Things We Lost In The Flames
Chapter 38: ' 'The future's in our hands…'
The unit commander manhandled the body himself, and folded the long limbs into the rear seat of the helicopter before strapping it in; the only way to keep the flaccid parcel of bones upright and secure for transportation.
Mycroft simply could not go near the body of his brother, could barely even look at it. He rejected the offer of cable ties ("rather unsophisticated") handcuffs ("this is my brother; he is hardly likely to attack me even if he does wake up.") or a unit member to accompany; just in case. ("I think not. I think I can manage. Thank you.")
In answer to the comment "he took one hell of a whack; do you want me to bring the doctor over to take a look?" Mycroft was equally dismissive.
"Not a good idea. Things would become far too complicated."
In his peripheral vision he could see members of the SAS unit were having trouble keeping John Watson on the terrace and away from the helicopter and Sherlock. He pretended he could not hear Watson shouting and trying to attract his attention. He refused to be attracted.
"Secure the scene, Captain Newbold. An MI5 unit will be along shortly to take over. If you could contain Dr Watson until this happens I would be most grateful. But as a former military man himself, he should understand that he requires debriefing before he can be returned to his accommodation and family Christmas celebrations.
"Please ensure he does not start bothering me. I have enough on my plate at the moment."
Mycroft Holmes got into the helicopter and strapped himself in.
"Thank you," he remembered to say as the helicopter rotor blades started to turn, and they were away. From the air Appledore looked like a giant's toy, and the newly revealing blaze of lights from the house made the scene surreal. The last thing he saw as the helicopter wheeled away to head for London was John Watson waving his arms and clearly shouting.
He sighed and shook his head. Reflected that could have gone much better, but it could also have been much worse. Gave his brother a long backwards glance. Well, he had wanted - they had both wanted - to get out of the family Christmas celebrations. And now they had. But not like this would have been better.
Sherlock was still and silent. An unusual sight. The grazes on his face were drying now, his head lolling back and sideways against the head rest. But there were no other bruises or cuts, or any obvious damage visible from the blow that had knocked him out.
Just that painfully familiar, beautiful and enigmatic closed down face. As he watched, the eyelids began to flicker, the long hands started to twitch and move in reaction.
"Hush, Sherlock. You're safe now," he heard himself say automatically, and was grateful the pilot could not hear him sound so soft and subjective. But his brother seemed to hear him, for the nervous movements stopped.
Mycroft reached for his phone. He had many things to organise before the helicopter landed.
By the time Barclay's London Heliport at Battersea on the south bank of the Thames was reached, Mycroft had set many wheels in motion, and was able to sit back and simply reflect on what had happened for all of five minutes.
Sherlock was starting to come to the surface now; fidgeting, gently flailing his arms and fighting against the seatbelt keeping him in place. Eyes opening without focus and closing again, head moving from side to side.
There was a police van waiting to move him from the helicopter to secure accommodation, and a police constable and driver were walking up to the helicopter as it landed, ready to take over.
Mycroft was out of his seat as soon as given the signal, reaching into the rear for his brother, unclipping the securing seat belt, grasping his shoulders to stop him falling sideways and banging his head on the seat.
At that touch Sherlock Holmes reared up and backwards, recoiling away. His arms came up to protect his face, and a throttled scream turned into one chilling shouted word:
"Panic!"
"No, no, Sherlock, no need to panic, I'm….."
"NO!" the denial was a roar, and Mycroft reactively scrunched up his face against the sound.
His brother grasped his arms in a vicious, compelling grip. Those glass grey eyes bored into his, suddenly far too close.
"No! Panic!" He dragged in a huge shiver of a breath. "Listen to me! Panic! There are no vaults at Appledore. So there must be a panic in the penthouse!"
"Calm down, Sherlock. You're delirious. Concussed. Just relax, now…."
"Relax? Now? Why? Got to get this sorted before I am jailed. This is not finished yet."
He looked around wildly, saw the two police officers approaching.
"I'm running out of time. Listen to me - just listen." He tightened his grip and focussed. Looked his brother full in the face and frowned.
"There is blood on you. Are you hurt?"
"Of course not, you imbecile."
"Oh. Oh? Oh, good." It was as if he had been momentarily knocked out of gear. His voice lowered again with conviction and power.
"I had the architect's plans for Appledore; the vaults were there, clearly marked on the blueprints - big cellars. But clearly at the last minute these were converted to an underground garage. Practical, tidies vehicles out of the way, does not reveal who is there. Yes. Makes sense.
