Free Fall

„Hurled headlong flaming from h'ethereal sky/ with hideous ruin and combustion down/ to bottomless perdition."

Paradise Lost

With the pain of sudden brightness having intruded upon my sense of vision still acute, another sort of pain jolted through my soul. It made my heart throb violently with a sense of loss, and something else. I stood dumb and stupid, my eyes fixed on the wall above Mycroft's bureau.

I had never seen the two pictures before in my life, but there was no question as to whom they portrayed. The vibrancy of color was too familiar, composed by someone who knew well both his craft and his subject. That both pictures were painted by the same hand was apparent from the style of execution, although completely different techniques had been applied.

On the right, there was a more or less realist view of a woman in her early twenties, reclining supine against some kind of headrest, knees pulled over to one side. Her watery grey eyes, which were directed at the spectator, had a cool, expectant expression. Her right arm lay across her lap, partitioning her body, which was wrapped in a gauzy, transparent sea-green material, in its midst. Her left arm fell relaxed by her side, following the line of her well shaped body. The gauzy stuff covered only the left half of her chest, leaving one full, white breast bare. The richly flowing auburn hair provided an attractive contrast to the pallor of her skin.

Equally revealing, the picture on the left was, however, less personal, less direct. This impression stemmed from the use of a modern, blurry style I dimly remembered having seen before at an exhibition in Paris, but also from the fact that the woman had her back turned on the spectator, her face featuring only as a vague speck in the mirror she was using. She was wearing nothing besides her garter belt, stockings and briefs, plus a brassiere she was about to unhook. The color of her hair, represented by a reddish cloud, was repeated by a flower in a vase by the mirror.

It didn't take Sherlock's speechless fury to let me know I was looking at likenesses of my Aunt Cathy. Like her mother before her, she had worked as an artist's model, and I had seen other, though less successful, attempts at a reproduction of her beauty. People had occasionally compared the two of us. But in the humbling presence of these pictures, I knew I looked nothing like her, was nothing like her. A superficial family resemblance was the only reason Holmes had sought comfort with me - an act of desperation, nothing more, nothing less. I couldn't pretend otherwise.

We must have provided a pretty sight, for Mycroft chuckled his delight. „Where did I get those? Well, I came by them, my boy. London is a flourishing market for a lover of the arts, after all. One can always find a good bargain."

„A bargain!" Sherlock bared his teeth. He radiated such insane rage that I took one step away from him, lest he run amok. „Those pictures were in the possession of Lord George Lewis and the artist, Lorenzo Burini, respectively!"

„They were." Mycroft inclined his head in the affirmative.

„So it was you who killed him! I thought as much." I saw his hands flex and close alternately. His chest heaved with labored breathing.

„And if it were so? My dear boy, there have been times, I was told, that you would fain have killed him yourself. Consider the deed as a favour." Mycroft rested against his bureau, both palms on its surface, and turned up his face as though studying the pictures. „It is deplorable though, he was an admirable artist. Well, well. He could have risen high, had he considered painting subjects more worthy of his attention."

Sherlock made an involuntary movement, as if to dash at his brother, but I caught him by the elbow. „Don't!" I hissed. It was all too clear what was going on. Certainly, Mycroft was carrying a gun on his person and was only hoping to provoke his brother into violence. Even if he were unarmed, someplace over yonder, there lurked the almost inhuman creature he had hired for his protection.

„There, there!" Mycroft crossed his ankles, obviously at his ease and enjoying it all very much. „You know I never approved of your decision to endow a person of that ilk with our good name. It is fortunate there is no surviving offspring from this imprudent connection…we have, I trust, seen enough to judge on the quality of such a product."

I was, again, forcibly holding on to Sherlock's elbow. His free hand had laid over my hand, trying to take it off. At Mycroft's words, however, his fingers dug into my hand rather than getting rid of it. It was quite painful, and I gasped, but did not attempt to remove it.

„But now, I see how matters stand", Mycroft continued with a malicious glance at us. „You intend to repeat the experiment - and with the same poor raw material as before! Worse, I might say! Sherlock, have you observed the parentage of this girl? An Irish country rube for a mother, and a straying alcoholic for a father! Should our family, then, be degraded in this manner?"

