Warning: PTSD - if this triggers you, please refrain from reading.
A/n: Er, quick update for once. I'm sorry for all the previous wait; I must be the worst at updating. A lot had happened for the past year: a transfer, two funerals, several disputes, then a move. Now, I'm on a two-week break, slowly sagging in relief and letting the narrative come back - so the update.
Through some considerations, I've decided to divide the 7th chapter into halves, and this is the first half. It deals with the aftermath of Moriarty's kidnapping and a start of snowballing tension.
Take a breath and enjoy.
7.
John did not like intruders, not one bit; but living with Sherlock Holmes was to endure any sorts of intruding that ranged from eccentric to outright murderous. Since that day when Sherlock shed John's truths to light with barely a sharp look in his direction – left John tensed and furious and awed at the bareness of being seen-through by the brutal elegance of fine deductions that discarded every notion of common-sensed courteousness in a St. Bart laboratory –, John had learned to live with a different kind of breached privacy. However, seeing a young man standing by the flat's windows and looking out of them while slowly taking sip from his coffee, John couldn't help his battle instincts kicking in.
"It's quite a view from here, yeah?" The man said, figure relaxed and grin bright, but John saw defined muscles layered by comfortable civilian clothes – could catch the trained stance of a military combatant, the seemingly unmindful yet sturdy fingers holding the coffee cup not adverse to forming steely fists. The lights streaming through the glass gave his bomber jacket and jeans a faded shade, adding many years to the man's outer youthful contours. John kept still at the doorway, eyes trailing him and ears straining to pick up any possible disturbed sounds coming from the flat downstairs of Mrs. Hudson.
Despite her diligence of feeding Sherlock homemade biscuits and making him tea when John wasn't there to ascertain his flatmate would have an appropriate amount of nutrient intake not to die from absentminded self-starvation – that was before the criminal population of London could get to him first –, Mrs. Hudson had been all fretful about the risk of bullet-decorated walls resulted by not a few of Sherlock's recent sulks. Any kinds of distraction in the form of guests or clients would be heartedly welcome in this time period, on which Sherlock's patience was frayed enough to turn their landlady's motherly fuss into maternal distress. Having said that, when John trudged through the front door of 221B to be met with Mrs. Hudson's usual greeting, she had not mentioned the presence of clientage.
"Er, sorry for coming up into your flat without forehand appointment. Normally, my assistants would just set them up for me, talking about proper procedure or politeness or something. It's not as though I'm prone to break-ins and stealth, those guys always making a big fuss out of nothing – worse than my Boss." The young man said in a quick American-accented ramble that was strangely loud and clear. Even though he didn't seem to raise his voice, a touch of authority boisterousness was instinctively apparent. A curious mixture of natural exuberance and practiced superintendence did not quite unnerve, but was able to make people alerted. It strangely reminded him of Sherlock's speech, that sense of vitality and intellectuality demanding attentions – sans the side of ascendancy which oftentimes associated with Mycroft though. And this relation somehow eased a bit of John's guard from battle-readiness to wary scouting.
"And may I ask who you are?" John queried, grocery bags still held in front of his chests as if some sorts of body armor.
"Oh, my bad. The name is Alfred F. Jones; you can call me Alfred though!" The man laughed a little, sounding bright and rueful rather than rude, yet John had to admit his manner remained blatantly amiss. Nonetheless, between experiences dealing with Sherlock's nonexistent etiquette, whenever shamming wasn't involved, and time spent in the robust ways of the military, John had built up quite a hardwearing tolerance for things regarded as indecent by the larger populace.
"You're the doctor of the duo, right? John Watson, isn't it? You're tougher than I'd expected," Jones continued briskly, all air of aged quiescence evaporating to his enthusiastic talking, "Do you want me to help with all of those bags? Seems heavy to hold them so long."
John blinked his eyes, "Uh, no thanks. And yes, I'm the doctor, John Watson. You're here to meet Sherlock, aren't you?"
"Yep! I have some issues that need his expertise and, shall I say, connections," Alfred smiled a little at that, the discreet glint in his blue eyes too brief to properly alarm John. Much.
"He's not here right now, as you can see, but I believe he'll come back soon," John said, and Alfred made a bemused face with twitchy lips and creased brows as he realized John hadn't offer any apparent invitation to stay and wait.