"But Magnussen could not just depend on his eidetic memory, like he said. He had to have stuff on his victims in practical, visible form. At some point he would always need proof - paperwork, photographs, whatever - to back his publish in his newspapers.
"Never enough to say 'just because I know' and 'who needs proof?' as often as he did. That was what fooled me, Mycroft. Do you see? At some point, at some place, he had to be able to produce hard, provable evidence to back up those stories, the leverage he was using for blackmail. You know the phrase 'one picture paints a thousand words'?"
The speed of delivery was increasing as he warmed to his theme.
"Like having Jack and Ellie's letters; that new photograph of Tom Hallett's. Those photographs of me. He couldn't keep everything important in a kitchen drawer, now could he?
"You only found my photos by chance because Magnussen was keeping them close at hand; to show me. To ogle whenever he wanted some titillation. But he could not keep everything in such a haphazard fashion. That was not his way."
He paused to catch his breath, to speak more calmly.
"Do you see? He had to have somewhere safe and secret for all this stuff I doubt even his editors knew about. Magnussen was very much a one man band. When he was showing off to John and me earlier, about Appledore's vaults not being real, he said when he wanted something he sent out for it. He wasn't talking about a Chinese takeaway. From somewhere else - not Appledore.
"I think, when he had the CAM News building constructed, he played with the plans just as he had at Appledore.
"Panic rooms are very trendy in executive buildings these days - it would be so simple to hide one in a huge penthouse like Magnussen's on the thirty second floor. That would be normal. But this is Magnussen.
"In a thirty two storey building it would be easy to steal a few inches off head height for each floor - especially with a huge cathedral-like atrium the CAM Building possesses. Then create a secret floor - either between his office floor and his penthouse, or above the penthouse. Not a mere panic room, but a secret room packed with secrets. A location probably only ever shared with Carlsson. The only man he truly trusted.
"Get those plans, Mycroft. Get a surveyor to check all the measurements. Look for a secret switch to a secret stop for that private elevator. Secret stairs, perhaps, or a secret door in the penthouse - behind the shower cabinet, through the back of a utility cupboard, a fitted wardrobe. Something! Anything!
"Find that, and you will find all Magnussen's secrets. Trust me. I know his mind! Let me go and….."
"No." Mycroft's voice was firm with finality. "I will buy your theory, Sherlock. And I will investigate. But you can have nothing to do with proving it out. Not now. Not any more."
"But I…."
"No. You are a murderer. These police officers are here to formally arrest you and to take you to prison. You will be charged with murder, incarcerated, and we shall then see where the wheels of justice take you from there."
"Mycroft! Stop being so bloody pompous!"
"This is not pompous, Sherlock. Nor scoring points. Or anything other than my function as an organ of government and justice. You are not above the law. You are not exempt from it either. You are a murderer, you fool. And even you cannot escape justice."
He pulled back and out of the helicopter cabin, turned away. And then turned back again.
"You have put yourself into an intolerable position. And you have put me into an even more intolerable position. You are a total idiot. There is no way back from this."
He did not want to hear what his brother had to say to that. Or to see his face.
So he simply walked away.
o0o0o0o
Yellow walls. Blue heavy duty plastic chair and desk. Thick blue plastic covered mattress and pillow on the hard, low, wall mounted bed. Shelf with five dog eared paperbacks - Grisham, Rankin, Fleming, Christie and a bible. Good News version, not the King James that would have been the version of choice. A small TV and DVD player alongside, an ancient music centre.
Two inch thick steel door. Private toilet cubicle, 24 hour CCTV surveillance.
A blue duvet was crumpled on the far corner of the bed. Under the duvet, wrapped tight in the duvet, a man in a yellow one piece garment. A tall slim man sitting up, straight backed and cross legged, body hard pressed into the corner of the wall. Naked arms out of the duvet with wrists loosely lodged on knees, eyes half closed, head down and expression unreadable.
" A police cell? Is that the best you can do?" The voice the man on the bed could hear just outside the door as it opened was both horrified and scathing.
"Paddington Green is….." came another voice, polite yet defensive.
Yes, yes, I know. Don't you think I would know, if no-one else did? The most secure bomb proof police station in London. But why not prison?"
"The thinking is that if they put him in prison he would be seen. Word would get out and reach the press. The whole thing would be exploded. And there would also be prison riots on a daily basis. Even with solitary confinement."
"The Howard League For Penal Reform says…."
" I do not give a toss, DI Lestrade. I am doing what I am told. And I am told everybody else is doing what they can in an impossible situation. And we also have to try to humour Mr Holmes as well. The other Mr Holmes, that is. So if you have any complaints refer them to him." A loud and frustrated sigh. "Give me strength!"
