CHAPTER 36
They received a text from each other. It was brief, on point, and sent, oddly enough, at the same time.
See me.
The brothers looked at their mobiles and frowned. Neither would ever admit they occasionally thought alike, and they would absolutely deny they had had the same thought at the exact moment.
Sherlock responded first.
Our usual spot? -SH
Yes. One hour. -MH
Mycroft's black sedan pulled up to an inconspicuous brick building, surrounded by a low wall and tall hedges, an hour later. He rolled his eyes at the flowers in the box by the front door.
Plastic, again? That woman really needed to cease her penchant for the unusual.
But then again, Mycroft thought with a small snort, as he exited the vehicle, her children are the most unusual things she has ever possessed.
As he opened the creaky metal gate and walked up the path through the front garden, a white-haired woman open the door. She squinted a moment, then realised whom she was looking at, and grinned broadly.
"Myc!" She called out, opening the door wider. "Sherlock said you'd be along soon. Come in, come in!" She waved at him, ushering him through the entrance.
"Mummy, please do endeavor to get to the end of my name," Mycroft sighed as he stepped over the threshold. "After all, it was you who gave it to me."
"I shall call you whatever I like, young man," she scolded. "Now, hang your coat and wash up for supper; it'll be ready in just a tic!" She disappeared around the corner, but her voice still floated on the air. "Oh, Myc… I made your favorite for dessert!"
Mycroft rolled his eyes again at the decimation of his name, yet also smiled at the mention of dessert. His mum knew him well.
"Would that be the lardy cake or fat rascal?" The sound of Sherlock's voice made him look toward the wingback chairs near the fireplace in the sitting room. Mycroft saw the top of his brother's dark curls peeking out over the top of one - their father's chair. "Or is it still Colin the Caterpillar?" Sherlock asked mockingly.
"Do shut up, baby brother," Mycroft ordered, hanging his jacket and umbrella. He rolled his sleeves and marched into the washroom to scrub up. He knew their mum had long stopped inspecting their hands, but Mycroft still went through the motions of cleaning up whenever he visited his boyhood home; he wondered if Sherlock did, too?
When he sat in their mother's chair, he noticed Sherlock's shirt sleeves were also tucked up. Some habits were hard to break, it seemed.
Each Holmes boy stared down the other, waiting for one to speak first. Mycroft had an infinite amount of patience, and was rewarded for it when Sherlock began talking.
"Where's my pathologist?"
Mycroft felt his insides grow cold, but he kept his features neutral. "Whatever do you mean?"
Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "Do not play games, Mycroft. I know you know she's disappeared."
The elder Holmes brother's mind reeled, but kept his expression neutral; how had Sherlock deduced that?
"And if she has," Mycroft chose to reply coolly, "I am sure it had nothing to do with your insistence on visiting her in the middle of night - several times, might I add - despite her telling you to bugger off."
The two glared at each other for several seconds.
"Boys!" Their father appeared in the room. "Glad to see you. How's life treating you?" He clapped Sherlock on the shoulder.
"Mycroft lost my pathologist!" Sherlock bleated, earning him another scowl from his brother.
Their father sighed as if he had been here before - too many times, in fact - and was not pleased to return. "I thought you two were well past taking and misplacing things that did not belong to you."
"I have not lost anything of Sherlock's," Mycroft replied in a clipped tone. "I know exactly where she is, and, if he can find it in him to be nice -" Here, Sherlock scoffed, but Mycroft continued, "I may choose to tell him where to find her."
"She? Her?" This intrigued their father. He poured himself a brandy and planted himself on the small table between them. "Do tell," he said with a wink and a smile at his youngest son.
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I have a pathologist. She is missing. Mycroft obviously knows her location, but refuses to tell me."
"But, why?" Their father asked.
"Why, what?" Sherlock bit out, still fuming.
"Why should Mycroft tell you anything? What have you done to deserve this information? Does your lady friend want to be found?"
Mycroft chuckled, as Sherlock gaped at their father.
"I suggest trying to be nicer, son," Mr. Holmes said to Sherlock. "Belligerence gets one nowhere, even if they are correct. Be polite, ask, and, for heaven's sake, Sherlock... listen."
Sherlock crossed his arms in a pout, while Mycroft looked triumphant.
"As for you," their father turned to Mycroft, and the smug smile faded from the British Government's face. "You see your brother is stressed, yet continue to withhold information. That may work with your career, but not in this house. Be more generous with your family, Mycroft. Tell him what you know… for all of our sakes."
Mr. Holmes rose, swirled his glass, and downed the contents in one long gulp. "I suspect your mother will be calling us any moment, now. I'm heading in; see you two in five minutes. Meanwhile, work it out." He nodded at his sons and disappeared as quietly as he had come.
Sherlock looked at Mycroft a long moment before speaking. "I… searched for Molly - going to all the places she mentioned in her diary or had previously visited in her family pictures - with no success. I know you know where she is; I saw you speaking to Meena Sardana, she would not tell me anything, the little…"
"Sherlock." Mycroft's tone had a hint of admonishment.
"Well, she is." Sherlock practically pouted.
"Tell me, brother mine: What does Doctor Hooper mean to you?"
Sherlock stared at his brother, but did not say anything. This was a solid question, one he had yet to actually answer. Did he know the response?
He rubbed his chin. Of course he knew. What had started out as a fascination - and became dangerously close to obsession - wanted to grow into something more, but he felt stunted. Molly was the missing piece; he required her presence to get to the end of the jumble of words and feelings he was carrying around.
