Devonshire Squire Chapter Twenty Nine
Oh, Lord. It's a committee. Mycroft had just pushed through the swing doors to see a knot of people down the corridor. What was amusing for a split second was that they seemed to be having a blazing argument, but in whispers. Then deduction kicked in, and he realised that the subject of the argument was most likely to be Sherlock. The good news was the fact that they were keeping their voices down meant his brother was actually in earshot rather than having pulled another disappearing act. The bad news was that if they were whispering, it probably meant that Sherlock was in the middle of a melt-down.
He sighed.
His presence was spotted by Lestrade, one of the seven people in the knot. Mycroft discounted the two paramedics, and his own agent. That left the DI, John and Mary, and an unknown gentleman, in his early to mid-sixties, short greying hair and more than a whiff of retired military about him. Ah- the mysterious Mister Hayter, the Reigate Squire. The surveillance team had briefed him on Watson's movements and the identity of the man he and Mary had gone to see.
Facing away from Mycroft, John was arguing at stage whisper volume with the paramedics. "There is no way to get in there to use a sedative. He's armed and hostile. How many times do I have to tell you? The crew before you just took away a person he nearly killed with his bare hands." He pointed at Lewis; "And this man can tell you about what he's like when he's got a knife."
Mary backed him up, "he's on drugs already- but we have no confirmation of what. So drugging him with something more is not an option." Her whisper was equally emphatic.
Lestrade poked John in the side, and then nodded his head down the corridor. The doctor turned and saw Mycroft, as did the rest of the group.
Having digested the information that he'd just overheard by the time he reached them, Mycroft kept his face in civil service placid mode, "So, what's he done this time?" He put just a touch of boredom in the tone. He didn't bother to lower the volume. If Sherlock was in his right mind, he'd have figured out who he was from his tread down the hall. If not, then keeping quiet wasn't going to help.
"About bloody time, Mycroft." John answered him at something half way between a whisper and a normal volume. "What's taken you so long?"
Mycroft looked pointedly at Ashley Lewis. "Perhaps a breakdown in communications." He spotted the torn cuff and the gauze bandage peeping out of the jacket sleeve. "It was growing tedious, waiting for someone to keep me apprised of the current situation."
John seemed angry –at what or why was unclear, but his tone of voice was tense as he snapped "the situation? I'll tell you what the situation is. Sherlock is in there." The doctor stabbed his thumb toward the doorway behind him. "And he is badly injured, delirious with fever, off his head on drugs and having a flashback of some sort, which means he won't let anyone near him. Oh, and he nearly killed Alec Cunningham."
Mycroft raised an eyebrow, "The murderer of William Kirwan?"
John stared for a moment and then rolled his eyes, as Lestrade butted in, "You already knew about Cunningham? Why didn't you tell us?"
"Because Sherlock was working on the case. If anything was going to bring him out of his bolt hole, this was it." He gave the Detective Inspector his surely-even-you-could-have-worked-this-out look.
Lestrade just shook his head in amazement. "So, you let Cunningham stay out there, even though you knew he was a murderer? Christ almighty- he nearly killed someone else tonight!"
"I am pleased to hear that qualifying word nearly; does that mean the occupant of the first ambulance was the key to the plot?"
Perhaps he was overdoing the mild mannered sarcasm because John suddenly took two steps closer to Mycroft, intruding on his personal space. Lewis suddenly focused his attention on the doctor's belligerent body language, as John let loose.
"So, you knew about the oil tanker scam? Was that before or after Sherlock decided to join the Fight Club and get himself injured? Just how much have you let him suffer to solve a case that didn't even need solving?"
Mycroft let his eyebrow rise at the presumption in that question. "Really, Doctor Watson; you exaggerate. I had suspicions; that's all. Without evidence, there was little point in proceeding. Sherlock is very good at sniffing out the evidence. It's what he does. And what he enjoys doing, or at least he used to. He's had little enough else to take pleasure in at the moment." It was a rather pointed remark with a sub-text that he hope the doctor would understand and react with the predicted response.
He got it when John started to flex his left hand into a fist and then released it. The chin came up and the eyes narrowed.
Good. You need to want to feel protective, if Sherlock is going to get through this. But before he could take the next step in his plan, there was a baritone snarl from the room behind the welcoming committee. The words were indistinct, but Mycroft could hear the tonal cadence, the swoops and climbs of a language where the consonants were being uttered with the tongue pressed to the roof of a certain mouth.