The reinforced door creaked and then slammed fully open.
"Twenty minutes," continued the voice of the duty sergeant. "And that's only because I am turning a blind eye for the sake of peace and quiet and your seniority. Got that?"
The soft thud of the door closing. Footsteps going away, others coming closer. Then silence.
"Well? Are you talking to me? Or sulking?"
"Go away. You're not supposed to be anywhere near me."
"Why? Everyone in the Met knows I know you, work with you. "
"Not any more you don't. Go away."
"Shut up. Need anything? Fags? A good lawyer?"
"Is that a joke?" The words were spat out with the usual flat derision.
"You're in a Ferguson suit," Lestrade observed, appalled and trying not to show it.. "Do they really think you are a suicide risk?"
"I am a killer. I tried to get Mycroft to shoot me in retaliation. Suicide is a natural assumption. "
"Why would you want to die?"
"I killed a man. A life for a life. It's called natural justice."
"Not in this case. Not to mention mitigating circumstances."
All Lestrade got for his pains was a disdainful glare. After an awkward silence he asked:
"That suit as uncomfortable as it looks?"
"Yes. And I don't have shoes either, because I can't be trusted with shoelaces."
"The idea of you hanging yourself in a cell is ridiculous. Do you want me to get your clothes back? For dignity at least."
The man under the duvet looked away and shrugged, indifferent.
"It hardly matters. They are trying to decide what to do with me. A 2am bullet in the back of the neck is the usual solution to this sort of problem."
"This isn't Russia. And you are Sherlock Holmes."
"You think that merits special treatment?"
"They are considering force feeding you, Applying for authority if you don't eat in another 48 hours. You want that? " Lestrade was on the verge of anger, despite being a policeman and knowing Sherlock Holmes was being treating scrupulously and by the book.
"They tell me you haven't had a drink or eaten anything in the four days since you've been here. That you don't read, or listen to the radio or watch TV. That you don't seem to sleep or to even move. Is that true?
"Yes, of course. What's the point?"
"Sherlock….."
"No, Lestrade. I did it. Guilty as charged, my lord. I killed Magnussen. In front of credible witnesses that included my brother. There's no way out of this. Nor should there be. "
"Have you seen your brother?"
"No. Why should he slum it and visit me? Far too compromising."
Then you don't know about this? At all?"
Lestrade took a newspaper out of the poacher's pocket inside his trench coat. Threw it onto Sherlock Holmes' knees without comment.
A quick glance across to the detective inspector, then he picked up the newspaper, turned it over.
The headline was inescapable.
Media Mogul in Christmas Day suicide pact. A photograph of a smiling Magnussen at some white tie event. The strap line underneath read: CAM and his PA in shooting suicide at his country retreat.
He read the article -light on facts, heavy on conjecture - about the death of Charles Augusts Magnussen and his long time personal assistant, driver and confidant, fellow Dane Erik Carlsson, in silence. The inference was that the two men had been lovers, and killed each other in a lover's tiff - or tryst. He snorted, said nothing, and threw the newspaper onto the floor.
"Who dreamed up this fairy tale?"
"Who do you think?"
"I will kill him, too. I would never agree to this. And he knows it."
"He's trying to do his best for you and quietly clear up the mess," Lestrade tried to keep his words light, tried a grin, and Sherlock Holmes looked away and lifted a disillusioned shoulder in reply.
"It would not have been a mess if they had shot me. That would have been tidy, cleaner and quicker. I am guilty of murder. That should demand a show trial, being made an example of. Banged up; 25 to thirty years." He shook his head. "But this….this obscenity of a fairytale means that is not going to happen."
"Could you stop being so bloody cheerful about it?"
"Am I being cheerful? I thought I was making a logical projection."
"With you, it's hard to tell."
"What are you doing here anyway? Has Mycroft sent you to test the ground? See how I react?"
"Not a bit of it. But word filtered through you had shot Magnussen and were in custody. So I wanted to make sure you were OK."
"Absolutely top hole and tickety boo," Sherlock assured with a sneer.
"Sherlock. Stop it."
"Sorry, Lestrade. But I made the calculation and I made the decision. Knew I would be shot in retaliation for shooting. Worth it to rid the world of Magnussen, lift his pall from so many people. Including Mycroft, but don't tell my brother that - it might go to his head."
"You are just down because you've killed a man. That's normal. When you are thinking properly…"
"Lestrade, please leave. I don't need help. Just to be left alone until the powers that be decide how to punish me. Now it appears I am not to be charged with murder and pay the proper public price."
