A/N: Hello, it's been a while, and I do realize I've taken my terrible, sweet, time to finally get this chapter here. Thank you for all your patience if you're still waiting. You have my utter and forever adoration.
And we're so close to the end now, one more chapter following this and an epilogue.
Enjoy reading and please stay safe during this pandemic wherever you are!
Warnings: PTSD, separation anxiety, manipulation, unhealthy coping mechanism, alcoholism, implied domestic abuse, implied child neglection, toxic relationships.
8.
"Worried?" Mycroft's assistant stepped forth to stand beside the blanket, a safe distance away, her presence detected far sooner than when she clearly came into view. Arthur had always harbored such a fondness for her, bashfully calling her name with adoration often saved for a younger friend. Jane, the boy would crow, that is wonderful. But Brandt hadn't forgot how Jane, wonderful Jane, calmly put her fingers on Arthur's shoulder, her body sharp and her eyes coldly bright amid the group of trained killers her superior had ordered to capture him.
"Who wouldn't be?" Said Brandt, keeping her movements within sight. He had gotten better since Arthur's retrieval, but his mind remained restless, his hands still and ready. Separation anxiety, the therapist had pointed out something along that line.
"He grows on you, doesn't he?" Jane commented, heels hidden among the short grass, deliberately playing their game of rhetorical questions. Her gaze finally settled on the boy currently dozing with his head pillowed by Brandt's suit jacket, lying near Brandt's stretched-out leg.
The day was gifted with a bit of gentle sunlight, nice enough to be sitting under the sun and not feeling overheated, so Arthur had insisted to be out, little palms squeezing his larger hands, offering reassurance Brandt hadn't realized he needed. For days now, the arrival of the man named Alistair had disrupted the delicate peace of the manor, throwing it into unrest that had even the housekeeping staff on edge.
Brandt had heard tales from the hired helps about the man, about his frequent strolls in the forest surrounding the ground, his seldom appearance to dinner, and his flippant disregard for the ire of the estate's master. Brandt knew from Holmes of the man's involvement in Arthur's return and his relation with an even-more-elusive character who was rumored to be the child's blood father. He also had witnessed Alistair's outrageous posturing towards Arthur personally, old grudges for a boy hearing not his name before. It set off all of Brandt's alarms, having this kind of disturbance so close and being unable to eliminate it, let alone being appreciative of its contribution by principles. Arthur was regularly ill-at-ease facing such an evasive and antagonistic relative, which made Brandt agitated in return. Any more showdowns and Brandt would throw caution to the wind and engage in some serious bloodletting fistfights.
So, off they went, leaving imposing and ominous figures behind, the grand and ancient mansion an elegantly dark spread under the horizon. And Jane was now towering afar, backlit into gentle, warm lines, saying "In our first meeting, the boy was barely conscious, curling in Mr. Holmes' laps after our departure from his father's home. I'd thought it was just a favor called in, a political situation. But then he called me by my name, which is supposed to be known only by a few, a very dangerous few."
At the time when Mycroft trailed him with snipers, a custom-made notebook opened to spill aloud Brandt's details - his name included, Mycroft had said his name as if it was knowledge, as if it was a weapon. Brandt had reiterated with calculations and deadliness, a will to destroy at the expense of his own self to escape. Even now, he didn't appreciate Mycroft Holmes' manipulations any less than before despite the fact such methods had led him to a dear thing. Because Holmes was a brilliant man, a meticulous man who had moves and plans in dangerous games, whose existence could bring harms to the ones he loved if his enemies were determined enough, if the man himself was determined enough.
To such a man, caring could be a disadvantage, could hurt irreversibly without hope for recovery.
(The child is safe.)
To such a man, names were power, tools, intentions. Given and spoken rarely without motives.
(I want you to keep it that way.)
At that time, Brandt was indifferent enough, angry enough, to accept the job. Until wide green eyes looked at him, saying You're Brandt, William Brandt. Like his name should be familiar and safe, should be uttered with trust and affections. Arthur's hands had never flinched away from his, the boy never shying away from his protection. The child hadn't yet understood to tighten the heart placed in his wrap besides keeping it close.
