Chapter Fifty-Six: A Little Push
Sherlock's blunt indictment brought everything and everyone to a halt. Then, after an exceedingly long time, the spell apparently broke. John was the first to move.
Pouring himself another drink, the doctor downed it and declared, "Just for the tally books: When all this is over, I'm going to need some serious therapy." Hastily sloshing more amber liquid into his glass, he glanced back up at the two men currently looking anywhere but at each other. He shook his head before giving them a mock toast. "We all are."
This loaded, almost-broody silence continued until Sherlock felt like it was roasting him alive. He'd known the truth, of course. Mycroft had practically confessed that day so long ago in 221 B, but there was something about saying it all aloud and not having Mycroft vehemently deny it that made it all the more damning. Sherlock's instinct was to keep going, to yell, scream, and beat Mycroft with every morbid, angry, terrifying, and damning supposition he'd ever had regarding Sherrinford. But he couldn't. He couldn't speak, couldn't focus, and, most of all, couldn't bear to spare a glance at the man who'd practically been a second father to him. Sherlock had a lot of experience with betrayal, had trained himself to expect it from nearly every person of his acquaintance, but this … this felt like something worse than that. It actually hurt. This hurt, coupled with his ever-growing concern for Molly, took over his mind, making him unable to remain calm, to keep to his purpose.
He inhaled, held the breath, and then let it go. Repeated the motion, again and again, trying to get himself under control. You have a purpose in this. Remember that. Love, unlike betrayal, wasn't something Sherlock was as well versed in. It was a sticky, insensible, gelatinous mess of sensation full of incomprehensible rules, a multitude of perplexing obligations, and an ocean of vulnerability which could easily drown the most proficient of swimmers. Mrs. Hudson loved him like only a second mother, favored aunt, or doting godmother could. John knew his flaws, loved and accepted him anyway, and considered him his best mate, but Sherlock had never understood why or could even fathom how that could be. Likewise, Molly had loved him and not only accepted his shortcomings, but seemed to know him better at times than he knew himself. He'd done things to her that no one should ever forgive, but she always did.
Always, always.
The echo of her voice in his mind was too much. Wincing, he fought to purge it from his thoughts with marginal success.
As much as he didn't understand the love these people felt for him—or their foolishness in continuing to unabashedly waste emotion on a git such as himself—he'd always been too selfish a being not to bask in it. Like a basset hound languishing in the afternoon sun, he'd viewed their affection for him as something that would only last for so long. One day, he would cross a line, demand too much, go too far and they would leave him. It was rational, wise, inevitable.
But Mycroft. Mycroft didn't just know him. He was like him. He understood how Sherlock's mind functioned because his mind worked in much the same way. They were genetically and historically bound. That meant something, some kind of deeper, unbreakable bond. But as much as Sherlock has always known that Mycroft had chosen his own ambitions over Sherrinford, he'd never said it aloud. Saying it aloud made it more real somehow, more calculating, and more treacherous. It also made him automatically wonder when his own time would come. When would Mycroft make a similar decision where Sherlock was concerned? This underlying question had been the root of the caustic nature of their relationship all these years.
Well, that and the way Mycroft never minds his own bloody business.
John collapsed on the settee, finishing off the bit of liquor in his glass. "So, Mycroft," he said, his sarcasm so subtle it could almost be mistaken for joviality, "you had another brother, one you apparently had killed. Any other family secrets I should know about? Your mother is the queen's long-lost older sister? Your father is the president of Uruguay?"
Mycroft ignored this attempt at levity. Instead, he inhaled deeply and released the breath with the sluggishness of a defeated man. "I don't suppose," he remarked to Sherlock, his voice soft and holding no trace of its typical haughtiness, "it would do me any good to explain my actions?"
"Will it bring Sherrinford back to life?" Sherlock retorted.
"You know it won't."
"Then save it."
"It would give you a better understanding of the circumstances. You must understand, Sherlock. I had no choice."
Sherlock scoffed. "There is always a choice, you just have to find it. How many times has that been the last thing you've declared before shoving me into another rehab facility?"