"John Watson wants to see you."
"Not a chance. I may not go to trial now - this news story version of the death shows that - but it doesn't mean I won't still pay the price. So I don't want anyone contaminated by being near me."
"That's not John's fault….."
"Nor his responsibility, either. I don't want to see him. Tell him that. I didn't want to see you, either. Leave me to stew."
"And what do you expect that to achieve?"
"Absolutely nothing. I am in limbo."
"If you need me - if I can do anything - get the custody sergeant to call me. Yeah?"
"Thank you."
The voice suddenly came out small, shaky; as if all the energy available had just drained away.
Lestrade banged on the door, and as it opened to release him out he gave a glance back to watch Sherlock Holmes disappear beneath the duvet and turn his face back to the wall.
o0o0o0o
The first he knew of his next visitor was having the same duvet pulled briskly down from over his head.
Mycroft Holmes.
His younger brother blinked against the harsh electric light blazing above his head. Early hours? Some time around 2am?
"What are you doing?" demanded a peevish voice.
"Absolutely nothing. You may have failed to notice I am in a high security prison cell, It limits one somewhat."
"Hmn." The explosion of noise in the throat that served as reply sounded angry.
"What have I done now?" He narrowly avoided making his question sound like a wail.
"Why are you wearing that ridiculous costume? You look like a badly folded bed quilt. Or a…." he struggled for description. "That disgusting breakfast concoction thing. A pop tart?"
The disdain in the voice was such that Sherlock Holmes actually laughed.
"It is called an anti suicide smock. And bloody uncomfortable it is too. If you must know."
Mycroft Holmes turned away. Rapped peremptorily on the two inch thick steel door with his umbrella and when it opened, without further comment, left the holding cell.
His brother - who was half asleep and convinced the visit had been some unpleasant dream or incarceration nightmare - pulled the duvet back over his head and settled down again with a groan.
To be disturbed yet again within five minutes.
"Here!"
Mycroft, already over burdened with umbrella, briefcase and computer bag, now balanced across his hands a pile of clothes with a pair of black Lobb Oxfords on top, and thrust the lot into his brother's hands.
"Get dressed. Get yourself out of that undignified…thing. There are limits. If you had been going to kill yourself I think you would have done it by now."
"Too kind."
The prisoner wobbled to his feet. Leant back against the wall to unhook the closures on the suit and drop his only garment to the floor.
"'Naked came I out of my mother's womb and naked will I return there. The Lord givest and the Lord takest away'," he quoted with a quietness beyond bitterness. "Or, in my case, Mycroft Holmes."
The brothers looked at each other. Mycroft Holmes struggled to keep his face expressionless at sight of the pale skeletal frame, the shiny-new puckered scar in the centre of the chest he had never been allowed to see before, the violent purple bruises on the shoulder, ribs and left arm that had taken the greatest impact from the aluminium and leather chair used so ferociously as a weapon.
He resisted the temptation to ask if it hurt. It would have been a stupid question, and he would have been told so in no uncertain terms.
"I did not put you in that outfit."
"You did not stop it either. You told the police I was suicidal, then left me here, semi conscious, and abandoned me like an unwanted parcel . Almost four days. Four days, Mycroft."
"Four days are nothing compared to eternity."
"I wanted eternity. I wanted oblivion. Must you spend your entire life thwarting me?"
"That is my function and my burden. You never know what is best for you, Sherlock. Death would have been too easy to achieve, and far from the best for you. You have more utility here."
"You've said that before."
"Because, regretfully, it is true." Mycroft Holmes looked his brother in the eye. "Why did you want to die? How could you ask me to order that, Sherlock? To even think I would stand back and let that happen?"
"It was the logical finish. Tidy. No backlash. I killed Magnussen as the only way to stop him. I killed him, therefore I should die too. Simple logic, isn't it? Even for you?"
He paused, but his brother did not rise to the bait, simply waited, and he knew he would have to explain. Began to slowly pull on his clothes as he did so: the clothes he had been wearing to Appedore.
"Experience showed Magnussen never let go of his victims. And he had to be stopped. But how? A man with an eidetic memory cannot be allowed to keep his dangerous, secret knowledge… but he will never forget it, and will always threaten to use it again.
"So how to remove memories - those dangerous, profitable memories - from a man with a perfect memory?"
"There are ways," Mycroft denied doggedly. "Drugs. Mind control techniques…."
"You have watched too many bad spy moves. Nothing works. Not really. Not for long. Memories always flood back….." he was thoughtful for a moment, and then continued.