It was not until he was called with tenderness that he knew names could be secret, and sacred, and beloved.
So he kept silent on the matter Jane mentioned, not quite trusting himself to say anything without his throat closing up. And Jane was as though a hound after vulnerabilities, just as she was trained to do, yet her voice was far gentler, either in mercy or for a deeper attack, "That was when I knew for certain that the boy is special, that Mr. Holmes cares a great deal about his well-being."
"Did Mr. Holmes express concerns about my liability?" Asked Brandt, no hesitance in admitting his faults. He wasn't blind to the generosity he received, nor was he blind to his failures after the generosity he had received. He listened to Arthur's soft breaths but dared not touch the soft hair in reach, his stance always in position to shield. It had been mercy, in a way, that he had been out of it when Arthur was taken, or else he would go mad in his search, all too ready to hurt somebody. But the fact he had not been there also killed him every day thinking about it, imagining the horrors Arthur had been through, the bruise on his cheek, bite marks on his neck, rope burns on his limbs. Those had healed so well one wouldn't believe they existed, though Brandt could recall every one of them vividly, anguishing over them with rage underneath his bones.
"Mr. Holmes did express his concerns," And Jane was also a stone-faced truth-teller, and she didn't stop talking then. "He, however, sees how much you have come to care for the boy, and how much the boy has come to love you so readily. Mr. Brandt, Arthur loves you enough to bear no doubts about the good things you deserve, enough to make us believe in the chance you deserve."
"It had stopped being a job since the second you started."
A purpose. A reason. A will.
("Captain Brandt," a hand clutched on his arm, the grip warm with blood and gritty with sand. "Captain, Brandt, William. William, listen."
"You need to get out. Brandt, you need to live. Go.")
He'd only ever known how to be a soldier; he'd only ever known he may not survive tomorrow; but now, maybe, unbidden, he knew he had a reason to live for. So, he didn't watch Jane walk away, didn't thank her for not staying to watch him red-rimmed in the eyes, didn't have to leave the one he loved to be alive.
John knew a thing or two about leaving. About being left behind. His father had favored tough love and his mother distant to protect herself when Harry and he were young, impressionable enough to crave attention even if it was promised with damage and pains. Harry had dealt by being careless and spiteful while John had learned to nurture and tolerate. Even as being a child, John had been asked for difficult things, providing care when he had been stretched thin, refusing to unravel by sheer determination and the knowledge that no one would be there to catch him from his spiraling.
Harry left first without a look back, not even a promise of re-connection; in spite of his sister's inability to watch out for him, John had always hoped she would care, would ask after her brother still living at the house she abhorred. But he soon understood sacrifices did not mean reciprocation, and when he reached eighteen, John went to join the army.
He had saved enough from his tours to apply for medical school; becoming a doctor had seemed inevitable in a way, and being a medic in the army spoke volumes about himself as a person. To serve and to protect. Satisfying his needs even if it was promised with damage and pains. His fingers had been steady when he stood in front of Harry facing his father's rage; and his fingers had been steady when he treated bleeding wounds and lost limbs under a rain of explosions and bullets.
Out in the battlefield, he was the most alive.
Then a shot, a ruined shoulder, damaged nerves, John left the army and felt abandoned in a room too crowded and a gun not even under his name. That was when Harry came back into his life, by accident or by fate that hadn't been determined as cruel or merciful, but it ended up with John appearing at her doorstep, crippled with a cane, staring at Harry's haggard, tear-stained face. And it was like they had never parted ways, John at her side wiping her mouth clear of vomits, wiping sweats from her forehead, as she clung onto him, lamenting her failed marriage and her dependency on alcohol.
"I'm just like him, drinking everything important in my life away," Harry had hiccupped and told him in her hardly-sober tone, miserable enough to demand so much attentiveness that John would forget his own misery. It was a twisted dynamic, one having plenty of practice to become instinctual. "But you, John, you've always been the odd one out. You didn't take after mum's detachment, didn't take after dad's anger, not really. You've kept us together for as long as I could remember. I looked at you then and felt like such a loser. I was supposed to be the older one!"
