Chapter 21: Hints & Illusions
Marie is doing her very best to feign interest in the rather relaxed game at hand. So far she has been lucky as the group at her table seems more intent on bullshitting each other than noticing where her eyes have wandered. Besides herself, there are three men and two women at the table and only one of the men has given her a second look at all; the others are too caught up in the cards. There are no beverages or snacks at hand, nothing to fiddle with. The strangers talk amongst themselves, not giving away much but enough that Marie can tell this gathering is a semi-regular deal. A slight shiver of excitement runs through the room.
Experience has taught her that she has an impeccable poker face, yet she is choosing to let the majority of the game slide by so she is losing by a landslide. At this point, most of her concentration is on the two hooded figures at what seems to be the front of the room. She is thankful for the dull roar of noise steadily growing louder because it keeps her from being able to talk much with her tablemates, other than what she needs to say to place a bet and keep the cards in play.
Marie discretely watches the head table as the man across from her grins lewdly as he rakes in a pile of poker chips; she fights the urge to slug him right in the nasty teeth. She hides her irritation behind a crooked, flirty smile and lets her eyes fall back to the four cards that are now lying face up in front of her; interestingly enough, she has all four Jacks. For a moment she allows the game to hold her interest and gives mister Nasty Teeth an even frostier smirk as she flips over the Ace of Spades; incidentally, it turns out to be the highest hand that round.
"Nice hand, miss?" Nasty Teeth asks.
Marie grins, completely ignoring that he is asking for her name and says, "Thanks." No reason to be impolite, really.
When Marie finally gets a chance to look up from the game again, the larger of the hooded men is in the process of coming around and Marie fights herself to stay where she is. No one else in the room seems to notice what is happening; if she is being truthful with herself, it seems as if the crowd is studiously ignoring the table at the front of the room.
After shaking his head from side to side slowly, he pulls the hood off with one hand and grips the table with the other to stabilize himself. She notes that he is blinking as his eyes focus on the chaos around him and she can clearly see the questions in his mind in his expression.
Has he been hit over the head or drugged? Marie has only seen Douglas Richardson in passing; though she recognizes him now thanks to Mycroft's intense (some would say nosy) background check on the man after his youngest brother left Baker Street arm in arm with him.
Marie can hardly believe the short amount of time that has passed since she picked up the little ginger captain at the airport and where they are all now. That thought gets tossed right out because there is too much that is unknown happening here and she does not want to get bogged down in the details and give herself away; at least not yet.
At least, she is fairly certain that they are all here. Mycroft only told his operatives that he is personally investigating the disappearances of his family—he never actually said this is where they are. For all their sakes, Marie hopes her hunch is right. In seeing Douglas, who is now helping take the black hood off of a similarly bleary-looking John Watson, it appears that her instincts are right on the money.
"You still playin', miss?" The woman who has been playing dealer asks a bit louder than necessary. Marie shifts back against her chair, feeling for the body-warmed heat of her little gun against her spine where she tucked it before entering the room, hiding the motion behind scratching a fake itch.
Marie tears her eyes from Douglas and John, knowing that if John does see her, she can trust him to hold his peace. She gives the woman an embarrassed kind of grin, pretends to be caught out. "Yeah, I'm still playing."
The woman passes out a fresh hand, still giving Marie the once over. "Nice looking bloke up there, eh?" She asks.
"Can't say I disagree." Marie answers quietly without specifying which one she means and wondering if she could just hold her gun for a while; it is small enough to fit in her palm.
"Bit of a celebrity around these parts is the short one." The dealer tidies up the rest of the stack. Their table has gone quiet, everyone hanging on her words. Marie stops worrying about her weapon for a few seconds.
"Can't say for sure, but apparently tonight's entertainment is going to be better than the usual fare." A horse-faced woman at the next table leans towards them and stage-whispers dramatically.
"Indeed." Mutters Nasty Teeth.
