Mycroft slid off the bed and sprang to his feet. "What's happened?"
"He's done a runner."
"He escaped?"
"That's what Mike says."
"Let me get dressed, John. I'll be right out."
"I'll wake up Greg. What room is he in?"
"This one!" Lestrade called back, picking up his pants and trousers. "We'll join you in a minute."
Outside, John said slowly, "Oh, err, all right. I'll wait out here then."
Despite his worry, Mycroft flushed. Lestrade gave his shoulder a reassuring squeeze."I'm sure he suspected anyway."
"I'll take your word for it." The elder Holmes reached for his shirt. "Come on, we must hurry."
"Wait." Gregory fetched two damp towels from the adjacent bathroom and used one to wipe himself off. "Here," he said, holding out the other. "That was amazing, but we're a bit of a mess."
"Oh. Yes. Thank you." Mycroft wiped his face and chest before scrubbing his own release off his stomach. His nerves still hummed with the post-coital aftershocks, and he ached for Lestrade to hold him until they subsided. The accompanying emotions defied logic or rationalization, which were Mycroft's traditional weapons when it came to new experiences, leaving him unsure how to properly process them.
I've been so parched emotionally. I want more, NEED more.
Later. Focus.
"Sherlock Holmes has the fucking shittiest timing," Lestrade grumbled as he hurried into his clothes. When Mycroft wobbled while donning his trousers, he added, "Are you okay? You were a bit tipsy earlier."
"I'm fine." He was, physically anyway: the adrenaline from their romp had chased away the alcoholic daze. "But I AM livid. How could my brother escape from a secure psychiatric ward when my best security detail was surrounding him?"
"You could do it, couldn't you?"
Mycroft smiled despite his anxiety. "Probably."
Lestrade took him by the arms. "Listen. We're going to find him, and then slap the bugger silly. What was he thinking? Moriarty is after you, and that makes him a potential target too. Doesn't he understand that he's safer at Bart's, under heavy guard?"
"He understands, and doesn't care. If anything, it's an added incentive to escape."
Lestrade's eyes widened suddenly. "You don't think he'll attempt suicide again?"
Mycroft's response was swift and sure. "No, he won't."
"You're sure?"
"Yes. He may still be grieving, but he's no longer bored."
"Christ. Puts a new slant on the term 'dying of boredom', doesn't it?" Gregory shook his head. Then he pulled Mycroft into a hug, adjusting his hold to avoid putting pressure on the stitches. "Before we head out, I want to thank you for giving me, well, you know."
Mycroft closed his eyes and melted into the embrace. "No, thank you."
When they joined John out in the hall, the doctor was pacing rapidly back and forth. "What the hell is your brother's middle name, Houdini?" he demanded, waving his arms.
"No, but it obviously should be." Mycroft hurried for the stairs. "Tell me exactly what Dr. Stamford told you."
"There was a fire alarm at Bart's, on the floor above the psychiatric ward-"
"Was there actually a fire though?" Lestrade demanded.
"I don't know. Mike didn't say. Anyway, Sherlock was unstrapped so they could move him onto a gurney in case evacuation became necessary. Before they could secure him to it, he opened his eyes, shoved the staff aside, and ran. That's all I know. Your people will probably be able to tell you more, Mycroft."
"If they want to keep their jobs, they'd better."
He knew he was partly to blame. There had been times in the past when Sherlock was injured while resisting the people Mycroft had sent to bring him somewhere. Even if the younger Holmes had brought it on himself, Mycroft invariably disciplined the employees involved. Like the time Sherlock's knee was cut when he tried to jump from the government car conveying him to a meeting he wanted to avoid: the bodyguard involved was still at the agency's Siberian outpost. There was also the female chauffeur who'd unintentionally closed the car door on those long white fingers during another struggle: she suffered a pay cut. Given those and similar examples, Mycroft acknowledged that his people would sooner defend Sherlock from an army of assassins than lay restraining hands on the man himself.
During the ride to Bart's, Lestrade held Mycroft's hand as he stared out at early morning London. "Any idea where he could be?"
"Mrs. Hudson would let me know if he went back to 221b, so he's definitely not there. The hospital security cameras should enlighten us, hopefully."
John, who sat up front with the silent chauffeur, said, "Never a dull moment with your brother, is there?"
"No." And that intrigues you, I can tell. John looked appropriately concerned, but his fixed, alert stare and rigid posture betrayed his excitement. The repatriated soldier was back at the battlefield, and finding purpose again.