"Clearly the only way to remove the danger of Magnussen was to annihilate the filing cabinet in his head. Which meant removing Magnussen's head. A clean kill. Dead and gone.
"Someone had to make that executive decision. And who but me? I knew only too well what he could and would do. Who he damaged and drove to their deaths A lot of people needed rid of Magnussen.
"So I exercised my own judgement, delivered my own verdict. Performed my own execution. Do or die. Or, rather, do and die. Make no mistake, brother. I would do it again."
He gave Mycroft Holmes a long assessing look. Slipped into his black Dolce and Gabbana shirt. Finally Mycroft could again look at him without flinching, or looking away. Everything covered, the physical damage, the human frailty, the physical nakedness. Demure and asexual again. Acceptable. Sherlock read his brother's sententious mind without feeling, accustomed to it.
"I admit my guilt - I did at the time. So why not charge me with murder? Why release that ludicrous story about a double suicide pact? Why not tell me - ask me? And if I am not being charged, what am I still doing here?"
"You are here while we decide what to do with you." Mycroft sighed and sat on the blue plastic chair at the blue plastic desk with an expression of distaste. His brother stifled a smirk.
"Nothing that has come to light as a result of Christmas Day at Appledore has been what was expected. You have, once again, managed to defy and defeat all expectations."
"My function," was the reply, with a small brisk bow of the head in acknowledgement of the rare and implied compliment.
Mycroft Holmes gave his brother a disillusioned look. Pushed the computer bag in his direction.
"I am returning your laptop," he said. "It won't work here; no WiFi for inmates." he paused. "Unusually like mine in appearance, isn't it?"
"Identical. In fact."
"Quite so," His brother tried to look suitably sour, and failed. "I was convinced that this was, indeed, my laptop. On which sit most of the secrets of the Western world. However, when I opened what I thought was my laptop, retrieved from Appledore, I found…"
"Something that opened with the same password, looked identical. Appeared to have identical contents…." prompted Sherlock Holmes.
"But in fact, did not and was not. This computer turned out to be something of a work of art, and was entirely full of false, official looking information, and was also encrypted to send warning alerts to MI5 and MI6 as well as the computer crime section at New Scotland Yard when opened.
"Someone…" Mycroft used the word very pointedly. "…..someone had gone to a great deal of trouble to lure Magnussen into a trap - and convict himself - as soon as he tried to use that laptop."
"Well - what did you think I was doing while I was away recuperating? Teaching myself to knit socks?"
"Possibly. Who knows with you?" A pause that was meant to be censorious, yet failed. "So instead of you heading to Appledore set upon treason, with a laptop full of state secrets, you went to Appledore with a joke laptop full of tricks and traps. Which had nothing to do with breaching national security."
"But to ensure it."
He watched his little brother look away then and suppress a smile.
"What I would like to know," he added earnestly, "Is how you did the switch? So that I would fall into a drugged sleep hugging to my breast nothing more than your box of tricks?"
"Opportunity is always the key. Did a quick swap when you stepped outside in front of me for that cigarette break."
"Leaving me to find my own laptop propped against the wellies in the hall later. And not realising until after I had opened the laptop I only thought was mine."
Sherlock might have laughed at the thought of tricking his brother, but did not.
"I could have sympathy for you. If I really thought you were drugged. But you reacted far too quickly, didn't you? You could not have been out cold for an hour - as you should have been - to have got to Appledore so quickly."
"Quite right. Well spotted. You see, I could not understand why you had inflicted a visit to the parents onto poor Wiggins, even if it was Christmas. That only made sense if he was there as your assistant, to oversee some action you could not because you were elsewhere.
"But as far as I knew, you did not plan to be elsewhere. So something was going on. And then Wiggins proved such a terribly helpful guest to Mummy in the kitchen. And then he made punch. And Mary's tea. Knowing his drug dealing history, there was only one construct.
"I took no more than a sip of the punch and then did the old watering-the-plant-on-the kitchen-windowsill trick. Watched Mummy slump in the chair and drop to sleep - with Wiggin's keen eye on her - and then Pops did the same thing.
"I heard your words with Dr Watson about drugging Morstan. Heard you say you had done a deal with the devil; and realised what that meant and where you were going."
"You did not try to stop me?"
"Stop the man with the plan? Of course not. Officially I may be disapproving, but unofficially, I appreciate you had no alternative but to kill Magnussen. And I could very much see the merits of that.