"I know barging into your flat without permission would flip your switch, but I have to be secretive about it, lest that guy catch a whiff of my scent and kick me out. My assistants and Artie will have my hide for this if they ever find out," Alfred exhaled a put-upon sigh, and intended to take a sip from his coffee cup, yet refrained when he noticed John's 'And?' face.
Alfred pulled a pout, giving him a look of the peculiarly and petulantly young, albeit, to John, this show of adolescent crossness contrasted starkly to that glimpsed efficiency earlier, which made the man too volatile and unpredictable to be deemed safe. Perhaps, Alfred had acknowledged the ex-army doctor's disquiet by a glance at John's unmoving stance and firm grips on the papered bags, because he then resumed looking out the windows, the dust lingering on the panes floating amidst the rays of sunlight bringing immemorial grimness back to Alfred's outlines.
John detachedly wondered where all of these men came from, with their breaths of the antique in youthful appearances. He remembered the one named Alistair, standing smooth and severe under the degraded darkness of that warehouse stinking of blood and abandon, too idle and unshaken facing with Mycroft's terrible silence and agitation. Sherlock had whispered a restless "That makes no sense."
That once-upon-a-time night of a pink-cladded corpse and a murder-plotting cabbie, in the taxi's cramped back seats, Sherlock said, "I don't know. I saw." Then, what Sherlock had seen of Alistair, and, afterward, of Arthur – the tiny creature clutching at Mycroft's pants, aware and wary, still bruise-blued in the cheek after the strike of a mad man, but trustful towards the solace offered by the hands belonging to another distancing himself from all affectionate human touches -, had not been fathomable. And the unrest of it all unfurled in a whirlwind known as Sherlock's inquisitiveness and single-mindedness, John traipsing behind ruffled and resigned.
"It's understandable that you don't trust me," Alfred commented, blue irises shining pale gold, before the man turned his gaze to look at John straight in the eyes, face set serious and determined. "But this is a matter of utmost importance. Although I can't guarantee absolute safety doing what I will ask of you, I solemnly swear I'm speaking the truth and am coming here only bearing good will."
Quietude settled between them after that, the organized chaos of the flat's interior spreading out in patient anticipation. John dragged out a sigh, wishing he could free his thumb and forefinger to rub away the throbs pulsing in his temple. At least, the man had sounded less of a villain prattling on his masterminding soliloquy, and more of a person earnest for help. "Alright, take a seat while I'm putting these groceries away and making tea," John finally gestured at the available furniture, muttering, "A lot of tea."
That being said, one could estimate the supposed time for a person to arrange two-bag worth of grocery and set up some cuppa did not necessarily take much, yet life was surprising and irritating in the aspect that things could definitely go downhill in a matter of seconds, let alone prolonged minutes.
First – it started with Mrs. Hudson's startled high-pitched exclaim after an astoundingly-soft opening at the front door – to avoid disturbance from surrounding crowds, as John belatedly noted. Second – there were heavy footsteps cautiously tramping up the stairs, John narrowly missing hurling Alfred across the kitchen when the young man rushed in telling him to stay crouched and hidden behind the table. Third – black suited men appeared in his flat, John unable to make out exactly how many of them there were from the back of Alfred's figure, shielding him from direct harm way.
Next – as tension almost escalated into a promised fight, Mycroft Holmes treaded in like he owned the space and was utterly unimpressed with any breaths drawn from anyone in it.
"Alfred F. Jones, I've been informed of your uninvited presence, and am currently tired of your meddling ways when I finally find out," Mycroft reproached, lightly brandishing his brolly as if he would be the one to strike first-hand amongst a group consisted of well-trained combatants. Still, guessing by the edginess lining the older man's imperturbable features like the ruffled feathers of an enraged bird-of-prey, John wouldn't doubt Mycroft's rare show of brute force.
Alfred seemed to also expect this, but instead of a peaceful withdrawal, he shifted his feet firmer, back ramrod-straight. "Even if you end up sending me off, the process of transferring will still take some time before things can be finalized. And if you believe that you could force me to stay put through such duration, you've badly mistaken, Holmes. You know what I come here for."
