Genre: Drama, angst, friendship
Timeset and spoilers: Post-Reichenbach, post-hiatus
Warnings: Spoilers, mentions of drugs, swearing, angst, some violence
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Telling Encounters
"Be thine own palace, or the world's thy jail." / John Donne
Prison cells provide no stimuli for any mind, much less one as agile as Sherlock´s. The detective is only too conscious of this fact, as he is of the fact that his perception is warped by his ghastly memories. The cool, concrete floor reminds him of the disused quarry he was held captive in, as does the cool air the detention area breathes. As a result, he feels increasingly fidgety and nervous.
He remembers several incidents when he was arrested for possession and waited for Mycroft to bail him out of prison. Each time, he was desperate to escape confinement. Sometimes, he was simply bored with the procedure. In one or two instances, he actually worried whether his brother´s loyalty and patience with him would stretch any farther.
This morning is by far the worst period of time he has ever spent in prison. Too agitated to rest, he has paced the small room for the past two hours. Fed up with counting his steps and turns out of sheer boredom, he finally slumps on the small bed, his head touching the wall, eyes closed. At least nobody will come in to punch and torture him, he reminds himself bitterly. His body seems to be not too convinced about what his mind is telling him. Shivers run through his limbs, and he tries to steady his hands. On top of that, the old, familiar itch tickles his epidermis in accompaniment with the ferocious cacophony of thoughts and images that threaten to rip his mind apart. As much as he feels relieved he didn´t touch the batch of cocaine, he longs for the escape the substance would have granted him, had he used.
It doesn´t make things better that he´s not allowed to smoke, and though he tries very hard to collect his thoughts and enter his mind palace, he can´t concentrate. He is wasting his time, wailing about his fate. Useless, that is what he has become. Useless as he ever was. To think otherwise is hubris.
He must finally have dozed off, for he is startled by the door opening. On hearing a familiar voice, he opens his eyes to meet the honest gaze of detective inspector Lestrade.
"Hi mate," Greg greets him softly. "Made a mess of your life again, getting caught red-handed?"
Sherlock attempts to push himself up straighter, which proves to be difficult with his hurting shoulder. He feels weary and cold. To hide his weakness, he meets Lestrade with his most intimidating stare. "Why are you here?" he asks.
The DI draws nearer and crouches down for a thorough examination of his consultant. Aware of Sherlock´s evasion tactic, he places a reassuring hand on the detective´s good, right shoulder. "John called me. He told me you could use a blanket. And these." He pulls one of the hateful orange shock blankets from his jacket, and retrieves a package of pills from a pocket.
Sherlock wrinkles his nose in disgust. "No, thank you. I´m done with soothing medication."
But Greg pushes the package into his hand, not unfriendly. "Don´t be stupid, it´s only painkillers," he chides. Sherlock opens the box, and a small strip of paper falls out. The detective unfurls it and stares at John´s handwriting. "Take one, you git. Doctor´s orders," the note says.
Lestrades watches with a smile as Sherlock follows John´s instruction. After a minute of silence, the detective stretches his left arm gingerly, eyeing the detective inspector with furrowed brows. "There´s one more reason for your visit. An unexpected death. A murder perhaps."
Lestrade´s smile fades and he nods.
"We found a body on the Heath, not far from Milverton´s manor. Since you have been spotted near the place recently, I thought it might be helpful if you accompanied me to the morgue."
Sherlock´s piercing blue eyes meets Lestrade´s. "As a suspect?" he asks, but Lestrade shakes his head.
"No. As my unofficial consultant disguised as a suspect."
For the first time since the DI entered the cell, Sherlock smiles. "Very well. I can´t possibly decline your offer, can I?"
"No, you can´t, since it is an order," Lestrade replies. "Ready when you are."
"John?" Mary´s voice reaches him from far away. John snaps out of his musings. He looks at the woman he loves and notices the wrinkles on her forehead, the concern in her eyes. Obviously, she has called him more than once.
"You haven´t said a word since you came in," Mary says. "What happened?"
John looks at her, a lost expression on his face. "Sherlock happened," he says. "He got himself arrested."
"What for?" Mary asks. Her eyes widen as she realises. "Possession?"
"Unfortunately, yes," John replies unhappily.
Mary sits down on the armrest next to him, and pushes a hand through his hair. "He will not react well to being confined, the state he´s in," she says. John nods. Her expression grows serious. "Did he… did he use?" she asks with a small voice, and John, sensing her fear that she might have failed in her task, takes her hand in his and shakes his head.
"No. Fortunately not." Hesitating, he avoids her eyes and looks out of the window. The pale April sun sends its rays into the basement flat. Golden flecks of dust are dancing in the air, and John remembers how he stared at a similar sight for weeks, mesmerised by the never-ceasing movement, pondering how alive the dust looked to him and how numb he felt in comparison.
