crowded, the lunch rush having ended, and Sherlock looked around, gaze flicking over the patrons, analyzing and dismissing each one in turn.
No John.
Loo, perhaps, he guessed, and wound through the tables, stopping at the counter. The girl there was in her late teens or early twenties, remnants of a henna tattoo on one hand, tan too dark for London in March and too real to have been artificial — just back from vacation, probably Spain. She smiled up at him, getting a look that Sherlock recognized as interest despite the difference in their ages.
"Hi! What can I do for you?"
Insufferably perky. He resisted the urge to snap at her and instead gave her his best artificial smile in return. "Hi! Um, I'm supposed to meet my boyfriend here, but I don't see him... I'm a bit late, so I'm worried that he's already come and gone. Maybe you saw him?"
The quality of the interest changed, but it didn't diminish. Women tended to be just as attracted to gay men as straight ones — sometimes even more. It was a useful way to get them to divulge information.
"Ooh, what's he look like, then?" she asked curiously.
"Broad shoulders, bit shorter than me, dark blonde hair. His name's John. He's a regular here, I think?" he added questioningly, prompting her for more information.
Her expression turned puzzled. "John? The doctor?" she asked, frowning.
"Yes, that's him." Sherlock gave her another false smile. Why was she frowning?
"Oh. He didn't —" She cut off, bit her lip, and shrugged, gaze sliding away from Sherlock for the first time. "He hasn't been in today."
She was lying, but not about John. No, not quite lying. Concealing something.
"Are you certain? I could've sworn he said to meet here and he's never late. Unlike me," he added sheepishly, giving her another fake smile. "You sure? About this tall, pale skin, scar on his face?" he asked, holding his hand just at his own eye level, changing her mental image from John Watson to someone else.
It worked. Her smile came back, relieved. "Oh! Wrong John," she said happily, with a little laugh.
"There are two? Well, lucky me," he said, giving her a conspiratorial little laugh. "What's yours like?"
"Not mine," she teased, leaning on the counter. He did the same, encouraging the gossip that was a natural impulse for most people in a social line of work. "One of our new waiters just started seeing him. Jim. He's a real sweetheart — well, both of them are, actually. They were made for each other."
"How nice for them." It came out a little sharp.
"I'm sorry. I haven't seen anyone who looks like yours, though. Are you sure you have the right café?"
"Oh, bollocks. Maybe not." He took out his phone and made a show of checking it. "This is Speedy's, isn't it?"
She gave a little shake of her head. "No, sorry. Never heard of it."
"Damn!" Sighing, he dropped the phone back, saying, "Sorry — God, now I'll be really late. So sorry."
"Good luck," she said with a little laugh, waving to him as he hurried out.
Monday, 8 Mar 2010
John's boyfriend, Jim. No response to two texts. No sign of him at the café. No response to the buzzer at his flat.
Sherlock stared up at the ceiling, breathing deeply, turning things over in his mind, trying to fit the new pieces together. Words like cheating and avoiding floated through his thoughts, but he rejected them — a response that he knew was emotional and not logical, but relationships were based on emotion, not logic.
He heard a knock downstairs and ignored it. John would have texted. Only... perhaps they were beyond texting. Perhaps Sherlock should have called. That was more personal, wasn't it?
He was on his feet and into the hallway in a second, but Mrs. Hudson beat him to the front door. "Oh! Hello, Mycroft."
Disappointment twisted Sherlock's stomach, making him regret the coffee he'd drunk upon returning to his flat. He went back into the living room and debated climbing out the roof exit. He had a perfectly good escape route planned, one that avoided all of Mycroft's CCTV cameras, but he wanted to save that for a real emergency. This only qualified as a nuisance, so returned to the sofa and his contemplation of the ceiling.
Without bothering to knock, Mycroft let himself into the flat a moment later. He'd changed into one of his light grey suits from Gieves & Hawkes, though his shirt was solid light blue instead of the light blue pinstripe that would have matched it better, and the tie was a truly awful silver and blue jacquard — Drakes, if he wasn't mistaken.
Gucci dress shoes.
"Dressing in the dark now, Mycroft?" Sherlock asked, lifting his head to watch Mycroft circle around the couch to the brocade armchair.
"How are you, Sherlock?" The question was delivered mildly, with something almost like worry in Mycroft's voice, instead of his usual snide, superior edge.
Something's going on.
Sherlock didn't answer. He looked Mycroft over, noting the dark charcoal silk socks that matched both suit and shoes. The shoes were polished, of course, but freshly polished, less than an hour ago. He could smell it. Had it been Mycroft at the warehouse?
If he had been, the blood there wasn't his. Sherlock would see if he'd been injured. Mycroft couldn't abide pain. One of Sherlock's most amusing memories was of his so-superior, know-it-all older brother bursting into tears when he'd pinched his finger in the slide of his rifle during a hunt.
Curiosity gnawed at Sherlock, but to show curiosity around Mycroft was to fall into his trap. Deliberately, he dropped back onto the sofa and pressed his hands together under his chin, closing his eyes. Mrs. Hudson had suggested that was his 'deep thinking' pose, but in actuality, it was a defense mechanism that he'd learned early in life. Holding perfectly still like this was an excellent way to deny Mycroft the body language clues that might help him unlock whatever Sherlock was thinking at the time, and it had become habit even when Mycroft wasn't around.
Mycroft was uncharacteristically silent for long enough that Sherlock considered breaking his pose to demand to know what the hell he wanted. Mycroft loved hearing the sound of his own voice.
Instead, Sherlock focused on examining the little information he'd gotten at the café earlier. He'd alerted his homeless network to see what they could learn about 'Jim' but had little hope that they'd discover anything quickly.
Finally, Mycroft said, "If you need to talk, Sherlock, you know I stand ready. No matter what you wish to say, you'll always be my brother."
Baffled, Sherlock finally turned and looked over at him. "Sentiment? Really, Mycroft, how unlike you."
Mycroft pursed his lips in disappointment, tipping his head down to give Sherlock his usual superior, I-know-what's-best-for-you look. Sherlock braced himself for a fight, wondering if Mycroft had decided that he needed another trip to rehab — which was absurd. Over texts, John had accomplished what the therapists never had. Sherlock was clean.
"Very well," Mycroft finally said, levering himself up out of the armchair with the aid of his ever-present umbrella. "Should you decide otherwise, you know where to find me. Good day, brother."
Without moving from the sofa, Sherlock watched him leave, letting his head fall back to the cushion when the door quietly closed.
What the hell was that all about?
References:
He really does wear size nine (UK) shoes:
the-sign-of-fun.livejournal. ?thread=3110488#t3110488