AJ Elfhawk
On the Way Down
Chapter 29
What are you afraid of
Making it better?
Keep it together.
What have you done?
My only friend, keep on.
Sights - London Grammer
Unmoving, Mycroft regarded the body for twelve seconds, the extent of consideration allocated for ex-staff. Given the degree of transgression Mycroft attributed to regret, double digits seemed generous. Sherlock's estimate fell short in his own favour, time enough to thumb open a scrap of paper retrieved from John's jeans, note two fingerprints in blood - left edge - erratic handwriting - right-handed, under threat, not John - and scan the words.
harold stevenson anonymous
Nothing except dirt on the back, sandy smudges where the author had leant on the floor to write. Undoubtedly the same man whose blood graced the edge, aware of imminent death and still following instruction in vain despair of salvation. Sherlock stowed the note from sight.
Speciality chemicals company - deceased former chief of a North-American clan - a dulcimers musical collaboration - acting credit of a deceased blue-screen personality… The closest matches he could recall were little more than trivia, most not even living let alone relevant. It was clearly a target, but he needed a missing link. To think like Moran.
Lips drawn tighter than usual, Mycroft set his back resolutely to the body of a man who had in life presumably once graced his attention on a near-daily basis. Everything remained on course, for what was a mere man against the backdrop of his brother's sub-political reign?
His brother's hands wiped against the coat's lapels, allegorically removing any trace of guilt. Despite culpability being as transient to Mycroft Holmes as the motes of dust between them, by his actions he still felt it. Sherlock lowered his eyes uncomfortably.
Death was hardly a dignified process; it paid no respect to its victims. He could fill notebooks with details of the ungracious, absurd manners in which people died. But when it was personal, somehow the end seemed more important. If that body represented more of John than just his stolen clothes, Sherlock decided he'd have preferred to know John hadn't died dangling at the end of a length of rope, dancing like a Devil's puppet.
I offered him anyone. So he took you.
By the disarray along the way in, the victim had been anything but compliant in the face of death, and the perpetrators would have had no small difficulty forcing him to write the note. Sherlock examined three faint trails left from dragging the ladder through the dust. One he'd created himself, so it had been moved to and from the room's centre recently, prior to their arrival.
The tube lighting was weak, offering little distinction to the body but illuminating the rafters well enough. If they'd hoisted the man by hand, the nylon rope would be scored from the edge of the wood but there were no such traces. The man's neck was unbroken, which wasn't unusual, but the knots weren't as taut as he'd expect from a struggling weight either.
'He was unconscious in articulo mortis and dead before they hung him up.' Sherlock clarified, irrespective of whether it brought solace. Mycroft stared with empty, reproving eyes, the murder seemingly attributable to Sherlock's involvement regardless.
'Oh!' Sherlock's hands flew up as an answer to his open-ended problem crystallised unexpectedly. It was his brother's look that triggered an association, the fastidiously schooled non-expression of the Government official. Two names, two marks.
Secretary of State for Defence; Roger Harold MP – easy… next: Chief Executive of NHS England, Fiona Stevenson.
'Shh. Thinking...' Sherlock overtook Mycroft's potential questions, curtailing exuberance as the revelation only brought more practical questions to mind.
'You don't have long.' Mycroft warned.
'I'd have longer if you didn't offer me to British intelligence with an apple between my teeth,' Sherlock chided, breathing deeply as he glanced about, considering options. When he'd walked the perimeter, there'd been notable subsidence leading out from behind the warehouse. If Moran's company had disappeared without trace, there was an undiscovered path and the entrance had to lie mid-way along the West-facing wall, obscured from vision in the dark.
'When my brother is moments away from arrest as a multiple-homicide suspect, I am at best an additional four minutes from suspension of my position-'
'Oh dear, not your position…'
Mycroft's chin lifted, drawing against reserves of patience pooled over a lifetime of challenging behaviour. 'You may feel blissfully unconcerned for the situation you've instigated, but I must appear beyond suspicion in every regard or else you will be on your own in this, Sherlock. Potentially for good.'