"I also knew Dr Watson had brought his gun - he would leave it in his coat pocket in the hall, confident he was hiding it in plain sight. He can be very transparent. Still seems not to realise Holmes's automatically go through other people's pockets by some sort of feral instinct. So I knew he would protect you, if needed.
"And then I also understood why you had made him bring his own gun, and you were going into the lion's den without your own: so that with hindsight, officialdom would not mistake Watson as the shooter, because the top fingerprints on the Sig would be yours. To both protect Watson from accusation of murder, and made the killing look unpremeditated as not your gun used. If you needed that as a legal defence."
"Quite so."
"You had intended to kill Magnussen all along?"
"No. But I knew Magnussen well enough to know that dealing with someone so slippery and vicious, I needed a Plan B and probably a Plan C as well. My intention had really only ever been to raid the vaults and destroy the contents. Make everyone safe. Everyone that counted, anyway. Killing him was merely a possibility I had to consider may become a necessity."
"I needed John to believe Mary was my prime focus, so he would come with me and be both helpmeet and witness - I have been far from sure of his loyalty and commitment to me ever since my return from Serbia, though pretty certain of his commitment to Mary, contrary to all evidence.
"My intention had always been what I told him - to have him with me to hold Magnussen at gunpoint while I raided his vaults.
"But there were no vaults. So I had to fall back to the final plan. Because of Magnussen's last move. My last vow."
"That was to the Watsons. Surely?"
"Not quite. In the garden. You said…you told me….I was your dragon slayer. I didn't deny it. To me my silence, my lack of denial…. is….was….as good as a vow. To you. My promise. Made years ago. The roles we were given then. I never say it, but.." he hesitated. "You know it anyway. That I will always kill your dragons for you."
Before Mycroft was able to formulate or even stutter a reply, Sherlock spoke again and cut him off. "Magnussen was just another dragon."
Unable to stop himself, Mycroft Holmes rose from the plastic chair and took two involuntary steps forward.
"You killed Magnusson - because of me?" The words forced their way out slowly, spoken with an air of horrified disbelief.
His brother stepped back and turned away without answering directly.
"I don't think you would be here now unless you had found the true equivalent of Magnussen's vaults. And you have found paperwork. Too much paperwork?"
"Sherlock, there are times…." Exasperation, astonishment. Almost affection.
"When you find me almost tolerable? I'll take that as a compliment, brother. So tell me."
Sherlock Holmes slipped on his jacket and remained standing, still close to his brother. He leaned forward a little.
"Do we have to stand this close to talk so the CCTV does not hear us? Or have you been a cunning big brother and had it turned off? Just for a little while? Secret government business and all that?"
His taller brother tilted a look down at him, abashed at being found out. Was there anything Sherlock ever missed?
"Good egg. That means we can step back a bit and talk properly. Now I know." He sat on the edge of the bed. "So tell me, brother mine. You must be dying to confess it all."
"Stop being sarcastic. It suits you too well."
"Second nature, merely."
They smiled at each other. An observer would not have been reassured.
"I took a team into CAM News. And an architect, and a surveyor who had the building's plans. It took two days to find the room you had said was there. A secret door in the master bedroom behind a wall mounted cheval glass. Narrow stairs to a huge space above the penthouse and just below the roof, described on the plans as a service space.
"Full of computers and filing cabinets and security boxes. We are still doing primary assessments. I suspect it will take years to evaluate and utilise all this material. If Magnussen had used it all…" Mycroft shook his head.
"Already I can tell you there is much material Magnussen gathered for blackmail and corruption that will be of great value to MI5 and 6. Customs and Excise. And probably the City Of London Police as well as the Met. And all for truth and justice, now Magnussen's legacy. How ironic is that?"
"I am probably more amused than he would have been."
"Indeed. Your result, though. Your victory."
"Thank you. I am aware you did not find it easy to say that. So I am vindicated?"
"Don't try to appear naïve. It does not suit you."
"Then there is something you still aren't telling me," Sherlock probed.
"I would appreciate it if you could be a little less astute occasionally."
"Runs in the family," he observed. "Tell me, Mycroft. You owe me that."
His brother signed and shook his head..
"I owe you….." he began, and faltered. Candour for once, candour his brother deserved and had earnt, but he was still hating having to deliver it. Hating but needing.. "Too much. Apology beyond words. For all I did not tell you. Do for you. Feel I could and should have done to have lessened…."
"Stop it. I don't want to hear that. Do not abase yourself before me. Save that for your masters. If you feel you must grovel to someone. Never to me."
"Sherlock. Please.".
"And don't ever - ever - plead. I can't bear it."