I knew he was trying, for a change, to provoke me, but my blood was still boiling, partly because I knew he was speaking the truth. Yes, he had done his research well. He knew exactly what would hurt most, and that was, the plain and undeniable truth. How I had always loathed and despised my mother, taking to flight at every turn, seeking refuge with Aunt Cathy! And my father, worse than a disgrace, had probably squandered my younger sister's innocence for more alcohol, resulting in her muteness ever since.

„Don'tcha worry", I said between my teeth. „My family is less keen to secure kinship wiv yours than ya might fink."

„Well I'm glad to hear it! I would not want to be the last of my family to be an idiot. And your aunt's progeny was, I must admit, not a pretty sight."

„How is it even possible that ya saw `im?" I spat. „ `e was born long after ya was revealed as a traitor."

„Oh, you may be unaware I possess a little holiday residence on the Sussex Downs", Mycroft returned, carefully scrutinizing his nails. „As a lone walker equipped with field glasses, it was fairly easy to watch you at play, or Sherlock smoke in the backyard, or your aunt push her perambulator across the fields. I used to follow her around now and again." He glanced up to make a face. „She would stop to take it out, at times. Very ugly to look at."

Sherlock, meanwhile, had managed to get free of my hand. Straightening himself, he rearranged his sleeve, flicking back the shirt cuff. „Mycroft, this sort of amusement has been going on for long enough. I suggest you decide on whether you will let us go or finish us off, and then act on your decision. Inconsistency is quite intolerable to me, and I would prefer to see this business through to the end. So would Miss Morris, or I'm much mistaken."

„Quite so." Mycroft nodded his approval. „Sherlock, I appreciate your death wish…oh, you will die in the end, of course. It shows a remarkable consistency on your part. However, as I implied earlier, I am reluctant to soil my hands with blood. I would much prefer if somebody else could take on this unedifying task - Miss Morris, would you oblige?"

I gazed back at him, and my heart turned to water. So this was what all his talk had been about, all these accusations against Sherlock. He had hoped to win me over, to poison me against his brother until I was quite willing to take his instructions, and become his executioner. Seeing that he could not incense me in this way had angered him, therefore the insults against me and my people. And now, he would not hesitate to force me, if I didn't act voluntarily.

„Why?" I screeched weakly.

„Why not?" Mycroft smirked. „Does it not seem extremely appropriate? My brother ruined and terminated so many women's lives…why not play the game the other way round, for once?"

I turned my head, looked at the bloodless face of the man I had, indeed, held to be culpable for my aunts death for such a long time it had been hard to get rid of the notion. I had witnessed many incidents of violent strife between him and my Aunt, a lot of hardness, unfairness, even cruelty on his part. Especially his refusal to accept the blow of fate and resign to bringing up a retarded child would have been enough for many women to put an end to their life. Could there be some truth in Mycroft's accusations?

In spite of his pallor, his gaze was steady. He did not speak, and neither was it necessary. We looked at each other mutely, and as before, my mind was alive with memories of our life and times, ever since, as a little girl, I had cast my first awed look on him at the flat in Baker Street. So was I to be the one whose hand, though involuntarily, should put him to death? It seemed unreal, and yet, maybe Mycroft had made an appropriate decision, albeit on a plane different from his petty wishes and ambitions.

It seemed like a long time before anything happened. Perhaps he wanted to get the most out of the spectacle, or perhaps it was just me, experiencing time as a process of stringy quality, viscous like treacle. I saw the ogre step from the shadows, drawing closer with infinite slowness. He retrieved two fire weapons from the recesses of his shapeless clothing, on of which I dimly recognized as Uncle John's revolver. The other one undoubtedly was Sherlock's, taken from his pocket whilst we slept.

Mycroft crossed his arms before his chest, reclining against his bureau with a sneer. He seemed to enjoy it all very much: My dumb confusion, the trembling of my limbs. Sherlock's deathly pallor. Yes, he had set it all in scene very neatly. He would let me do the dirty work, and his ogre would dispose of me. Due to a lack of practise, I was an execrable shot, even at this short distance. Depending on where I hit, Sherlock might live long enough to witness my own liquidation. All in all, a fine piece of revenge.