He leans towards Mary and kisses her lightly on the temple. "Don´t worry. You are very good for him. But he has rarely ever let anything detract him from his plans." John sighs. "I´m worried he overestimates himself this time." He pauses. "I couldn´t bear losing him a second time, Mary. I was angry that he had come back, because I felt I would live better without his presence in my life. Without this constant … fear that he would be reckless enough to get hurt or killed. Yesterday, when he crashed after the shot… when I thought for a second I might lose him again…" John´s voice falters.
Mary cups his face with her hands. "I know. He hurt you. And it still hurts. But he won´t leave you again like that, John. He´s hurting, too. " She runs her thumbs over John´s cheeks. "Help him. Be his friend again. He needs you."
John smiles and grasps Mary´s wrists, bringing their heads closer together. "That´s what Mycroft told me, too." he says."I didn´t want to listen to him then."
Mary sends him an affectionate smile. "But you do listen to me."
"That is because you are the most wonderful woman I ever met," John replies, serious. "I need you, Mary. Please, stay in my life."
Mary laughs softly. "I have no intention of leaving any time soon," she says, and John smiles and kisses her.
Molly turns as the two men enter the morgue. Sherlock looks paler and more exhausted than she has ever seen him, but he still bears this angelic grace she had fallen for years ago, and which she still adores. It is not unusual for Lestrade to accompany the detective, but Molly detects a certain amount of concern in the DI´s glances towards his consultant. Sherlock seems withdrawn and nervous as he approaches the slab with the nameless body, but as soon as he starts his examination, the determined and attentive detective is back again.
Sherlock is thorough as always, picking up the hands of the dead man, pushing his sparse hair aside, giving his feet a closer look. It takes him only a few minutes to finish, and when he looks up, he wears his familiar expression of intense concentration.
"Male, about 30 years old, the Russian letters tattooed into his skin indication of an East European background. Callused index finger, distinctive biceps – he´s a skilled shot, and well-trained. He has been wounded severely recently, most probably from a shot. The scar on his left leg indicates he´s been hit by a bullet. Heavy drinker, occasional drug user. Unemployed – when employed, not in a legal trade. Shot in the head, most likely executed. I would assume he belongs to the web, probably assigned to Milverton."
Sherlock bends down, taking one of the dead man´s hands up again and sniffs. "He has been preparing a meal recently, there´s the smell of garlic on his fingers." The detective straightens up. "Milverton has both a butler and a cook. I don´t think he will report the man´s absence, though, since both are here in Britain illegally."
Sherlock looks at Lestrade, who has crossed his arms on his chest, deep in thought.
"Why did he get shot?" the DI asks.
"Disobedience? Failure? There are multiple possibilities. If he were shot in self-defence, he most certainly wouldn´t have been hit in the forehead." Sherlock hesitates and Lestrade senses that he might know more than he´s letting on.
Suspicious, he draws a step nearer towards his consultant. "John´s a pretty good shot," he says quietly, but Sherlock shakes his head.
"John would only kill if threatened. He would definitely not act out an execution on an opponent."
"That´s what I would say," Greg agrees. "But this man has been shot with John´s Browning. Did John report his weapon missing recently?"
Sherlock looks down on the body, avoiding Lestrade´s eyes. Greg, again sensing something is wrong, gazes back, his brows knitted.
"We both know this gun doesn´t exist officially. So how does it turn up on the Heath in the middle of last night?"
Sherlock turns, his face blank. "It wasn´t John. Check it for fingerprints and the time of death," he dismisses Lestrade´s question.
The DI, who knows exactly when his consultant is evading him, sighs. "Sherlock, where the hell were the two of you yesterday? John told me you cracked your clavicle – I don´t believe you just tripped on the stairs."
Sherlock straightens to look down on the Inspector, his face blank. "Oh, but I did. Still recuperating, you know," he replies.
Lestrade is far from being convinced. But pushing the subject further now will not get him anywhere, since Sherlock has clearly decided to avoid the topic. Greg shrugs. Later, then.
Lightly, he answers: "If you say so. You know, you still owe me. Remember the access to Heathersand´s file? Plus I can always call John in for questioning. His fingerprints are on the weapon, after all." Sherlock sends him an infuriated stare, but Greg doesn´t wince. "Or the two of us can have a pleasant chat after McLennan dealt with you, and I´ll see that the door to your cell will be guarded by one of my men, instead of being locked."
The detective´s eyes are narrowing, and he wrinkles his nose. He fidgets as if to say something, but finally gives in to defeat and nods. Lestrade smiles back, and they both turn to leave the morgue.
In the corridor, they meet Molly. Sherlock jumps slightly and attempts to brush past her, but she stalls him with an outstretched hand.
Lestrade watches as the detective cards the fingers of his right hand through his dark curls. Sherlock radiates uneasiness – for the first time Lestrade has seen him with Molly, actually.
"Inspector?" Greg is startled by Sherlock´s tentative voice. He looks back expectantly. "Would you mind to wait for me outside? I need to discuss something with Dr. Hooper."
"Right. As long as you promise me not to run," Greg answers.
"Promised. Only a few minutes, then I´ll accompany you back to the yard."
Lestrade smiles. "You know I´ve always trusted your word," he says and walks away.