Mycroft Holmes watched some spasm of anger or shame pass through his brother and waited until he was able to look back up at him and meet his eyes again.
"The only thing you should apologise for is bringing me out of Serbia. You should have let me die there. Nothing has been right since then. Least of all me."
Another long pause. Mycroft felt bound to fill that space, to continue his debriefing. Give his brother time to get a grip.
"You were needed. You are always needed. That is both your genius and your burden."
"Yes."
"I will always be there for you." Seven words that seemed picked out of the sky at random.
Sherlock Holmes gave no indication of having heard the words, and said nothing more. So Mycroft continued.
"There was so much material in this secret room I had to order in another team to help take everything away. The CAM News staff were not really cooperative - I think everyone was stunned.
"Because there were suddenly so many people about - Anthea is so terribly good at organising people that even I become superfluous - I went down to Magnussen's office on the news gathering floor to see what else I might find. My special task, I felt.
"In a locked drawer of his desk - so kind of you to have taught me how to deal with that little hindrance, by the way - I found his current files. Who he was concentrating on…."
Unusually, Mycroft's voice again stumbled to a halt.
"You found our files. Yours and mine." Sherlock Holmes's voice was low and slow.
"You found the originals of those photos of me. And something else? DNA swabs with my name on? Fingerprints on tape ready to use to incriminate me for a crime if I did not play ball? Falsified blood tests for me - showing I have HIV or similar? Yes?"
His brother looked down into his face silently and without blinking.
"Oh! I see! And he had done the same for you, too? Your blood? Your fingerprints? Rumours about you manufactured and ready to roll? False proofs of sado-masochistic practises, perhaps? Sexual deviance? Because of your lack of a life partner, ordinary human contact? Mycroft?"
"I deal with evil on a daily basis, Sherlock. I thought there was nothing that could shock or surprise me. Well….apart from you on a good day."
He tried a small, pinched smile and his brother, unusually, smiled back as a purely human response.
"I have met Magnussen casually at many events. Receptions, drinks parties, that sort of thing. It would have been so simple for him to have lifted a glass I had used and left my prints on. And the thought never struck me.
"While you were in hospital he stumbled against me going up some steps at a reception. Caught hold of my hand as if to support himself. The glass in that hand broke and cut me. He was profusely apologetic, took the glass from me, went to find a first aider. He had planned that, I now realise. To get a sample of my blood. It was very cleverly done.
"I stood in his office yesterday and realised you were right. Had been right all along. I had had the man under my nose and yet had been duped. Me! This man was not just a businessman, not just harmless. But a true predator.
"I had not believed you. I had thought you were swayed, distracted.….getting too close to him. Because I could see how much he was attracted to you; and I did not know what you were doing…because you were making it look as if you were attracted to him, too."
"I thought you were supposed to know me?"
"We learn something new every day, brother mine. Even I am not immune. But I also realised, seeing all this material, remembering all your warnings, that he was indeed heading for me. To create his trap and blackmail me. Because he thought I love and seek power like him.
"I realised you had always known that truth. That you and I were to be his next targets."
The younger brother smoothly took over the narrative,
"At Appledore Magnussen explained chain of leverage to John. He said you were the most powerful person in the country - apart from him. That was the point I absolutely knew you were his ultimate target. You specifically.
"The old case of Jack and Ellie that Elizabeth had first brought to me and kicked all this off was very weak from the start. I could not believe how seriously she was taking it. But I knew she needed help. It was too personal for her to hand to MI5 to resolve. So she came to me.
"What struck me about the case was how Magnussen was not developing Jack's scenario to influence Elizabeth. But to work the Ellie Sondersun connections - her husband's place in the Danish Parliament, and on the Wamberg Committee; the connection of the Jaegerkorps, the Organisation for Security and Cooperation in Europe.
"Logically Elizabeth should have been Magnussen's next target after Jack. Unless Magnussen knew what few people know. That Elizabeth is an assessor and judgement maker. That you are the man with the true influence, the power behind the power. Kingmaker, mover and shaper.
"Knowing Magnussen was a shark who circled in from the edges to hit his prey, it was logical that prey was you.
"Also by then I had been approached by Kitty Haig - who had been Kitty Riley and had prior contact to me through Moriarty that she could use to contact and influence me. Not only did she work for Magnussen, it was also clear he had sought her to be his employee. Had pushed her towards me.
"So he had been interested in me, working his way towards me, for a long time. I had not realised. But that showed another route - me - to lead him to you. Because he perceived me as your only weakness."
"Because you are." Three words. A rare admission that rocked Sherlock Holmes, made him narrow his eyes and scowl. But reserve comment and continue.