'Oh, shut up. Incarcerating the one person who has any prospect of tracking Moran is beyond comprehension, not suspicion.' Anger surfaced to mask his frustration, expectations of assistance disbanding. 'I have alternative resources to call upon, don't trouble yourself.'
'You rarely give me the option.' Mycroft pointed out, extending his left arm to reveal a rose-gold Magistralis beneath the cuff. He considered it longer than strictly necessary, either stalling for an intervention or reluctant to pronounce their time at an end. 'I'd wish you luck in finding John, but it would be disingenuous.'
'Thankfully, I've more than luck at my disposal.' Sherlock dismissed curtly, tugging his collar up as he signified intention to leave. The itch of intermingled dirt and blood across his scalp stirred a deep longing for hot water and seclusion, yet he hesitated at Mycroft's observant silence. 'I won't be in touch.'
'It's a shame about the psychosis.' Mycroft cut in over his fourth step, and Sherlock paused in resignation.
'I see. So the official statement from Whitehall is that I'm psychotic?'
'Irrational beliefs of persecution, grandiosity, violent tendencies... John no doubt failed to form a diagnosis on the basis of his conflicted interests.'
Sherlock twisted back at the implied threat, voice falling three semitones in a warning of his own. 'Detain me on the pretence of a mental setback and I will make your life unbearable.'
'I'm sure I wouldn't notice the difference.' Mycroft's confident stance moved forward another step, Sherlock noting the apparent self-assurance as an obvious indicator of anxiety. 'You're going to admit to a secure medical facility of my choosing, where - even if you do not benefit from the experience - your safety will at least be ensured under supervised custody. Perhaps then I might have time to straighten out this mess.'
Sherlock doubted safety even featured in his brother's strategy. He might not have dressed the body or strung it up, but Mycroft had known it wasn't John and presumably suffered no hesitation in expanding the lie to control him.
'Captivity isn't protection.' Sherlock insisted.
'That depends on who you're protecting.' Mycroft cocked his head, glancing at his watch emphatically once more. The threat was idle, he knew what Sherlock was capable of should he attempt outright restraint, but it wouldn't come to that. His brother only dared to cross him on an intellectual battlefield.
'If you wanted a favour, you only had to ask.' Sherlock conceded wearily, far too familiar with the array of his brother's actions.
The ghost of a smile met his offer. 'I feel it helps to remind you of the alternative to my support, who knows, you may even come to appreciate it in future.'
'Well, we all can dream.'
'But seeing as you're offering,' Mycroft continued regardless, 'I could use your assistance, yes.'
'Fine. If it coincides with my agenda.' Sherlock warned.
'Given the importance of the problem, you'll want to make sure it does. It shouldn't take long.' Mycroft chirped pleasantly.
'Not acceptable.' Sherlock stated in annoyance. 'I'll put my skills at your disposal, but you won't dictate priorities to me, Mycroft.'
'London is now the epicentre of a viral campaign to give you trial by media, Sherlock. You need to disappear from surveillance entirely and doing so without visas and passports will take a long, ill-afforded amount of time. Your old ones are useless, the home office cancelled everything. Fortunately, I've had new ones made up. They're waiting in location four.' He leant forward suddenly, sniffing the air with an aversive expression. 'Is that… perfume?'
'No!' Sherlock unravelled the foreign scarf and ripped it from his throat in frustration, the crimson cashmere alarming when he'd expected French Navy. Who had gone to so much trouble in replicating his clothes, only to change the colour?
A small red pin of a fish sat nestled inside a fold of the fabric, symbolic rather than a species in particular. Aside from the connotation of a 'red herring', Sherlock supposed it could be a deep-water Redfish. The first name that came to mind was Sebastes Mentella, Moran's initials? They almost shared first names.
The major markets of consumption for Redfish were Japan, Germany, Russia and the US. The scent from the scarf had been manufactured in Aachen, which had a regular market presence in the town centre. But, the red of the Soviet flag now tied in closer with his knowledge of Moran's affairs.