"Harry-"
"I was angry all the time! I'd wanted to get the hell out of that bloody place!" Harry growled, tears freely down her pale cheeks. "I couldn't even look at you! I couldn't! Why are you always there when I'm at rock bottom?! Even when I pushed you away, you kept coming back. Why are you such a pushover?"
John had told himself to be calm, not letting Harry's words affect him, not reacting in the way he knew she instinctively wanted to provoke out of him. He had been the closest person to her, the one easiest to grasp and lash out; John could vaguely imagine her relationship with her wife in this light, wrought with guilt and bitterness, accumulating until it was too hard to breathe through, to love without hurting. But John had never treated himself as indispensable, was loyal and selfless at his own expense, and his devotion, once gained, was relentless.
"Pushover or not, Harry, I know you want me to be here." John said, his irritation slowly offset by his long-ingrained patience, but not enough for him to touch her again. Or to see her once more after stepping out of her home, gradually coming back to another reality where he was still raw from sufferings and from sympathy denied, invalid and alone in the middle of a London that had never halted its pace, had never been more alienating.
He had stayed till the next morning, leaving with Harry's phone in his pocket as her stunted way of apologizing with left-over traces on its case from a broken vow.
That was to say John had an intimate relation with the act of leaving and of being left behind, knowing the fear of abandonment and the sting of rejections, knowing about love, its deprivation and people's need for it. So when Alfred F. Jones began explaining, John understood him in a way the Holmes' brilliance and cynicism would find outlandish.
"I have a pretty complicated relationship with the old man, what's with him raising me and all." Jones shrugged from his place seated on John's couch, his nonchalance hard to decipher if it was a learned behavior or a personality trait. "Dude was controlling and people were pissed at it, which I, of course, wholeheartedly agreed with. So I left the household, had a big fight over it too. Dude still gives me grief about it till now, petty old man. Anyway, the point is I'd been here, in London, when he decided to do something pretty stupid, and I wanted to keep an eye on him, but-"
Jones lengthened the vowel to be in sync with his hand's movement, which dramatically pointed towards Mycroft who was leaning elegantly on his umbrella and purposefully staying in everyone's direct line of sight near the doorway, where two agents flanking both sides. The rest of Mycroft's men had emptied out from 221B, easing the tension building inside the flat. Despite the older Holmes' serenity, John had a feeling Mycroft had become stiffer the more Jones talked as uncouthly as possible. "- this guy over here told me to get lost because the old man's business was his not mine and then sent me packing to my assistants, had me board a jet so fast I still feel jet-lagged, and put in a few words with my boss so I was under heavy surveillance."
"Which you shouldn't have evaded if you felt, for once in your life, responsible for your own and others' safety." Mycroft taunted. "You are paranoid when there is no need to be, but let reasonable warnings fall to dead ears when they should be heeded."
"The point is you told me you'll take care of him!" Jones exploded, his fist leaving a dent in the armrest, his expression so thunderous the flat seemed to shudder along with it. "I'll keep my promise to stay away as long as you keep yours! But look how it turned out! Arthur was kidnapped right under your nose!"
John tried to hide his surprise at the name mentioned, darting a look at Sherlock - strangely quiet during the whole exchange, his fingers steepling in his usual thinking pose.
"Where did you get your information, Mr. Jones?" Mycroft arranged his lips into a smile that ascertained, whatever or whoever Jones' sources were, they would sorely regret imparting such intel.
"Where do you think?" Jones sneered, not moving an inch.
"I might have thought of quite a few possibilities, actually, Mr. Jones." Mycroft still smiled very unkindly. "Since it's my responsibility to ensure Arthur and his father's welfare, unlike you who had long forsaken the family yet still come poking around whenever you are pleased. Have you no shame?"
"What did you say?" There was a precarious glint flashing across Jones' eyes.
"You've heard me perfectly clear, Mr. Jones. Arthur's father may hold a certain amount of familiarity regarding you, but do you really think Arthur knows anything at all about you? You who say his father raised you, who speak of Arthur with worry and expect recognition from him?" Mycroft said, words soft and cruel. "Let's face it, Jones. You only have yourself to blame for your disappointment because you are self-centered enough to believe in the notion that Arthur's father needs your help in the matter of his wishes, in which, may I remind you again, he has already declined your involvement. And here you are, telling me you will take Arthur away owing to your assumption that you can do a better job than me - his entrusted, legal guardian? Have you ever put Arthur's feeling, or his father's feeling, into consideration if you are to carry through such a decision?"