Marie waits for them to say anything more on the topic but her luck runs out. Nasty Teeth takes another hand just as the lights in the room begin to dim.
o0o
The sight that greets Douglas as he removes the black hood baffles him. He remembers Renee stepping close and putting her hand on his arm and then nothing. How in the world did he manage to get into this crowd unaware? Douglas blinks a few times against the harsh light and drops the hood to the floor. He rubs his eyes with the heels of his hands. A soft sound beside him draws his attention to the shorter man next to him who has also been similarly turned out. Douglas's fingers make short work of the remaining tie and he pulls it away from John's head.
"Fancy meeting you here." He drawls softly as John's blue eyes focus on his face.
"Huh. Think I could say the same." John rubs his forehead where he and the guard connected so harshly some time ago. "What's going on?"
"I honestly have no idea. Can you move?" Douglas asks.
John winces when he rolls his shoulders and mentally performs a swift once-over. Sore, but it does not seem anything is broken or in need of immediate attention. "I'm alright, you?"
"Maybe we can get to the exit?" Douglas nods in the direction of the huge doors where an elderly man stands clad in a tuxedo. The white tuft of hair on top of his head is humorously out of place with his stiff stance and severe expression.
John looks over his shoulder, takes note of the old man and as he is turning back to Douglas, notices another familiar face. Marie allows their eyes to lock for a split second before moving hers away. "Mycroft is here." He states under his breath.
Douglas starts to answer but before he does, a pair of Renee's burly toadies step up beside them, one on either side. John says nothing but between the two of them there is an agreement to find the others as soon as possible. Or at least, that's what Douglas takes from John's wordless chin tilt. The lights around them begin to dim and the bubble of noise about the room suddenly silences.
John and Douglas find themselves staring at the floor ten feet in front of their table as what appears to be a giant platform begins to rise from the bowels of the house. Hydraulic lifts grind and a braking system squeals as what is now obviously a giant cage of the Victorian Zoo type settles against a now reformed floor with a bang.
Another old door opens beside the cage and Renee steps out into a spotlight that seems to have mysteriously appeared out of nowhere, resplendent in a form-fitting dress of mint green and teal swirls with a line of tiny roses embroidered from the neck to her hip. Her stilettos are glossy black and her red hair is swept up into a neat bun held in place with a long gold pin.
The crowd around them goes absolutely ape shit, clapping and even wolf whistling at the woman. She raises her arms to signal quiet; the white spot-light above her catches on the gold bracelets that adorn her wrist. From where he sits, Douglas can make out colored stones set in the gold. A sudden ridiculous thought occurs to him and he turns back to John.
"The colors, John." He whispers, unsure of himself for the first time in possibly ever.
"I see them." John has not taken his eyes from the iron cage where he can see the vague shape of a human being slumped on the bottom. The warring parts of himself, doctor and solider, are both ill-at-ease in equal measures.
Douglas swallows hard. This situation has just taken a left at bizarre and dropped down about thirteen thousand feet. He looks down at his clothes then over to John's and their eyes meet again. John nods.
"I do believe we are a fucking team." Douglas offers.
o0o
As the cage lumbers to the surface, Marie stands up to get a better view. The petite firearm under her shirt shifts and she remembers not to lean too far over the table on the off chance anyone in the room is actually looking at anything else.
"My God." She whispers, resting her palms against the table. Nasty Teeth leers at her and puts his fingers in his mouth to let loose a wolf whistle. Obviously he has been through this before. The woman in the wild swirly dress near the cage smiles broadly at everyone then raises her hands. Marie thinks there is something weirdly familiar about her but she does not dare stare too long.
Marie takes a chance to check out John and Douglas. Both men seem riveted to the spot. She will instinctively follow John's lead because at this point she has nothing else; she settles back into her seat, only partially noticing that several young well-dressed men have appeared out of nowhere to collect the cards and poker chips from the tables. This has got to be the weirdest situation she has ever been in: all exits completely blocked and it is entirely plausible that she is not the only one armed.
o0o
"Mycroft we have to get out of here." Sherlock states blandly as if it is a universal truth. He leans his head back against the cold wall, still slightly reeling and a bit shaky from the drug.