"So, he's still marooned in China then."
He chose this moment to look over Watson's shoulder at Mary Morstan. An exchange of knowing looks ensued. He knew from her reaction to Sherlock's voice that she had understood the language his brother was speaking. And that spoke volumes about the past she didn't want him to probe too deeply. Mycroft knew that she was already emotionally invested in making sure that her fiancé mended his fences with Sherlock. And he had ensured that she was incentivised in other ways, too. He doubted that the pair would be willing to let Sherlock stay aloof in the future, which was exactly what he had hoped for as an outcome. Sherlock would not accept his help, but he might from John and Mary. For now, that would be enough to keep his curiosity at bay about how she acquired her linguistic skills. If she failed to keep them a threesome, then he might re-consider.
For now, he needed to focus on the harder part- getting Sherlock to stop being so ridiculous about everything. Mycroft started to move toward the open door. And then was stopped by the presence of a hand on his arm.
"Sir, you can't go in there."
Mycroft looked down at the hand holding his arm, and said very quietly, "That is a career-limiting move, Mister Lewis. Unhand me immediately."
The hand was snatched away, but the dark-skinned agent repeated in a stage whisper, "You can't go in there. He's armed with a knife and dangerous to everyone- even Watson can't get near him."
Mycroft skewered him with a look.
Lewis went a little paler, but stuck to his guns. "Sir; I'm required to protect you and that means not letting you go in there." Again, he kept his voice very quiet.
Sherlock broke the deadlock, by shouting.
"为什么你窃窃私语*?"
Mycroft looked back at the others. "Since none of you appears to speak Chinese, you will just have to leave this to me. I can't stop you from listening, but do not interfere, any of you." It was a command reinforced by a glance that swept the group like raking gunfire. He took off his coat and suit jacket, handing them to Ashley Lewis, and then walked alone into the darkened room, stopping a few steps in front of a treatment bed tipped over on its side. He refused to descend to the depths of the horrid northern accent that Sherlock was using, so reverted to classic Mandarin:
"因为他们是白痴. 你不是白痴**"
His eyes started to adjust to the darkness and confirmed what his nose was already telling him; Sherlock was filthy, his hoodie smeared in blood and he was sweating right through his clothes. He was breathing rapidly- possibly on the edge of a meltdown, but this was a bit more like the night terror.***The face that looked up at him from the corner was flushed, pupils blown wide and there wasn't a trace of recognition in his bloodshot eyes when he looked at Mycroft.
Undeterred, Mycroft continued, "你知道我是谁;只是演绎得当,兄弟我的." For good measure, and to help bring Sherlock come back from wherever he was in China, he translated his own words: "You know who I am. Just deduce it, brother mine."
Sherlock looked puzzled for a moment, then shook his head. "Get back into your room, Mycroft; leave me alone. You can't help me here."
"You think I am a figment of your imagination? A memory from your Mind Palace, perhaps?"
Sherlock just closed his eyes and whispered, "You're not real."
Mycroft took another step closer and then knelt down, so he was on the same level. "Use that brain of yours. I'm sure it's in there somewhere, if you haven't blasted it to bits with cocaine. Take a poke at me, if you must."
Sherlock started to chuckle, and brought up the knife. "Just might do that. For all I know, you're a guard and I'm making him into you."
"You can put the knife down. I'm real and this isn't the Far East, just the East End."
"Out of your comfort zone then?"
"Hmm. Just for you, Sherlock."
"Now I know you're not real." The smile died.
"Why?"
"Because you've never done anything just for me. Another sign that I'm losing my mind. It's called a bucket-list. Learned that while I was in America; my version is rehashing all the things that I always wished would have happened before I died, but never did."
"You're still alive, Sherlock."
"Am I? Even if you're right, then it's not going to be for long." He shifted and almost doubled over, a grimace of pain on his face. Instinctively, Mycroft reached out, over the barrier of the bed, towards Sherlock.
With a snarl, Sherlock sat bold upright again, raising a knife to ward off any further intrusion. "You can stop right there." He lifted the knife which glinted in the dim light. "My head is already killing me, so why not finish the job?" He looked at it and smiled. "Sweet release."
"No." Mycroft was appalled, yet again by his brother's willingness to consider ending his life. What did they do to you? If only he knew what had happened in China, then he might stand a chance of talking Sherlock around. "You can't."