"Sherlock? What was that about the Yard?" Molly asks as soon as Lestrade is out of earshot.
He ruffles his hair again. "Oh, I´m officially under arrest," he answers lightly, and Molly opens her mouth in astonishment.
Sherlock starts to feel increasingly uneasy. He was thinking of explaining his rude behaviour the last time they met, but suddenly he doesn´t know where to start. John would know. But he has had no opportunity yet to tell John what happened when he stayed at Molly´s flat, injured and sick. At a loss for the right words, he opens his mouth, but Molly is faster.
"Sherlock. I was so… I was angry with you. The things you said before you left… When Mycroft called, you know – it suddenly was all right. You´ve been through such a difficult time, and your addiction…"
Sherlock stares back at her, still frightened of, by saying something dull saying something stupid or hurting, and Molly looks at him, biting her lip.
"Look, Mycroft told me." She draws a breath. "We kept in contact after you had left for the continent. He called me when you were in rehab to tell me that you are alive. He mentioned your abduction. And your disguise." She smiles at the Sherlock´s obvious puzzlement. "I remembered you telling me that there is nothing more deceptive than an obvious fact."
"Molly," Sherlock replies hoarsely, "you helped me, and I insulted your competence as a doctor." His voice trails off, and Molly notices how he clutches his left elbow with his right hand. "I apologize."
She shakes her head, a strand of hair falling into her face. "You don´t need to," she says softly. "You didn´t want to leave me without a hint of what you were really doing. And you didn´t want to place me in danger. You are a very brave man, Sherlock Holmes." She nods at his arm. "It´s that bad, hum?"
He looks at her, and there is so much raw honesty in his gaze that Molly flinches. It´s an expression she has never seen before with Sherlock. A vulnerable, frightened man has replaced the aloof, ever-so-clever genius who could reduce her to nervous twitches and babbling.
"It´s good John´s there to help you," she says, and watches a spark of hurt flicker in his eyes. "You know, I´ll be there if you need me," Molly continues, nervously playing with the strand of hair, "You know that, do you?"
"I know. Thank you, Molly Hooper," he answers. "I have to go."
Molly fidgets. "Well, good luck." She watches his retreating back until he has passed the door to the outer world, his dark coat billowing behind him like a raven´s wing.
Molly sighs, hands tucked into the pockets of her white lab coat, and returns to the dead.
"Well, Sebastian, last night wouldn´t list among your most heroic deeds." Charles Milverton faces his guest, a glass of brandy in his hand. The room is nearly dark, the fire drawing changing patterns on his most expensive Persian carpet and on the faces of the two men.
"I am not a hero anyway," Sebastian Moran shoots back. He is still angry at himself. He should have considered the possibility that the sleuth and his companion were wearing bulletproof jackets. Dr. Watson would be out of his way by now, and the detective livid with rage and nicely unpredictable. What a glorious hunt this could have been. Instead, he is still faced with the threat the Holmes-Watson trio poses to the organisation. True, he hit the detective, but the shot couldn´t have left much damage, considering how well Watson was protected from his bullet. And neither an injury nor a state of mental instability seems to stop the younger Holmes from counteracting him. The glare of pure hatred the detective gave him during their short conversation was proof enough.
Good. He would be bored out of his skull hunting his victim without a challenge anyway. He takes a sip from his whisky. The Lagavulin´s smoky taste matches his gloomy thoughts perfectly.
"You owe me, Sebastian," Milverton continues. "I hope you do have a worthy replacement for Sergej. I planned a dinner for Sunday."
Moran smiles. "Plenty of good cooks out there. Some of them even talented as security guards, too." His expression grows serious. "You haven´t yet told me which documents are missing."
Milverton leans back, his brows knitted. "This is the problem. Those on Mycroft Holmes, of course. My informant might be in danger."
Sebastian takes another sip and displays a wolfish grin. "You have always been too organized, Charles. Spontaneity is an underrated virtue, but in our business, it is a must."
"Or a most dangerous talent. You tend to act on the spur of the moment – we are certainly not safer because of yesterday night," Milverton replies in a silken tone.
Moran leans his elbows on his knees and stares into the fire. "Oh, we might not be safe, but we are at an advantage, dearest Charles. Consider one missing Browning and the confusion its reappearance triggers. We have more than enough time to forge a new plan." He looks at the older man, who in turn examines his manicured fingernails and twirls the huge gold ring he wears on his left index finger.
"Of course your plans are always flawless," Milverton says, using the same silken voice. "As Holmes´s plans appear to be as well. I wonder who will win this little contest in the end."
Moran straightens and puts his glass down. "You are hardly ever able to ever criticise me, Charles," he replies in his most charming tone. "I wouldn´t look at it as a contest, though – I´d prefer to call it a game. Jim and Holmes did, too." He sets down his glass. "It actually feels like chess to me. And it is high time to break the bishop´s legs."
Milverton´s deep-sunken eyes are glistening, and he lays a hand with meaty fingers on Sebastian´s arm. "I´d be intrigued to learn more. Please fill me in."