"Yet, I cannot allow you such a request," Mycroft cut back, looking knowing and cross as though this conversation had happened many times previous and still proved to be as pointless as always. "It is a matter of national security, and once you step in – as you're prone to do, it will become a matter of international risks."
Alfred's ready retort was sliced in half with a sharp rise of Mycroft's palm, "And I've been holding back concerns from my own council and higher-ups, so I don't want to worsen the issues by letting in outside interference, not in the name of sentimentality you appear to be holding so dear that you permit it to affect something this delicate and hazardous. What would he say to such a behavior?"
Even though John couldn't see Alfred's expression, from the way his body tensed up, John knew it had to be as thunderous as his tone, "Don't you dare say that!" Before more ado could occur, Sherlock stormed into the flat, voice heavy and deep from sprints and indignation, "Mycroft! Who bloody tell you that you could terrorize my landlady, and then densify my flat with your personal man-tools and your annoying disruption to my flow of consciousness? Get lost!"
John swallowed back a fatigued sigh, his head giving a throbbing twinge. So much for tea.
"What are you looking at?" Arthur asked, gazing at the red-haired man taking up space near one of his room's windows – green eyes that were a shade darker than his observed the scenery outside. The older man's continued mutism added up to Arthur's nervousness; if Brandt wasn't curling up around him on the sofa, lightly dozing off with his clothed tender belly pressed warm against Arthur's back, the child wouldn't be short of running out of his own bedchamber. Instead, he leaned into Brandt's proffered closeness while rearranging his brown blanket to cover parts of his lithe shoulders and Brandt's upper side with what little cloth was there of the small piece of worn fabric. Once satisfied, he settled to open the book set aside a moment ago, ready for a read-through.
"There has been a disturbance to the land," the red head suddenly announced, snapping Arthur's attention from his book. "Did you feel it?"
Arthur stared at him for a while, and then lowered his eyes to glance down at his fingers fidgeting with the worn edges of papers, "No, I didn't." Had the child noticed the man's acute contemplation on him, he gave away no indication except for his usual bashfulness. "Ever since – since Moriarty, he has been," gone, "silent," Arthur finished, shutting his lids from the daylights, fingertips restlessly tracing along the slightly-coarse texture of the book's pages. He was able to sense the man – Alistair – scrutinizing him, his hair standing on end under the speculation, but there was a palm weaving its way to his abdomen and holding onto it comfortingly and protectively. Brandt's breaths had turned calm and steady. Arthur relaxed from his defensive hunch.
Alistair just made a dismissive sound, "It's nothing crucial, though. At least, for now. Some don't seem to grasp the meaning of restrain in term of politics and security, so they are unwittingly and steadily causing trouble, even if all begin with good intentions in mind."
With his eyes still closed, Arthur pondered how Alistair could always make his sayings sound like musing, as though the man had too many thoughts to keep them completely at bay. It must be exhausting, to be so fraught of reflections.
"Do you know him?" Arthur questioned, opening his eyes again to memorize the collected lines of Brandt's facial features, his own small face resting down on Brandt's folding arm. From this angle, he could both keep guard on Alistair and ascertain Brandt wouldn't be too alert to have enough downtime.
As partially expected, Alistair did not deign him an answer. Regardless, Arthur was too tired of half-truths, and his nerves too threadbare by ominous absence and stillness, to care for any withhold information. The frenetic blurs of capture brimful of feverish laughter and screams smeared his memories foul, he cowering underneath their madness, heaving bile and sobs, desperately wishing for those familiar, devastating and callous eyes to pierce his tender soul with green attrition.
Days ago, Mycroft had gazed at the boy, his placid face pale and cold because he could not afford to be tattered while his brown eyes keened – fractured and remorseful. Bloodless and faint tracing drew down the bruise on Arthur's cheek, slightly quivering as though spluttering breaths tugged from a man who had been struck. As Arthur leaned into that frayed touch, his body bent by what had been done to him and pushing forwards for what little comfort was being brokenly provided, Mycroft flinched back like he had been burnt by such a mere instinctive need of any animal younglings. The examination room of the private hospital had been so white-washed it bared wounded emotions in undeniable starkness. A small figure shrank down under beatings and denials, when the other – larger, darker – pulled back from guilt and apprehension.