Sherlock continued, suddenly sounding as lucid as if he were talking about the weather. "Now I know you're just a product of my demented mind. The real you wouldn't be sentimental, you'd say it's all for the best." He chuckled again, "For once, I agree, but not for the reasons you do. This way, John will be safe."
The eyes that were looking at him were not really seeing him. The voice was ragged, as if talking was painful, but it continued, "In your case, if the news gets back to London, then the real you will be able to tell Elizabeth that you told her so; you'll enjoy that. You've always liked being proved right about me, pity I won't be there to see your smug delight at proving yet again how useless I am."
"Sherlock, I don't think you're useless." During the two years' absence, Mycroft had realised that the role he had been forced to take- to be more than a brother, to be responsible for Sherlock's well-being-might have been at least part of the reason why Sherlock had felt driven to do the outrageous plan. Was it some grandiose gesture to prove to him that he was capable of being more than Mycroft thought he could be? Mycroft choked off that line of thought. No time for regrets; focus on the now or this is going to go horribly wrong.
He needed to bring Sherlock back to now. "You need to fast forward this little video, brother mine. China is behind you. You were right and I was wrong. You did it. You've come back to London like some conquering hero."
It was as if Sherlock was not hearing him at all, but simply talking to himself. "It's better if I stay here. Stop it all in China, and the world will go on. I've got most of the network now, and this lot…" He giggled, the thin wedge of hysteria creeping into it. "…well, that's the irony of it all. To be caught in the end by a bunch of two-penny hucksters who just want a ransom; they're nothing to do with Moriarty, but they win. Game over. No one will ransom a man who's already dead. It's a self-fulfilling prophecy." His breathing was becoming more ragged, almost coming out in little pants.
Mycroft watched as Sherlock started to shiver. He could see the panic and anxiety building up behind those eyes. If only he could get him to focus on the current case, then maybe he could break through. He snapped, "What is the Agrikoliades?"
Sherlock seemed startled by the question, but answered, "A ship... Owned by a Greek…assumed sunk, but not…renamed, repainted and sold, cargo and all. Probably Iranian oil…slipping past the embargo, too."
"And the torn piece of paper?"
"A handwritten note…to lure him and Morrison to their deaths. Written by both the Cunninghams."
"Why both?" That puzzled Mycroft.
Sherlock grunted, and shut his eyes for a moment, his left arm tight across his abdomen.
"Sherlock?"
"It was Alec's idea to make his father complicit, too. Every other word of that note was written by the old man, under duress…Alec needed protection so his father wouldn't turn him in. The scam…" He grimaced again in pain. "… worth a half billion pounds."
That figure shocked Mycroft, but before he could ask another question, Sherlock asked one of his own, "Why does this matter?"
"Because all of this happened after you left China. You got out of there months ago, though I have no idea how. Actually, on second thought, knowing what happened in Serbia, you probably talked your way out somehow. You came back and solved the underground bomb plot, saved Parliament on Guy Fawkes night. Don't you remember?"
Sherlock groaned. "Yes. No. I don't know. Go away, Mycroft. There's no point. I can't delete you; God knows I've tried. You keep popping up in my head like some crazed jack-in-the-box, blaming me for being stupid; it's all my own fault." He said these last two phrases in a sing-song, I-told-you-so kind of tone, before continuing, "I couldn't agree more. Just one thing you got wrong… You said alone protects me. Well, it doesn't. I didn't know that before… Now I do…too late." He drew a shaky breath. "Okay, here comes the part where you tell me I'm an idiot. You always do."
Mycroft restrained his automatic reflex to do just that, probably not helpful in the circumstances. "You're not alone, Sherlock. I'm here. John is here, too. Do you want me to get him for you?"
Sherlock's face crumpled. "Stop torturing me. John isn't here in my Mind Palace now… I had to delete him to protect him. Can't let anyone know about him, no matter what they do to me…can't come back to London, because if I do, they'll put him in that bonfire and I won't be able to save him because I don't know who did it... You see? I won't be able to protect him, because if I do come back, you'll lock me up again, claiming it's for my own good." He was panting very rapidly now. "You always do that. So, I won't be able to stop someone from killing him. Well, I won't leave this prison just to be put in another in London. It's all pointless… If I don't come back, John gets to be happy with Mary… So, I have to end it here in China."
There was a sigh from behind him, and Mycroft realised that John was now standing behind him. Before he could react and tell him to leave, the doctor intervened.