"Sherlock, I know this hard for you to believe," Mycroft sighs dramatically. "I really am not Superman."
Sherlock's silence points out very loudly that he not only has no idea who Superman is but that Mycroft could move mountains if he so desired.
"I cannot move mountains, Sherlock. Blow them up, yes, but move them, no." Mycroft has returned to his bunk and the rusty springs of the mattress squeak as he shifts about. Speaking aloud is necessary since they cannot see one another, as annoying as it is.
Sherlock runs out of time to make another ear-splitting silent remark because a loud bang suddenly echoes through the cell block. Above them a loud grinding noise begins that reminds Sherlock of the sound of the pulleys moving the mirror in the room he was locked up in earlier. He slowly pushes himself up the wall, turning his face towards the ceiling, his green eyes blazing as if he could burn a hole through it.
Mycroft whistles lightly under his breath. "Ah."
Sherlock frowns. "What do you know?" He asks between clenched teeth.
"I do not know anything." Mycroft says.
"Well as much as that is one for the ages, I am not a fool, Mycroft." Sherlock bites out.
"Glad you are feeling better, brother dear. You apologized to John, then?" Mycroft changes the subject as the door to the cell block opens to admit the other two bodyguards.
The big men cross to stand in front of the occupied cells. Sherlock eyes his escort, scanning him carefully and noting where the weapons are hidden about his person. He smiles when he comes to the big purple bruise on the man's forehead as he knows that particular wound well.
"On your feet." Orders the man in front of Mycroft's cell. The bed springs creak as Mycroft stands. Sherlock hears the distinct lack of a heel clicking against the cement floor; Mycroft is bare foot, too.
Bruised Forehead takes a keychain out of his pocket and passes it to his partner. Sherlock's eyes track it like a housecat following a laser pointer. Calculating how many seconds it is going to take to unlock both cells, Sherlock drops his head and shoulders, allowing his body to slump against the wall as if he is still fighting the effects of the drug. The first key turns in the lock and the keys are passed back to Bruised Forehead. Sherlock counts to three then takes two steps towards the door where he grabs the surprised guard by the shoulders and uses his forward momentum to apply John's head butt maneuver right to the guard's face. The guard crumples and Sherlock shakes his head. He is vaguely aware of a grunt of pain when Mycroft takes down the other one.
"God that hurt." When Sherlock opens his eyes it is to see his brother sitting atop the second guard's back with the man's arms pulled up behind him. Mycroft is twisting one of his wrists and the man's eyes are tearing up from the pain.
"Give me the knife." Mycroft says in a voice laced with frost. When the guard does not react, Mycroft tilts forward a little and grinds his knee into the man's kidney, which in turn forces the bigger man's groin against the very hard and very cold floor.
Sherlock starts to step forward but is stopped by the crocodile-on-the-hunt expression on his brother's face. He turns his face away as Mycroft dislocates the man's wrist and he howls with pain. "Right….right leg."
"Good, you are a good boy." Mycroft purrs, but does not move. Sherlock takes the hint and raises the guard's right trouser leg to find a slim dagger strapped to his calf; the detective makes quick work of the leather harness and hands the blade over to Mycroft.
Sherlock can and will use weapons when absolutely necessary, though he prefers to fight hand to hand.
Mycroft acknowledges this with a nod. "Go out the door and wait for me." He uses the blade to point towards the door. Sherlock will delete the sensory memory of the gasp from the floor as Mycroft uses the knife on some soft part of the guard. Probably enough to hurt him badly but not enough to kill, he thinks. He will not ask.
In seconds, Mycroft is beside him, the dagger completely hidden away from prying eyes. Without speaking, they follow the tunnel as it rises slowly towards the muffled sound of a cheering crowd.