And Jones fell to complete silence, his golden beatific features turning grim, and it was fortunate that the American man was already in John's chair because he looked like he might need a few minute sitting down and taking in Mycroft's tirade. Meanwhile, John couldn't quite help his stare and knew Sherlock's attention had eventually been caught as well.
Never in his acquaintance with Mycroft Holmes had John witnessed such a display of viciousness and passion, aiming to fry away resisting holds with a backhand precise and painful enough to struck fears and doubts. Between the lines, John was able to parse some clues about a man, who was the child's, Arthur's, father and had once been some kind of a parental figure for a younger Jones. A man who had apparently encountered something unpleasant and possibly perilous by the sound of it, and had consequentially entrusted his child to the most dangerous individual one'd ever met, going as far as naming Mycroft Holmes the legal guardian.
That a person sought Mycroft's help wasn't unusual, but the fact Mycroft had been willing was astonishing. Willing enough to offer safety, to search assistance, and to fight for the right to custody and make sure nobody dares challenge it again.
They should have realized, right back when Mycroft had first showed up at their flat, tense and desperate, planning for a rescue mission, that this was no games for Mycroft Holmes, no puzzles to solve, no operations just to deal with. It wasn't a detached duty towards an all-important politician and his son.
It was personal because Mycroft was invested, devoted.
Just as John came to an alarming conclusion, Sherlock said: "As much as I was amused by your back-and-forth, with Mr. Jones' attempt at annoying my brother until he gave up information, which is highly unlikely in term of intelligence gathering but extremely likely in term of pissing him off, and my brother's heavy-handed manipulations to distract and deflect, how very typical of him, I must refuse your patronage, Mr. Jones. Since it's rather obvious you don't require my expertise any longer due to my brother's firm objections concerning your purposes, and you seem in need of further contemplation anyhow. Excellent."
With that, Sherlock jumped up from the couch, snatching his coat, putting it on in a graceful whirlwind, and directing one raised eyebrow at Mycroft who started to smile very thinly. "Why the wait, brother dear? Lead away!"
John watched those tall figures disappear from the stairway before turning his focus on the man deep in disquiet on his chair still. Sherlock had sent him a look prior to sprinting away to devise with Mycroft – a usual signal for Sherlock to run off to investigate and for John to stay behind to do some damage control.
Sighing, John decided to make another cup of tea. Or two because, technically, he had a guest.
It seemed the scent of brewed tea had a bit of an effect on Jones as, later, while John brought out the steaming tea, Jones had perked up a little to see him place the cups on the coffee table. It took John about three sips for Jones to uncurl his body and wrap his long, sturdy fingers around the warm china. The cup looked comically tiny being cradled close to Jones' broad chest, steams blurring his glasses – hiding the brightness of his sky-blue eyes.
"I don't know what's with you British and your tea, whenever he's nervous or needs to hide the fact that he's nervous, he always makes tea, and if I'm there, which normally is the cause for his nervousness, he will insist on me having some as well." Jones said, sudden like a confession and mindless as though unprompted recollection. "Never mind that I'm more of a coffee person and prefer my iced tea."
John didn't ask who "he" was, quite sure about his own guess, but, "Iced tea?" John was flabbergasted.
And his reaction must be amusing to Jones because he relaxed further into his seat, not drinking his tea but not relinquishing it either, a mirthful grin on his lips. "He was rather baffled like you are, though more vocal and blatant about his disgust. He's a fussy old man, never minces words with me, never really feels pleased with any of my choice."
"You sound like the two of you are quite close." John remarked.
Jones pursed his lips at that. "Used to. Not really now."
"How so?"
"He found me when I was small, not that he seemed really that old either. It was like a barely-grown young adult taking care of a toddler. He messed up from time to time, but we managed." Jones answered, more honest than John had expected. "I remember waiting for him to show up, his presence in the house always bringing me so much joy. That child version of me had not been afraid to ask for his kindness, his notice, and our relationship at the time warranted he also felt free enough to respond.
