Sherlock
Mycroft won't leave. Seems to think I intend to… how did Mies put it? Do myself a mischief… And he's got nothing else on at this precise moment. He said as much on the phone. Telling somebody to keep an eye on her and give her the reins, within reason. But in the meantime, I'm allowed to take up a little of his attention.
He's found the broken violin bow next to the armchair. I set it down last night when it became clear I wouldn't have to hit her with it. When I turn back from the kettle, he's toying with it, balanced straight up from his fingers like a candle, wavering slightly, the severed hair trailing.
"Your handiwork?"
"Mies'. Undoing the thing that undid her. If she's nothing else she's poetic."
"And you, Sherlock, are nothing if not foolish, believing something so trivial as a scar, maybe a little nerve damage, will undo her."
Me? Foolish? Mycroft hasn't been keeping up with his research or he'd have known I meant her condition. I should remind him. Mostly so I don't have to be wrong. But it's so very lovely to see him at a disadvantage for once. I say nothing. Actually, I'm content to ignore him entirely so he can just leave, but he's not going anywhere. I pass, on my way back to bed with my coffee, and notice that he's smiling.
Shouldn't stop.
Should just go on ignoring him
I've been doing so well.
…No, can't do it. "Something funny, Mycroft?"
"I thought you were better than this."
"Than what?"
"You didn't correct me. You indicated that you had used the violin bow as some sort of weapon. I implied the assumption that you meant nothing more than the lash to the face. And you did not correct me. Hiding the arrows from the bow, as it were. Now why would you do that?"
And yes, I could stand here and tell him I just liked the idea of him having incomplete intelligence, but really, I'd much rather just be moving on to bed. Curl up. Coffee. Read something. Stay in there and leave him out here until he leaves.
Mycroft calls after me. "There's a part of you that knows exactly what's gone on here. She used you to get to me. Now if you were being sensible, you'd hate her already. I don't even like to guess why you might be fighting that. But do us all a favour and go with it."
And it strikes me, sudden and perfect, Mycroft's not still here because he's concerned about how I might react. As a matter of fact, that's all he's waiting for. If I, at this very moment, were to fly into a blind rage and curse the name of Mies to all the heavens and tear down the walls with my nails and teeth, he'd be off like a shot. That's all he wants. He's staying in case I do something stupid like try to help the losing side.
The revelation is sickening. It holds me frozen in the hallway while he gets up and starts to make himself tea. This is alright. I can deal with this. And someday there will be no shocks left and nothing will leave me useless like this ever again. Right now, as he says, I just have to go with it.
"…This matters to you, doesn't it, Mycroft?"
"The stability of the country depends o-"
"No it doesn't. But you do. There's something to this. Your advancement or promotion or your security clearance level, there's something hanging on this, isn't there?" And nothing else matters. Nobody else matters. Not Mies or Darcy, not Lestrade, not Molly Hooper, not me. Brother, liability, scum, the only reason for him to take an interest in me is when he stands to lose out.
For instance, imagine two children, and the younger of the two tells their mother he's decided what he wants to do with his life, and proceeds to outline his perfectly serious and actually-relatively-sound plans for a naval commission and eventual breakaway from the rigid structure of the military into a life of eventual adventure and piracy. The mother is in a good mood, decides to be indulgent. She smiles. Her smiles are warm and beautiful and very rare gifts. And because the younger has had one and he hasn't, the elder boy interrupts. He outlines, with equal eloquence and logical prowess, both the internal inconsistencies of the plan itself and the contemporary infeasibility of the pursuit as a whole.
What I'm saying is, Mycroft is never happy with any less than the lion's share. What I'm saying is, there's a reason my brother lives alone.
I want to go back to bed. But then again no. No, specifically, I want to go back to this morning, in the predawn. Not to Danielle or her closeness or to anybody, but to the feeling of it. There was nothing. Nothing was wrong. Nothing was about to go wrong. Nothing was looming, and there were no lingering shadows. There's no such thing as peace like that. Like the very first hit, like the very first time, you can chase an empty head like that forever.
I think I might actually be sick of the case.
"You've nothing to worry about," I tell Mycroft. The words come from very far away. My voice sounds like someone else's. But I don't mean it. "I'll stay out it. I'll be a spectator. Now, Mycroft, have your tea and loosen up. But if you wouldn't mind too terribly, after that? Piss off, would you…"
Jim
All over again, fresh as the first, I'm all but overwhelmed by the urge to murder Danielle. "You promised him what?"
"You heard me."
"Confirm for me that it's you that's gone mad and not me."
"I told him I'd hand him Darcy if I could walk." We are still, by the way, exactly where we were before. She's got her head in her hands on the stairwell and I'm in the middle of the room, as far away from anything as I can get with my hands in my pockets. Maybe she should be comforted. Maybe, as common parlance would have it, Dani needs a hug. But she doesn't fucking deserve one. "You're looking at me like I meant it!" she moans.
"Well, he let you go, didn't he? And Person Of Fucking Interest wasn't exactly clinging to your leg!"