Having lost the focus of Sherlock's attention, Mycroft cleared his throat firmly. 'I'm not asking you to abandon John, I'm proposing an exchange. I'll help him as best I can, but you must go abroad and complete some sensitive transactions on my behalf as a matter of urgency.'
Sherlock looked up again, stuffing the scarf inside his coat. 'The 'Excuse me, I seem to have unloaded my gun into your chest' type of transactions, no doubt. Running out of spies, Mycroft?'
'I can fasten your straight-jacket myself, if you'd like?'
'And I could just tie you to the pig pen and leave.' Sherlock countered smugly, deciding restraint was an overvalued quality if John were not present to witness it. 'I offered to kill you, though Moran wasn't interested.'
'Your threats of fratricide began aged four, forgive me if I don't take them too seriously. My enemies appear to have more integrity than family these days.'
'I'm unable to differentiate the two, myself.' Sherlock retorted to Mycroft's reproachful stare. 'And we both know you're not here for family.'
'Then perhaps I won't search for you so enthusiastically next time.'
'Oh, stop pretending to care so very damn much.'
'So I can presume your answer to be yes?' Mycroft prompted coldly, applying himself once more to detached patience.
Sherlock shrugged. 'Presume what you want. Moran seems more in control of your affairs than you are these days.'
'Addicts usually believe they have control.' Mycroft offered in explanation.
'Don't they just.' Sherlock smiled, watching his brother's posture straighten. 'So you're about to tell me that SM's confidence is all an illusion then?'
Mycroft revealed a small tablet from his coat, tapping the edge as he passed it over. 'We got to his son in Orenburg. I'm fairly certain Moran would not have been wasting time here if he knew.' True enough that a dangerous animal posed less danger in its natural habitat. If Moran believed things were going his way, he'd certainly be easier to predict.
'This case will be off-radar, in all aspects you'll be operating on your own. However, as you'll no doubt steal your own otherwise…' He selected a phone from another pocket and combined it with a singular car key, clearly prepared.
'It doesn't matter how covert you think you are now, it's not like the early days when we played in the shadows of anonymity.' Sherlock cautioned, accepting the devices all the same. 'He may be operating within your radar but you're in open view now; in Moran's circles you're infamous.'
'Exactly where I wish to be.' Mycroft reassured, smiling at Sherlock's inadvertent concern. 'You'll learn faith one day, brother.'
'Not in the last three decades, or the subsequent three I expect. I wouldn't imagine you have many tricks left up that umbrella of yours I don't know about by now.'
'Imagination was always your weak point. You wouldn't put such energy into composition if you didn't feel the need to prove something to us both.'
'I'm warning you - don't lie to me about John again.'
'You'd have gone on a chaotic killing spree in pursuit of the wrong man if I'd left you to your own devices.' Mycroft smiled, almost affectionately.
'And your proposal differs how, exactly?'
'Knowledge, little brother. It will get you closer to John than your hatred. I presume you noticed the tunnel?'
'Yes, yes.' Sherlock dismissed, checking the phone. 'So the building's surrounded and they think you're talking me around to the notion of voluntary institutionalisation?'
Mycroft tipped his head, glancing about the warehouse as if he were in real-estate. 'Oh, I suppose the Site Officer will burst some minor blood vessels when he finds out his perimeter was compromised from the start. Contaminating evidence will make the Crown's case unconditionally difficult, all that sort of thing. Around forty DNA profiles at last count, give or take. All on register with sufficient previous to muddy the water.'
'The SOCO's have been busy.' Sherlock smiled, relief evident in the drop of his shoulders. 'I suppose I should thank you.' He handed over the hand-written note instead, a peace-offering of his own.
'I'd rather you tied me to the pig pen.' Mycroft admitted half-heartedly, checking the note.
Sherlock snorted in amusement, realising that perhaps he could make Mycroft's morning a little easier after all. 'Oh, I think we can do better than that,' he confided, knuckles tightening.