"It's not the same thing."
"You're right. My drug use risked only my life. You routinely risk anyone who comes into your path. Well," he continued," anyone but yourself. Can't have Mr. Minor Government Position risking his own neck, can we? Not when the country needs him so bloody much!"
"You have never been able to see the bigger picture!"
"And that is all you see!"
They glared at each other. Finally, Mycroft took another breath and tried again, more sedately than before. "Sherlock, I cannot afford to wallow in the emotion you so easily allow to infiltrate your mind. I must remain above all of that. Otherwise, governments fall, economies crumble, and hundreds of thousands of people die. The self-righteous anger you so callously toss my way is a privilege afforded because I make the tough decisions. These decisions save people. In fact, were it not for me, you would be dead in a drug-infested alley or even now rotting in some prison!"
Sherlock fought to control his temper, but it was a losing battle. "Both are better options than spending one more minute in the company of a man guilty of fratricide! Don't you dare try to reason your way out of what you did, Mycroft. He was Sherrinford. He was our brother. Our brother. Don't you understand that?"
"You are the one who doesn't understand. If I had not intervened, he would have killed—"
"No, he wouldn't have. He was smart, smarter than you and I combined. He was special."
"Special?" Mycroft snorted. "Sentiment has damaged your memory, Sherlock. He was a psychopath."
"No. He loved. Psychopaths can't love. Sherrinford was ... fragile. Psychopaths can't be reasoned with. He could. They don't bond with anyone … not really. But he did. He did."
"Yes, too much. And giving into his feelings is where things went wrong. Sentiment clouds one's judgment, makes one irrational, foolish, and reckless." Mycroft sighed. "A lesson I have spent most of my life trying to get you to recognize. You must learn your place in this world. We all have to."
Sherlock ignored this. "Sherrinford didn't always understand why the world was the way it was. Things we could manage, he couldn't. He needed help. He needed us. He always needed us. He wasn't a lone wolf. He wasn't cut out for this cloak-and-dagger life. You knew this. But you pressed him into service anyway."
"He was needed. No one else could do what he could. It was a national emergency. He had his weaknesses, yes, but I could control him." Mycroft's gaze skittered away as the deceit in those words settled heavily about the room. "I thought I could." His head fell in defeat. "I tried—"
But Sherlock was beyond explanations and excuses. "You used his gifts, put him in danger, and when he became a liability, you had him killed." Sherlock paused before using his final ace. "What do you think Mummy will say when she finds out?"
Mycroft's head snapped up at that. All of the blood drained from his face. "You wouldn't dare."
Sherlock leaned in meaningfully, arms crossed over his chest. "Wouldn't I?"
"But they have grieved and moved on. It's been years. You remember how Mummy was, how inconsolable Father became. He stopped speaking for months!"
Sherlock gave an indifferent shrug. "Well, Sherry always was his favorite."
"Take this seriously. You're talking about tearing apart our family."
"You did that all by yourself. I think it's time our parents knew exactly how sullied their perfect little Mycroft truly is, don't you?" He paused, letting his words fully sink in. "Buck up, mate. They say the truth will set you free. Let's find out, shall we?"
The expression that came over Mycroft's face was lethal. His body went ramrod straight.
Sherlock immediately reacted. "Try it," he said. "I'm not Sherrinford, Myc. I'll see you coming, and I'll be more than ready. Frankly, I'd relish the chance to finally put you in your place."
John stepped between them. "Stop this, boys." He opened and closed his mouth a few times, as if unable to decide what to say. Finally, he seemed to come to a resolve. "Molly is what is important now. The rest of this … stuff … It's going to have to wait."
Sherlock pressed his advantage. "If he doesn't agree to help me save Molly, I will tell our parents." He pulled the burner phone from his pocket, holding it aloft for all to see. "Right this second. Mummy often frets that I don't ring her nearly enough."
"Sherlock, don't be ridiculous. How could you call her? Mycroft has her in hiding, remember?"