"…You're saying I must have looked honest in front of Holmes, and therefore my contact knew me to be a liar."
"You get awfully eloquent when you're cornered, dear."
"I get awfully eloquent when I'm considering murder."
"Oh, you too?"
Shakily, wearily, hauling herself up on the handrail, Danielle stands. Bends her ankle on the first step, but after that she steadies. Gradually approaches, "You can't kill me. You don't have a gun and you don't want to kill me with anything closer. Me, though, I've got none of your dermophobic pretentions and all my options open, so why don't you listen?"
I won't step back. I won't. I'll pull back as far as I possibly can on this spot, but until I can see the whites of her bloodied eyes, I'm not stepping back. Anyway, she's being so eloquent, if I'm ever going to listen quiet like a good boy, this is the time.
"Do you honestly think I would have gone through all this shit the past two weeks if I was just going to hand Jon in at the end of it? I could have sold him out a dozen times before I got out of Goganye. I could be in Hawaii by now. And, Christ forgive me, he never even would have seen it coming. He's effective, yeah, he's brave and strong and loyal, but Jim, he's thick when it comes to these things. You've seen that yourself."
And by now she's getting very close, and I'm considering that step back. But she's waiting for that. That would just make her day. That would mean I was about to relent and concede her every whim without question. As dangerous as the trace of her perfume might be, I won't give her the satisfaction.
…Look at that, she's not the only one who gets eloquent as fuck at times of great stress.
"Jim, I have absolutely no idea what to do. Now," and I feel this next, breathed clammy and fetid over my face, "I never wanted to threaten you, but I'll just remind you, you're in this just as deep as we are. The only thing they don't have on you is a name, so far as I can tell and guess what, Jim Moriarty, I know your fucking name."
"This is a bit beneath you, isn't it?"
"Back to the wall, remember? And you don't like me anymore, remember? So what have I got to lose?"
With the handkerchief from my pocket and her t-shirt between us, I reach out and push her back. I push quite definitely, just about the waist, on the left hand side of her ribcage. Danielle hisses and reels away, clutching it. Staggers against the back of the sofa and hangs there, breathing through it.
Such an actress. I didn't push her that hard. I've had broken ribs, alright? And yes, it's like getting stabbed every time you breathe, but there's no need for these theatrics. That big swollen bruise when she lifts up the t-shirt, tenderly poking at the patchy grey, that's normal. Anyway, she had her chance to curl up in a warm bed and recuperate and would she take it?
"…What if I don't know what to do about it?"
Still hissing through her teeth, "Then you're not the man I thought you were." She glares at me, shoves off the sofa and weaves into her tiny kitchen. I follow. There's a pharmacy wholesale jar of aspirin on the counter and a fair-size dent made in it already. She crushes a few under a tumbler, scrapes the dust in. Wants to top it up with whiskey, but she can't get into the cupboard, can't reach up. Shoulder seems to be fucked… I watch for a while, then get it for her.
Because her shoulder's fucked. Because she can be disabled with the pressure of a fingertip. Because she, in short, wouldn't be giving up a big strong lug like Darcy at this stage, not for diamonds.
So while I'm thinking about what to do she's slugging back this potent, unadvisable mix. It starts to hit her and her eyes drift, wobbling. Under her breath, she's humming, occasionally getting as far as the lyrics. Typical me, she's muttering, I started something I couldn't finish.
"Didn't you just, love… Been bonding with last night's love-song, have we?"
She giggles. Sounding sober, still exhausted, still very much present, "You're so easy…"
Oh.
Yeah. Because it was Ruby who was talking about Person-Of-Interest and his Morrissey thing. Because I wasn't supposed to be listening in on that conversation.
"What exactly did I say in that bedroom that pissed you off so much?"
That I was not yet evil. That I still had time and a heart and if I was only open to it, I could be saved. And what I'd really like to know, Danielle, is what you meant by the word 'saved', because I know for a fact you're not one of these born-again nutters, and what I'd really really like to know is why that would even fecking occur to you, that concept of my salvation, spiritual or otherwise or however you fecking meant it, see first question, and what you think you could ever possibly have to do with any such act whether feasible or welcome or whatever it might not be, and- "Will you shut up while I try to save your mate?"
"Certainly." Holding out the tumbler, "Spiked livener?"
"What time is it?"
She laughs, narrating, "He says, like any of us sleep and time still has any meaning…" Shoves the glass into my hand. I turn it round, away from the print of her lips, before I drink.
"…What do you know about this Holmes fella?"
"Not much. Anyway, I wouldn't rely on him. It's a compartmental system. Honestly, it was just massive coincidence I met the same guy twice…"
"…Say that again."
"What? Rarely meet the same government representative twice?"
"Put your drink down."
"Why?"
"I want you in full control of yourself. Last time I came up with something really clever that hauled your vain little arse out of the fire-"
"Little!"
"-I rest my case. Last time I did that you got all funny round the eyes and offered eternal gratitude. I need to know you can hold yourself off before I chance it again."