"I… need her. I need her to know… I need to tell her that I… " He stopped, his eyes pleading with his brother to understand.
And Mycroft knew.
Sherlock paused then whispered, "Where is she… please?"
Mycroft took pity on his little brother in that moment. He saw the changes in Sherlock's facial expressions; he was clearly struggling with his feelings - which Mycroft would never do, but then, no one was as clever as he - not even Sherlock.
Still… Sherlock never before admitted he needed someone, so this admission surprised Mycroft. His baby brother appeared rather forlorn - and there was something else in his eyes that Mycroft could not quite name. He sighed heavily. "I'll tell you one thing, and one thing only - and not because Father is making me," Mycroft added hastily, leaning forward. "You should be able to deduce Doctor Hooper's location from this: Irene Adler."
Sherlock's expression changed immediately; he sneered. "The Woman," he growled. "What has she to do with Molly?"
Mycroft gave Sherlock a look that said 'Really?'
"The Woman is hiding in America, is she not, in a state called… North Carolina?" Sherlock recalled this information. "Has she seen Molly? Yes, of course she has; I can see it in your expression. Molly was - or currently is - in the Carolinas." Sherlock paused, then extracted his mobile, and began tapping on it, looking for something. "When is the next flight from Heathrow to Raleigh-Durham International Airport?"
Mycroft smiled knowingly. "I have already made the arrangements. You leave at six o'clock tomorrow morning."
Sherlock glares at his brother for a moment, then nods his thanks, stows his phone, and steeples his fingers together, as he processes all of the new information. He must leave Great Britain to get help from The Woman, in order to track down the most important female he has ever known… except their mum, of course - -and she happened to be calling to them to join her and their father for supper.
The pair filed into the kitchen, where Mycroft practically squeals with glee; their mother made a Banbury cake.
ooooooooooooooooooooo
Eight hours on a commercial flight to America was the worst experience of his life, Sherlock surmised. He had experimented with a variety of illegal substances, but they seemed like a beautiful day in the park when compared to the constantly coughing people, crying babies, rude air stewards, overpriced snacks, horrible film choices, and a young person with red hair and freckles kept leaning over into Sherlock's space.
It was hell and Mycroft was an utter wanker.
He spent most of his flight in his Mind Palace, being followed by waifMolly, who merely wailed a lot. Sherlock wanted to comfort her, but she was not the real Molly-and she still looked a fright. He was relieved when she did not speak, which allowed him to figure out who killed the mayor of London's dog: the housekeeper, because she was tired of it tracking in mud from the garden. He also deduced who had been throwing green paint on various parked cars in Fulham: one of the street cleaners, because people were not moving their cars as required.
The young red-haired lad next to Sherlock, who was traveling with his gran, recognized 'the man from the papers', and tried to stump the Consulting Detective with some questions.
"Mr. Sherlock?" The boy tugged his sleeve.
Sherlock opened one eye and arched his brow at the lad. "Yes?"
"If a rooster laid an egg on top of the barn roof, which way would it roll?"
Sherlock sighed. "Roosters do not laying eggs. What are they teaching in primary, these days?"
"Sir, how can a man go eight days without sleep?"
"Too simple," Sherlock replied. "By sleeping during the night time."
"Drat!" The boy exclaimed. "I have another…"
"I would rather you did not," Sherlock responded dryly, shooting the boy's gran an annoyed look, but she was not paying attention; she was knitting while listening to something that sounded like… grunge music?! How was she even able to see anything with that great mop of white hair on her head?
"Hey," the lad said. "How much dirt is there in a hole three feet deep, six feet long and four feet wide?"
"You ought to find a better hobby."
"Do you not know the answer?" The boy asked. "'Cause if you don't, I win."
"I did not realise this was a game."
The kid rolled his eyes. "I'm six; of course it is."
Sherlock admired his cheekiness, so answered: "None, or else it would not be a hole."
"Good! One more, okay?"
He inclined his head at the youth. "Go on."
The boy tapped his chin. "What has a head and a tail but no body?"
"This one is too easy: a coin."
The boy looked at him with awe. "You really are clever, Mister Holmes."
Sherlock nodded his thanks - and purchased two snacks for the young fellow.
The rest of the journey was terrible, but at least the lad at his elbow was entertaining.
oooooooooooooooooooooo
When the aeroplane landed, Sherlock grabbed his duffel bag from the overhead compartment, bid the lad goodbye and told him to keep an eye on his gran, then departed, following the line of people anxious to get off the flight.
The boy looked at the old lady next to him. "But that's not my gran," he whispered in confusion, staring at the woman. He gasped when the old lady winked at him, placed a finger to her lips, and lifted her wig, revealing a dark haired man with a wicked grin - then popped the fake locks into place once more. The boy squeaked, jumped from his seat, and scooted around and under the other passengers to make his way back to his mother, who had been sitting three rows behind him.
By the time he reached her and told his mum what he had seen - and they alerted the air stewards - the man dressed as a woman was gone. Security was alerted, but they succeeded in detaining the wrong elderly woman, who was quite put out when her flight to Spain was missed.
The old woman they were supposed to be searching for smiled at the officer for Customs and Border Protection, while her passport and documents were inspected, was welcomed to America, and told to enjoy her holiday.
Outside the airport terminal, a short, dark-haired Irish bloke named Moriarty tossed his costume into the rubbish, straightened his suit, and was met by a private sedan. He instructed the driver to follow the white SUV that had been hired by Sherlock Holmes.