Chapter Twenty
The Fox had met Irene's 'asset' later that day and they had taken off in a supply aircraft. Obviously, Irene had secured this man as a potential escape plan in case of emergencies.
She was always such a sly and elusive woman.
"We will land in England by afternoon!" the pilot shouted back from his seat in garbled French.
The Fox gave him a thumbs-up to signify he heard. He doubted his shouts would be heard over the noise of engines.
"Uh-oh..." the pilot grunted, eyes suddenly sharpening as they lurched in the air.
The Fox leaned toward him. "What is it?" he asked the man in French.
"We've got company."
The Fox only had time to glance out of one of the cockpit windows before their whole side was peppered with sparks. The Fox was thrown by the force of it and everything went black.
It was a sunny day in London and the light set Sherlock's hospital room aglow. John was sitting by his bedside as usual, and Molly came in with a cup of coffee.
"Oh, thanks." John smiled at her.
Molly returned it and stood, hands fluttering nervously. "How-... how is he doing?" she asked.
"Um, I don't know." John shrugged. "Hasn't changed."
Molly's face fell and John instantly felt bad. "Oh, I see..." And she turned to leave.
"... Wrong." A hoarse, almost inaudible whisper sounded.
Both John and Molly froze, then swiveled to stare at Sherlock.
The cryptologyst's eyes were cracked open and a small wry smile graced his face.
"Christ, Sherlock!" John exclaimed, grinning broadly. "You're awake!"
"Astute observation." Sherlock replied, clearing his throat. "Your powers of deduction have only heightened in my absence." he remarked sarcastically.
"Git." John snorted.
"Idiot." Sherlock shot back.
They both smiled.
"I had an interesting experience while I was unconscious." Sherlock mentioned casually as Molly moved around, getting him water and checking his vitals. "I had a vague feeling you were talking to me... you seemed to have a lot on your mind."
John froze, reddened, and lamely made an 'I meant for you to hear all that', expression.
Sherlock broke off into chuckles. "It was-... That was-..." He searched mentally for an appropriate word. "... Good."
John snorted. "Well I'm just glad nobody else heard that." he said dryly. "People might talk."
"They do little else." Sherlock replied, watching Molly leave the room.
Their eyes met and they both smiled again.
The Fox regained consciousness, curled up in a loose ball in the back of the French man's plane, blood warm and gooey on his forehead. He had no idea how long he had been unconscious.
"We're going down!" He vaguely heard the pilot screaming frantically in French. "We're going down!"
Flames licked the right wing and filled the plane with black smoke. The Fox felt the aircraft lean toward the side and lose height.
His heart nearly stopped right then and there.
The Germans had got him good this time. They were going to crash somewhere in German occupied France and die, or maybe the Germans would arrest them, and the Germans would then kill him dead.
No second chances.
"Do you think he'll make it, Sir?" Anthea asked uneasily as she and Mycroft stood on the airstrip waiting for the French plane Irene Adler had told them was coming.
"He'll make it." Mycroft said slowly, eyes trained on the skies. "He will."
The Fox lay flat on the hard floor of the plane, choking on smoke and fumes, his eyes watered.
"We're going down!" The Frenchman shouted.
The Fox fought to crawl to the front of the plane. "Where are we?" he called over the noise.
It was no use, he realized when he saw the Frenchman's wide, terrified eyes. His cheeks were soaked with tears. The man couldn't hear him through his panic. "We're going down! They've got us!" he moaned, French tumbling over itself off his tongue. "We're going to die."
The Fox squinted to see out of the windows, but he only saw smoke.
The plane suddenly took a downward turn and the Fox secured himself, holding on for dear life.
There was a massive impact as the airplane bounced on the ground twice and skidded with a scream of protesting metal. The fire reached for him, blown downwind and immediately scorched the air.
When they finally stopped, the Fox weakly dragged himself to the pilot only to realize that the man had died on impact.
He heard voices outside. Unintelligible words being shouted. The Fox realized that he must either be in shock, or his hearing must've been damaged.
He fought his way out of his metal cage and rolled inelegantly to the ground, sucking in sweet, fresh air.
German boots drifted into his vision and his heart sank.
"German! I am German! Don't shoot!" The Fox suddenly began garbling desperately in German, hands raised.
Mycroft exchanged looks of confusion with Anthea.
Then, both looked down at the boots Mycroft wore. The boots Anthea had given him to infiltrate German occupied France with. A German make.
"Don't shoot!" The Fox called out again, dropping weakly to his knees and putting his hands on his head.
Mycroft's heart nearly broke at the look of absolute anguish in the Fox's face when he realized that he must think they had landed somewhere in enemy territory.
The British spymaster immediately pulled his boots off and tossed them aside. "Fuchs!" he called out. "Fuchs, this is England! You are safe!"
The Fox froze, and slowly looked up. Mycroft gasped at the blood on the man's head.
"M-Mycroft...?" The Fox asked weakly.
"Yes, you are safe now." Mycroft assured him, grabbing the exhausted man under his armpits and lifting him to his feet.