"I told you before, John, no one hides from me. Not for long. I have an associate close by where he has them stashed. I call him and he brings the phone to Mummy. It's as simple as that."
Mycroft remained silent throughout this exchange, but stared at Sherlock almost as if he were daring him to proceed. Not one to make false threats when it came to his family, Sherlock began dialing. He'd pressed the third button before Mycroft spoke.
"Your plan to save her is reckless. It isn't achievable."
"Yes, it is."
"I've done the calculations. It isn't. Both you and your pathologist will end up dead, and the chip will be in the professor's hands. There is no positive outcome. As such, the plan will not work."
Sherlock didn't bother to look up as he continued to dial. "Then come up with one that bloody well will!"
"There isn't one. Do you think I haven't already tried?"
"No, I think all you care about is the microchip. Prioritize Molly above that and try again."
"But she isn't more important than the millions who would suffer if the professor gets his hands—"
Sherlock interrupted. "She is."
"She isn't."
"She is to me!"
Sherlock felt the blood rushing to his cheeks at what he'd just given away. But, at the same time, he didn't care. Whatever got Molly to safety. That was all that mattered.
Mycroft flinched as if he'd been struck. Then, without another word, he closed his eyes. Finally, with another breath, he opened his eyes and said, somberly, "Your patholo—" He stopped when he caught Sherlock's glare. "Molly is a unique woman. More patient than anyone I have ever seen—especially when it comes to you. She is talented in her field and has the toughest moral fiber of anyone I have ever known. But even she would have to agree that her life isn't worth—"
Mycroft was cut off by Sherlock slamming him against the wall. "Finish that sentence, brother dear, and I swear it will be your last."
"You're letting your emotions get the better of you," Mycroft grunted.
"Damn right."
"We'd be playing right into Moriarty's hands."
"I. Don't. Care."
"We'll die. All of us. You, me, John."
"So be it, then. But not Molly. She gets away from all of this."
"You're just like him. Don't you see? It's—"
"Enough talk, Mycroft. Are you going to help me save Molly or am I calling our parents?"
A long minute stretched by as the two men stared at each other. Finally, a decision was made. Physically, Mycroft might have been held against the wall, but Sherlock knew mentally, the older man was no longer there. He could almost feel the synapses firing in Mycroft's brain as his oldest brother delved within himself. A million thoughts, a million plans, a million strategies, a million calculations whizzing by, all at the speed of thought. Doubtless, there were ones that would force Sherlock away from his threat; ones that would allow Mycroft to continue on his original, foolproof plan; ones that would put him back in the position of control; and even ones that might just save Molly. It was an incredible sight to experience. It always had been, and not something Sherlock had often been privy to witness. Mycroft generally had already decided what he was going to do long before he reached out to anyone.
Sherlock was highly intelligent. He knew he was. But there was something so far between highly intelligent and what Mycroft was. And Sherlock was counting on that something to be the thing that could save Molly. He'd put everything he'd had into this little push. John had often called him a machine. But, in reality, that was Mycroft. It had always been Mycroft. Weighing ideas, running calculations, discarding, refining, and coming out with the best resolution. Maybe he wasn't as comprehensive or prognostic as the mighty Earl Denton, but Mycroft was still very, very good. It would be enough. It would have to be enough.
Finally, like a high-powered computer that had just completed an intense set of algorithms and come up with a final answer to an impossible question, Mycroft shuddered and came back to himself. He blinked, once and again, and then looked at Sherlock.
"You're going to need to let me go now," was all he said.
To anyone listening, this response was ambiguous. But, for Sherlock, it was enough.
—RE—
Molly wasn't sure how long had passed since she'd seen Henry, but she knew it was longer than he'd originally promised. Besides the man who occasionally brought meals for her, she saw no one. From the number of meals, she could tell it had been approximately two days. But beyond that, she was sure of nothing. The longer Henry stayed away, the more concerned she became.
Was there something wrong? Had the professor returned? Had Henry been hurt? She told herself it was best not to worry about Henry, but she couldn't help it. The professor might be his brother, but Henry was in just as much danger of losing his life around the man as she was. Molly had been around enough psychopaths to know.