After our fight though, all of that was cut off, no more special treatments. And then we reconnected, but a lot has changed. We've had many disagreements and conflicts. I try to visit once or twice a year now, even if only to listen to him berating me or what else."
"Was he, or is he still, like a father to you?" John asked carefully.
"No, strangely enough, he's never been a father to me." Jones admitted, his eyes reminiscent, in search of emotions long untold. "He was more of an older sibling, having enough authority to maintain the household and enough intimacy to form attachment. Much of what I know was taught by him. He was a prideful man even back then, you understand; sometimes I'd felt he was hesitant to indulge in softer moments, but he was the first one to guide me in the matter of the heart."
It ached, the fondness Jones spoke with when recalling, as if mellowness could only be found in things lost to the past, such a vulnerable and distant way to love. Maybe some people were wired like that, unable to stand so close to the precious, only capable of being benevolent and adoring at a distance. John thought of Harry and her thoughtless endearment, the way it hurt and tore when near. She had taken to send him things, indulging-yet-practical items that he wouldn't afford; short texts of greeting and regards would be exchanged after each parcel. John kept her gifts either on his person or, if not needed, stacked neatly away.
"Do you think," Jones started. "that I am shameless to come back after leaving and ask him for the same favor?"
"Did you really expect him to?" John inquired instead.
Jones gave a self-deprecating smile, "I did, gosh, I did."
"Maybe expecting him to wait for you, unchanged, was where you were wrong. People move on, Mr. Jones; they adapt and so they change. We can't control others' feelings," John looked straight at those baby blue eyes, a color so very lively and charming, eyes, John thought, that used to be dear. "Nor can we help but harbor these feelings inside us. Needing affection is a privilege of being human, being sentient, although it can be viewed as weaknesses for the vulnerability it shows. We're too human to be left alone undamaged. So I don't think it's shameful to need love enough to ask for it, Mr. Jones."
Jones scrunched up his brows, the corner of his mouth curling down. He looked like he was minutes from crying, still clutching his tea cup now cooled. There was always grief in love loss, and not everyone had the time or the opportunity to grieve properly. It was a vicious circle, in need of love but being refused. It was tragic, the way people built themselves up, hardening their walls to survive.
But, moments later, Jones didn't cry. Perhaps, men like him saw the world falling apart too many times to be torn asunder by a truth too hurtful. Instead, he put his cup on the table with care and got up to his feet, fishing out a gleaming phone that appeared too expensive not to be something of the newest model, so at odds with Jones' endeavor to dress as casually as could.
"Thank you for the talk, Dr. Watson. I appreciate it even if it's been the Holmes' meddling to convince me not to interfere." Jones chuckled drily, wary and harrowed, still sore from all the blows. "I'll steer clear, that I can keep my words on, but I won't be on my jet until this settles. Because I do care about him… about Arthur's father that is. Now if you excuse me."
With the announcement, Jones turned to depart, feet a little unsteady, but not before admonishing, "You can call me Alfred, you know."
Listening to Jones', Alfred's, echoing complaint about stiff-upper-lip British and farewell to Mrs. Hudson, John shifted on the sofa, Alfred's troubled face remaining stark in his mind. Looking out the windows, he muttered "No problem at all" and wondered how it was going on Sherlock's side.
The second he was out on the sidewalk, landladies' goodbyes cut off with a snap of the front door, the call had gotten through.
"I'm listening, Al." Matthew's voice was soothing like solace; they had always been attuned to each other's state of mind. And Alfred was so grateful he felt weak, but he hadn't been on his knees since the Towers and didn't plan to do so anytime soon.
But his throat was clenching. "Matt, I…" Alfred couldn't quite get his words across, yet Matthew was patient and was willing to wait him out, so he took another deep breath and tried again. "I sometimes, sometimes I say harsh things, I've said I hate him, Matt."
Something logged in his windpipe, not quite like a sob because he was not crying, but it was a wounded thing. "I thought he knew I didn't mean anything by it. Or the harsh things I've said and meant, they didn't, they don't affect how I feel about him."