"Safe..." The Fox blinked hard and wobbled, slowly looking around. His eyes scrolled over Anthea as if not seeing her but stopped and focused on Mycroft's face. "I'm in England." he realized slowly, awed.
"You made it." Mycroft smiled at him.
The Fox launched forward and suddenly, he was being kissed, a hard, messy pressure of two mouths mashed together. The Fox pulled back and let out an elated laugh, turned, and promptly snogged Anthea as well.
The man was high on adrenaline, glad to be alive. Mycroft smoothed down his coat and tried not to think too much into that kiss.
The Fox finally stepped away and leaned weakly on the side of the plane laughing and sobbing in equal measures, trembling like a leaf. Mycroft smiled softly. The man deserved a well earned rest and then some through all that had happened.
"Come on." he said with a small smile as he slung one of the Fox's arms over his shoulders and hauled him up. "Let's get that head of yours looked at."
Anthea smiled with relief at seeing the two reunited and busied herself with organizing the damage control done by the plane.
Mycroft and the Fox only made it a few yards out of Anthea's way before they slowed down, the Fox's eyelids drooping, his body relaxing with exhaustion. It seemed the energy had suddenly been sucked out of the double agent.
"I thought I'd never see you again." the Fox said quietly against Mycroft's shoulder where his head had lolled.
Mycroft pressed his lips together hard. "Nor I you."
"I was sitting on that U-boat, waiting for the Germans to pick us up and thinking 'Oh sod it all! Now I'll never see that charmingly superior look on Mycroft Holmes's face ever again!' It was a damn lonely thought... that I knew I was about to die and all I wanted to see was the face of the MI6 agent who captured me." the Fox tsk'ed to himself.
Mycroft looked affronted. "When have I ever looked at you in a superior manner?"
"The first moment you saw me order beer at a posh party." the Fox quipped.
"Alright, I did." Mycroft conceded.
"You bastard."
"You friendless soul." Mycroft snorted. "I'm honoured to be the last thing you might've thought about."
"Oh, then let's not mention the time I thought about your startled face when I asked if you were 'coming my way?' on the drive back to la Bretonniere. Or just now when I thought of you snapping me in cuffs in your bedroom, when we crash landed that plane because God, it would've been a good memory to die with!" the Fox joked.
Mycroft burst out laughing, blushing.
"Mycroft Holmes..." the Fox shook his head in amazement. "In all my pitiful life, I think you're the best thing that's ever happened to me."
"And you in mine, Gregory Lestrade, you in mine." Mycroft smiled softly.
The Fox froze, staring at him wide-eyed. "What did you say?" he whispered breathlessly.
For a moment, Mycroft dreaded that he had said something inappropriate. "That you are the best thing that's happened in my life."
"No-... no, not that."
Mycroft blinked and inclined his head. "Gregory Lestrade?"
A slow, incredulous smile inched it's way across the Fox's face and suddenly the man began crying.
Now Mycroft knew he had said something wrong. "I-I'm sorry if I've-... I know I must have-..."
The Fox launched himself at him a second time now, flinging his jelly arms around Mycroft's neck in a tight hug, burying his face in the spymaster's neck. "Shut up... just shut up." he whispered hoarsely in between hiccups. "You had me at 'Gregory Lestrade'."
It took Mycroft a moment to remember that Lestrade had been held prisoner in Romainville for three years, dehumanized, having his identity beaten out of him, and had worked for the Germans under the sole name of 'der Fuchs' for many years after that.
He realized with horror why Lestrade had not simply given his name to Mycroft in Camp 020 during his interrogation when he said 'he wasn't that man'.
He lived so long as 'der Fuchs', a saboteur, traitor, and assassin. He must not have been called 'Gregory Lestrade' for many, many years.
Mycroft slowly hugged the sobbing man back, wrapping one arm around the small of his back, the other threading through his short silver hair. "Gregory Lestrade." he repeated slowly. "Gregory." was whispered against Lestrade's temple as Mycroft pressed a chaste kiss there. "My Gregory."
"I really fucking love you, you know that, Mycroft?" Lestrade said hoarsely into Mycroft's shoulder, slightly muffled.
"I hope I do." Mycroft chuckled, thinking back on every emotion he had felt during his brief acquaintance with the man. The emotions this brilliant man incited in him to feel in ways he had never felt before. "You have taught me the meaning of it." Lestrade let out a slightly hysterical giggle. "I love you, Gregory Lestrade."
Lestrade angled his head upward and they kissed again, for real this time. Soft, warm, mouths moving against each other wonderfully, and a playful little scrape of teeth on Mycroft's lower lip. The tease.
"My Silver Fox."
Their lips parted and Lestrade smiled, blinking sluggishly. "I love you." he said again. "God, you don't know how afraid I was that I'd die without telling you that." he breathed.
Then, his eyelids slipped shut and he promptly passed out.
Mycroft caught the limp man before he hit the ground and lowered him gently. "Gregory? Gregory!" He looked around. "Somebody get a medic! I need assistance here!"
Anthea got to them first, an ambulance a few minutes later.
Lestrade was handed gently from hand-to-hand, and into the back of an ambulance.
But he did not stir.