"It was no huge leap to recognise you as his ultimate target. I had to act. And before you ask why I did not tell you….I had to act without government interference, which you would be compelled to bring in if you knew. Also I knew your stance on Magnusson - a rare blind spot. Safer not to alert you and have you stomping all over this. Restraining me, or stopping me."
Mycroft Holmes exhaled an angry breath, looked searchingly at his brother. But did not interrupt. The logic was infallible.
"To discover Magnussen was physically attracted to me was a shock. I do not want or expect anyone to be attracted to me. My blindspot. So I had to work alone. Stay alone. Far too personal a lever to reveal to you, Mycroft."
There was a long silence. Sherlock motionless, Mycroft unusually now pacing the room.
"You put up a good smokescreen. I thought you were having an affair with the man. Something I have never considered about you ever before. Emotional terrain I could not cross.
"But yesterday I realised the truth, Sherlock. Plain unvarnished truth. You killed Magnussen to stop his blackmail happening. To protect me. To save me. And that is why you were so harsh towards me - even more so than normal. Why you hit me at the Guildhall. To create a smokescreen of mutual dissonance."
There was silence. Mycroft Holmes silently urged his brother to break that silence. To admit, to explain.
"You have been overworking," said his brother calmly. "Go home and catch up on some sleep." It was the same tone of voice he had used to urge Mycroft to have some more punch on Christmas Day.
"You don't want to discuss this?"
"Do you?"
"No. But I must ask you one thing more. Because other people will ask me, I need your answer. You say you killed Magnussen for me, for Morstan, for the others…..how much of that decision was made for you? For revenge?"
"Revenge? You purport to know me. Why would revenge motivate me?" Sherlock Holmes shook his head. "Do not ask me to bleed over you, Mycroft. I put myself in peril by going to Appledore on my own in the first place. I made a mistake, and am still paying for it.
"Eventually I realised that mistake was the best thing I could have done. I don't have to tell you the rape was foul - you have seen the photographs. But it served me well in two things.
"It showed me that Magnussen was indeed a cruel manipulator who would stop at nothing, act quickly, and take any chance. And that by abusing me he had fed his fascination for me. A fascination I could manipulate to my advantage, giving me the hold over him that he thought was his hold over me.
"I won't deny the rape was cruel and damaging. Not...anything...new to me. But without the advantage it gave me I would never have brought him down. Every tyrant has a weakness that topples them eventually. And I was Magnussen's.
"So no. I did not kill him for revenge. I would suffer his rape again for that advantage it gave me. I will do anything I must to win. Especially when the stakes are so high. You know that."
His brother was shaking his head, unable to find words. Sherlock Holmes watched him without sympathy.
"Are we done? he asked.
Mycroft Holmes remained speechless. His brother shrugged, turned away and covered himself with the duvet again.
Goodnight, Mycroft."
"Sherlock…"
"Thank you for the clothes, Mycroft. It would be nice if I could leave here with you, but that would be too much to expect.
"You know where I will be when you come again. To deliver me of my fate, and what my punishment will be. Punishment for executing a criminal mastermind. And for being right. 'Twas ever thus. Close the door when you leave."
TO BE CONTINUED…..
Author's Notes:
Paddington Green Police Station in London is England's most important high security police station. A typical Sixties police station of concrete and glass panels, it has 16 high security cells below ground level with a separate custody suite. High profile terrorists are detained there, and IRA suspects have been questioned and held there, as were the 7/7 London bombers.
A Ferguson suit, turtle suit or anti suicide smock was designed by Californian nurse Lorna Speer in 1987. Bulky and tear resistant it is made so it cannot be twisted into a noose. Basically two squares of quilted material with adjustable straps to fit. Awkward and demeaning to wear.
The Howard League For Penal Reform: A UK charity working for safer communities and prison reform.
Panic Room: A safe fortress room within a building, much used in mediaeval times, and fashionable for the rich in modern times. A good lock and an impenetrable door are basics, with food supplies and WC facilities. Can also include armaments, air filters and suchlike to ensure impregnability.
Top hole and tickety boo: Top hole is an Edwardian phrase for excellent or first class, and comes from the practise in games like cribbage for high scores to be marked at the top of a score board with pegs in holes. Tickety boo comes from the early 1900's and thought to be derived from colonial India, the Hindi phrase 'tickee babu' which translates as 'all right, sir.'
'Twas ever thus: a much repeated parody of as phrase from a Thomas Moore poem of 1817, that was used in Dickens' Old Curiosity Shop and others. Meaning nothing changes.