Using his other hand, Mycroft texted Genna, his interim PA.
Review Bart's security footage for indications as to where SH may have gone. Report immediately. MH
She responded promptly.
Yes, sir. Have you reviewed J. Moriarty file yet? Awaiting your instructions.
Mycroft frowned. What file? He scrolled through his received texts, and found an unread message with a large attachment. It had arrived while he and Gregory were rolling around on his bed, moaning and sweating….
Shaking his head to clear it, he opened the message.
"We're almost there," Lestrade commented. Seeing Mycroft absorbed in his phone, he asked, "Any news from your people?"
"Not about Sherlock."
He eagerly scanned the downloaded profile. James Moriarty, aged thirty-five, born in Belfast, Northern Ireland. Father (deceased) had known ties with the IRA. American-born mother currently serving a life sentence in Holloway prison for murdering her husband. James himself had no known record, and was only on file as the child of confirmed criminals.
Mycroft frowned. How was that possible? The man was obviously a brilliant, experienced killer with influential connections. But according to Genna's report, the man had never even gotten a speeding ticket.
He started young. Stayed off the record by getting others to do his dirty work while he directed, praised, and punished.
Like I did.
"We're here," John said.
When the Audi pulled up in front of the A&E entrance, Mycroft leaped out and strode into the building with John and Gregory close behind. While they waited for the lift, he heard the sound of an incoming text and checked his phone again.
It was Genna. Sir, hospital security cameras were offline for 20 minutes. SH disappeared during that time.
"Goddamn it," he muttered.
"What is it?" John asked.
"I've been thwarted by my own methods, it seems. The hospital surveillance system was down during the time frame when Sherlock escaped."
"Down?" Lestrade echoed. "A malfunction?"
"I don't know yet," Mycroft answered. But on a certain level, he did. Only too well. The fire alarm, the camera glitch… they were signposts that pointed to one logical conclusion.
It had all been staged.
The lift doors swished open. As they stepped inside, Mycroft received another text. He glanced down, expecting more intel from Genna, but received a shock instead.
Mycroft. So rude of you to refuse my hospitality. I was so disappointed, but your little brother will make it up to me, I'm sure. JM
Mycroft's fingers shook minutely as he downloaded and opened the photo attachment.
It was a picture of Sherlock in his rumpled hospital gown, lying on the backseat of a car. His eyes were closed but he bore no signs of rough handling.
What do you want? Mycroft texted back.
"Mycroft?" John's eyes narrowed. "You're white as a bloody sheet. What is it?"
"One moment, John. Please."
Moriarty's reply came swiftly. You, darling. Shall we dance?
The lift door opened onto the psychiatric floor. People, uniformed police officers among them, milled around, looking bewildered. Mycroft's people, seeing their boss, cringed and lowered their eyes.
Mycroft paid no attention to them. His fingers flew over the phone's keypad.
When and where? MH
"Mycroft," Lestrade frowned, "you've gotten news about Sherlock, haven't you?"
"Yes." He decided to show them the message and photo. There was no way he could keep either of them in the dark. But first…
Moriarty's response chimed.
I'll be in touch. JM
Mycroft's fingers tapped fiercely on the keys. If you hurt him, you'll burn.
His employees were approaching cautiously, alarmed at his agitation. He gestured for them to stay back and told Lestrade and John, "It's Moriarty. Sherlock may have escaped on his own, but Moriarty has him now."
"What?" John paled. "How do you know?"
Moriarty's reply arrived.
Don't be dramatic. At least, not until we meet again. Later! JM
It had finally happened: the one thing Mycroft truly feared. Sherlock had become a pawn in a power struggle between himself and a dangerous individual who would probably make him choose between his brother and national security.
He showed John and Lestrade the original text and its alarming attachment. John gasped, "Holy fucking hell" and Lestrade ordered gently, "Mycroft, please forward that to my phone. I'll get my best people on it."
"So will I, Gregory."
Mycroft forwarded the message, and then sent a new one, to Genna.
Moriarty has SH. Forwarding details to you. Analyze thoroughly. He paused, and then added more. Leverage will be necessary. Locate home address of hospital employee Molly Hooper, pathology department. Detain until further notice.
He hated himself right now. Molly was guilty of nothing more than being young and naive and important somehow to Moriarty. But that latter attribute drew her into the web now.
Yes, sir, Genna responded seconds later. Will we have to neutralize this Molly Hooper?
Refusing to look at Lestrade, Mycroft replied.
It may be necessary. Yes.