"No, Sherlock, you don't. This is now. You pulled me out of the bonfire. You did what you always do for me- you saved me. Now don't undo what you've done, please. Just listen to me." The doctor went down on his knees beside Mycroft and reached his hand out to hold the metal bar of the treatment bed.
Sherlock stiffened and pushed himself back towards the wall, his eyes shocked, as if he'd seen a ghost. He whispered, "You're not real."
"Yes I am. Think about it. You just said you deleted me from your Mind Palace. So, the only way I could be talking to you now is if it's for real. So, let me help you."
"Nooo. You can't be here; they'll see and kill you. Go away!"
"Nope. Not going anywhere. We're going to sort this out now, and you're going to let me help you."
Sherlock whispered, "No, if you won't go, then I have to."
Mycroft flinched, watching in horror as Sherlock brought the knife point up to the side of his neck. Beside him, John was already in motion, yanking the bed aside and launching himself at Sherlock. Mycroft tried to grab him; John's rash intervention was going to provoke the very thing he was trying to prevent.
As the doctor's left hand slammed into Sherlock's forearm, trying to push his hand away from the carotid artery and jugular vein, the knife point dragged sideways across a suddenly taut and arched neck that was already flushed red. By then Mycroft was on his feet, too, and grappling with the tangled heap of John and a struggling Sherlock. Within seconds, he realised that the movement of his brother was following an all-too familiar rhythm.
"He's seizing."
At that pronouncement, the room suddenly became full of people, and the overhead lights snapped on. One of the paramedics and Mary reached the far end of the room in seconds, trying to separate John from the thrashing limbs of the stricken Sherlock. Somewhere in the midst of it all, a knife clattered to the floor. Then Hayter was there, too, pulling aside the treatment bed, pushing it back to Lestrade who dragged it out of the room.
Mycroft stood up and leaned back on the cupboards a bit unsteadily, but glanced at his watch to time the seizure. He then watched as the petite paramedic took the pressure bandage freed from its package by Mary and pressed it to the bleeding wound on the side of Sherlock's neck. John was now back on his knees and snapped to the woman, "I'm a doctor; let me do it." He put his hand firmly on the bandage, replacing hers as she pulled back. It wasn't easy to keep a constant pressure, as the rapid muscular spasms of the clonic phrase took hold and the jerking became quicker. John put his other hand on Sherlock's forehead to try to keep up with the movement. "He's burning up. This may well be caused by the fever."
The larger crew member now came through the door and barked an order. "Clear out, everyone but the doc; we need room to manoeuvre." Mycroft found it hard to leave, but accepted the logic, and herded Lestrade, Hayter and Mary out of the room, followed by the other paramedic.
After that, things seemed to accelerate. When the loaded trolley came out of the room, John was on it too, kneeling astride Sherlock, his left hand's fingers on the pulse of the artery on the opposite side of Sherlock's neck from the wound. His right hand has holding the pressure bandage down. He was talking jargon with the paramedics at either end of the trolley, about something called a "sternocleidomastoid" and "renal trauma".
Then Mycroft registered the word "tachycardic" with alarm. Mary and Hayter were in a quiet conversation in the corridor; both looked up at that word, too. As the trolley went by him, Mycroft's eyes latched onto the blood seeping out of the edges of bandage on his brother's neck. He could see that Sherlock was still seizing; strapped in but still twitching. He caught the scent of urine and shit, as well as blood and sweat. A grand mal. A glance at his watch told him it had been four and half minutes so far.
As the trolley went through the swing doors at the end of the corridor and was walked at speed across the gym floor toward the lifts, he was already in motion. He caught Mary's eye and said, "With me", and she fell in behind him. Ashley Lewis brought up the rear.
The police were still processing people, but the crowds had thinned out considerably. Mycroft walked in quick march beside the DI, behind the medical team.
"Remain here. You will finish this case properly, Lestrade. I want the Cunninghams to face the full weight of British justice, and I will hold you personally responsible if there is any problem in the prosecution's case."
The medical team were allowed into the lift, but Mycroft, Mary and Lewis were directed up the stairs. By the time they got outside, it was to the sight of the ambulance already turning onto the slip road to join the A1261, blue lights flashing and siren wailing.
Author's Notes: Translations: *Why are they whispering? **Because they are idiots. You are not an idiot. *** To get this, read my story in Ex Files, Exhort.