She'd used her time well. She'd completed a thorough search of the room and corresponding bathroom, but found nothing to give her any clues as to where she was or even to fashion as a weapon. The cabinets in the bathroom and the drawers in the bedroom were empty. She'd been wearing the thin nightgown and robe for days. She washed herself off in the tub from time to time, but without soap, shampoo, or even a towel, there was little else she could do. Her meals were likewise somber affairs. The only eating utensil she was allowed was a spoon, which her jailer never failed to collect upon his return.
Molly lay on the bed, legs crossed over one another, and fingered the necklace in the pocket of her robe. That was the strangest part of all of this. Why some jewelry from Mrs. Hudson would cause such an odd reaction from Henry was something she still couldn't figure out. However, she couldn't help but think it somehow had been the catalyst to his continued absence.
She maintained her concentration on this. The alternative was that she thought of Sherlock and that only led to missing him and wondering where he was and a whole host of other things that did her no good. Her original plan to get herself killed had clearly not worked. And, thinking about it from this vantage point, she realized it was foolish and reckless. The professor knew all he needed to already about Sherlock. He already had a plan. Yes, she was a pawn in that plan, but if she were dead, he would merely get a new pawn and begin again. She wouldn't be stopping his plan, merely delaying it. Then, someone else's life would be at stake.
No, Molly decided, she would do better to keep her head about her, to work from this angle to assist Sherlock in bringing the professor to justice. That had been her role from her first meeting with Sherlock. There was no need to start changing things now. Sherlock would come for her. She knew that. Maybe he would succeed. Maybe he wouldn't. But she would help him to her last dying breath. He counted on her, and she had never let him down before. She wasn't going to start now.
She got up and went to the loo to relieve herself. She'd completed her absolutions and was returning to the bedroom when the locked door swung open. Henry hurried through, muttering something quick to her jailer before closing the door behind him.
"Molly," he said, motioning her over, "come. We don't have much time."
Molly halted, one eyebrow raised in cautious curiosity. "What? Why?"
Henry sighed and closed the distance between them himself. "Dr. Moriarty has returned and is on his way. I need you to trust me."
Molly recoiled as he put his hand on her shoulder. "Why should I? You could have helped me get out of here. Instead, you waited around for days and now your brother has returned."
Henry's face blanked in surprise. "You can't think—Molly, he would never have let you go."
"He wasn't here."
"He would have known anyway. He always knows. You would have died. I would have died."
Molly closed her eyes in disappointment, knowing he was likely correct. "What do you want now? Trust you about what?"
Henry's hand clenched her shoulder, forcing her to look him in the eyes. "There's no time to explain. I just need you to trust that I am trying to keep you alive as best I can."
"But what about your revenge? If you try to help me, the professor won't help you."
"I thought you said I should let the revenge stuff go?"
"You should. It doesn't mean I'll believe you are suddenly willing to do so."
"I'm not sure I am, but I am going to try. All right?"
"But—"
He spared a glance at the still-closed door. "We don't have time, Molly. He'll be here any minute. Just trust me and obey me without question. OK?"
He stared at her, his grey eyes piercing hers in a way only Sherlock's had been able to do previously. Finally, she nodded, not sure if she had just made a deal with the devil or not. She had little time to consider the matter as the door swung open again. Henry immediately released her and stepped away. All expression fell from his face as if cleaned with one swipe of a cloth.
The professor's gaze darted between the two of them, and a grin appeared on his face that made Molly's stomach harden into a tight knot.
"I apologize for being away from you for so long, Molly. Things needed tending to which required my personal touch. I do hope you didn't miss me too much." He walked into the room as if he'd been expected for tea. "I did leave dear Henry here for company."
Molly said nothing. Two men came in behind Moriarty carrying black equipment bags. She wanted to ask what all this was about, but the warning look Henry sent her kept her mouth shut. Still, the more she watched the men work to set up the equipment, the more dread began to fill her.
Whatever this is, it's not good.