Alfred was trying to keep his breaths quiet now, keeping them low not to overwhelm. "He must've known."
"Alfred," Matthew finally called, his voice grounding, and Alfred held onto that. "Alfred, you have to tell me, alright? We have to start from somewhere, and I won't go anywhere until we do okay? Now breathe."
Alfred did, and Matthew said, "Now, tell me, is Arthur okay?"
"He," Alfred swallowed. It hadn't been this difficult when he abandoned all reasons to come here, convinced that he was righteous, that he still had time. "He doesn't remember anymore, Matt. He doesn't know me, doesn't know us the way that matters."
"How doesn't he remember, Alfred? What aren't you telling me?"
"I should've told you, Matt, I should've." Alfred said, his stomach hollow. "Maybe then you would have told me I was too arrogant."
"Then tell me more, so I can tell you now."
The admonishment was endearing in its factual way. Alfred would have laughed if he felt like laughing. "Months ago, Arthur did a reversing spell on himself. I was visiting, so I found out. He didn't explain why he did it, and I told him he was selfish for hiding, for objecting to aids thinking he was above it." An afternoon in the garden, cold tea and accusations, Alfred looking at him with betrayal and hostility. "I felt humiliated because my goodwill was rejected. My ego was hurt, so I let myself play into his man's game, that Holmes, Mycroft Holmes, and fled back home. I had truly believed, at that time, Arthur wouldn't be able to manage himself and would eventually come seeking my help."
"You were so arrogant, brother. You've always been." Matthew sounded pained but said his piece, and Alfred huffed in distressed admittance. "But even if I'd been there, I wouldn't have persuaded you of your prideful way, nor would I have had the ability to persuade Arthur of his stubbornness. You two have so much in common it causes frictions all the time, you know?"
And wasn't that an indisputable truth either? How irreversible some behaviors were, no matter how inconsequential they had first seemed. Reading between the lines of Matthew's weary remark, Alfred knew the past had been set in stone. Actions and consequences, had he not learned anything about them during his long life?
But he hadn't been aware of his mistake, or he had simply excused himself of the miscalculation, all because he'd thought time was on his side. Not until Mycroft Holmes strong-armed him to see the errors of his way with well-aimed and brutal reasoning. Not until John Watson, with his gentle probing and sensitivity to human emotions, had pressed into the flesh that was tender and aching, doctor's voice no-nonsense and guiding, like saying there is a bruise here, do you see? Does it hurt? My job is not judging you. The Holmes' and Watson's method had worked, but certainly even they hadn't foreseen the full extend of the effects.
Alfred had been reeling, but dread was steadily gaining space within after Matthew's revelation. Regrets had always been a burden difficult to carry. No matter how many he'd had over the course of his life.
"And so you said he doesn't remember anything?" Matthew asked.
"Yes, he warned me." Alfred didn't say but I didn't listen, though he didn't lie about what was next. "And when I'd heard news of his abduction, I thought, this is it. It's time he accepted my intervention."
"Oh, Alfred." Matthew said with a sorrow he refused to think too much about, but the shame burnt deep in his stomach. His eyes blurred, and this time he finally squeezed them shut, biting into his fist, hissing, keening; it didn't matter anymore. "I didn't even realize I've lost him, Matt. I didn't even get to say a proper confession, or explanations, or anything!"
And it was strange to watch the mass of London walking around an island of a man standing with tears on his face amidst the pavement, like he existed but people couldn't take stock of it. Not in this tangible form of something so intangible; in his grief among an unfamiliar crowd, he hadn't wanted them to perceive. Though, if he was in the midst of his own people, they would be able to feel his trembling. This, too, was taught to him by Arthur, who now couldn't even be named lest it brought troubles. Twisted into memories and half-truths. Alfred hadn't known it could hurt him like this.
That being too late could hurt him so much so.
"Target C has moved from Baker. Permission to follow. Over."
"Permission granted. Over."
"Target A and B are still within Premises. Chopper incoming. Holmes in the vicinity. Unable to proceed. Over.
"Await instructions. Over."