A soft wail was yanked out of Arthur's throat, clotted with fear, shame and hurt, tears shuddering down his little haunted face; and Mycroft was suddenly there kneeling beside the armchair, gathering his charge into what rugged, belated consolation he had left of an embrace. The hug fitted awkwardly between the two of them, but Mycroft's chests had been yielding, the set of his shoulders impenetrable while Arthur's hands were ruining his sharp suit with their clutch – Somehow, it's enough for a child to feel safe, and a man to feel remitted.
The agents had averted their eyes when Mycroft, lightly ragged around the edge and soiled in the vest, stepped out of the hospital room, palm hovering near the exposed neck - where biting marks had faded to normal tender skin - of Arthur, who carefully tried to wipe all of the wetness from his face without dirtying Mycroft's pants in the process.
May Arthur not understand the full significance of Moriarty's wantonness, but he comprehended – felt – the pains that had to be inflicted to satiate such dark ambition. The proofs of it scattered in Brandt's still-crippled health, Mycroft's flayed-thin alertness, and his own tightly-twisted defense. Even when gone, the insidious weavings of Moriarty's genius continued to bring forth suffering and terror - Something horrible and very-much real outside the border of his stained dreams. People came out of it affected and changed.
"You must know him," Arthur said to the profile of Alistair, offering his own postulation, feeling overwrought but undeterred, "The look you gave me said you'd expected to see him in my eyes." Less fevered than Moriarty though.
"Then again, I can't muster enough energy to speculate on your expectations, and I find your disappointment uncalled for," the boy slowly ranted on, as though in a trance of indifferent confessions. "And despite the fact that Mycroft has been very high-strung owing to one wreck after another, he still allow your presence in the mansion, no matter how watched. So, please, have some consideration and try not to test his temper. Jane is getting worried."
Having uttered his share, Arthur waited for any possible replies, but, as far into their recent acquaintance as he could see, Alistair was not known for his mercy in term of tact. Though, before Arthur could shrug off the whole grudging conversation and return to his book, Alistair proved himself to be above anyone's bidding and would crush any forms of control from others by doing the exact opposite, or simply taking matter into his own hands.
"In a way, he left you hurt and vulnerable," Alistair commented, paying no heed to Arthur's frustrated glare, his speech seemingly-unrelated to any of the previous questions. "He made sure you know of pains, and therefore, suffer because of it." The older man leaned against the wall then, his intimate weight stretching shadows to the surface, hair and eyes dampened red and green, "Wounded you may be, black and blue from sufferance, but you are so small."
That last syllable was gnashed between rows of hard teeth, and Arthur jerked a little away unnerved. He felt Brandt's tendons tense up, before the mass of coiled, protective body woke up and unfurled, collecting Arthur in a dear hold. Brandt almost let out a growl in response, but calmed himself, leaving a vague rumble against Arthur's back as its ghost. The boy placed an unshaken hand on Brandt's forearm.
"You're so small that, even when you are barely able to secure yourself under all of the pressure, you seem so light," Alistair ploughed on, the personal web of Arthur's sketches and notes littering around the man's feet – spread out as though telltale. "There haven't been regrets yet, no condemnation or lamentation. However twisted it might seem, he appeared to have nurtured you."
In a corner of Arthur's mind, left was the reminiscence of an existence bearing the face of a much older him and the attitude of his foretold survival. Since he came out of the darkened shelter under the bed in one of Mycroft's various rooms, remembrances steadily flowing back to his awareness, Arthur had first come to feel troubled and aggrieved at such appearance. And, now, with that insistence abruptly vanishing, he found himself grieving for a loss that shouldn't be this tremendous – missing the life-worn voice leading him through gloom before steering him back toward brightness: It's going to be fine.
"What have he done to you?" And Alistair mused in a soft, deep voice, the whisper of something foreboding, "Did he even realize he'd made such a creation out of you?"
"The lord said, go to the devil. He said, go to the devil. All along dem day. So I ran to the devil, he was waitin'. I ran to the devil, he was waitin'. Ran to the devil, he was waitin'. All on that dayI cried - Power!"
"To the Devil, indeed, Jimmy."