I dug my teeth into my lower lip. How much hatred had I seen in my short life! The constant fighting between my parents, between my mother and Aunt Cathy. The utter detestation of Aunt Mary against Sherlock, who, according to her, had gambled away Aunt Cathy's life, a conviction she had passed on to me. And my own hate, hate against most anyone, against my parents, against the girls at the shop, against Sherlock, against even Kitty herself, always better, always superior.

The ogre had now stepped up to me, standing close by my side. I closed my eyes, just to hear Mycrofts jeer: „Any thoughts, or last wishes? Sherlock, you may want to kiss your friend good-bye. She is, after all, doing you a great service, ending your wretched life."

„Go to Hell, Mycroft Holmes!" I heard Sherlock curse him. He had recovered from the first shock, and was now obviously loosing his temper. I knew it was not death itself he dreaded, rather that Mycroft would delay it to toy with us.

„Manners!" Mycroft tutted. He advanced a little from where he had made himself comfortable as a spectator of the show. „But as you are so very impatient, we will humor your wish for precipitance. Udyr!"

I felt the sudden pressure of cold steel against my temple, reopening my eyes. Udyr was holding one of the guns to my head, the other one he pressed into my hand. It had a clumsy, unfamiliar feel to it, and I suddenly wished I had acquired some skill with a fire weapon, so as to be able to complete my terrible task in one go.

Mycroft was now very close. He sneaked up to where Sherlock waited for me to act, standing right behind him. His hands were laid on his brother's shoulders as if in a caress. „It is modest of you not to ask for a last favor!" He said into his ear, so low I could only just understand it. „Your demands were few even as a child…I can hardly remember you asking for anything, save for books and that foolish violin. Therefore I will present you with a gift before you pass away. You want to know what it is?"

And he inclined his head even closer to his brother's. „It is a clear conscience, Sherlock. Something you will appreciate…you, the virtuous, the saintly do-gooder." He smiled derisively. My finger curved around the trigger in a desperate desire to pull it, but there was the Argus-eyed guard by my side, and the iron-cold pressure against my temple. Meanwhile, Mycroft continued.

„I have seen many things in my time on the Sussex Downs…I told you about the field glass, about the sport I made of stalking you all like ignorant animals. I saw many things…"

Sherlock's pupils had turned to the right, as if that could help him to see the man who talked to him with a silken tongue. His hands, hanging limp by his sides, twitched with suppressed wrath.

„I saw, among other things, the death of your wife…the superfluous little wench." Mycroft laughed quietly. „You believe she precipitated herself down the cliffs out of unrequited love for you? She did not." More laughing. „I shoved her."

I am not sure what exactly happened. There was a terrible roar, like the approach of thunder or an earthquake, and the two men were down on the floor. I started, my whole body tensed with shock, my hands cramped together…and there fell a shot. A shot, I did not know how, I did not know whither, but I heard the awful howl of the ogre, stumbling back and letting his gun drop to the floor. It slithered across the stones as the impossibly tall and broad man, in spasms of pain, pressed his hands to his guts, blood spouting out between his fingers.

Some seconds had passed before I realized that I had released the shot.

In the meantime, Sherlock had forced Mycroft to the floor, both hands mercilessly locked around his throat. The man struggled, his hands working his chest as if that would avail him to get free. I rushed after the gun Udyr had dropped, and picked it up with a nervous glance toward the door. The shot had undoubtedly alerted the guards, for there was a great clatter of feet out on the stairs.

I whirled around to the fighting men, and within an instant discerned Mycroft's intent: His spidery hands had managed to extract a pistol from his shirt front, and he was struggling to direct it at his brother, who in a mindless rage tried to strangle him. I did not think. I fired.

Sherlock jumped to his feet, and tripped backwards with alarm and amazement. His eyes shot a gaze at me: Bewildered, but at the same time alert to the danger that approached us.

He came at me, and grabbed my wrist so that with a pained yelp, I let go off the weapon. He dragged me across the room, and viciously kicked in one of the windows. It was shattered to a billion tiny shards, strewn across the floor.

It was this picture of gleaming little pieces of glass I had in my mind during the following second, not really awake to what was happening. Only the rush of air and the helpless pedaling of my feet informed me that we were in a state of free fall.

Hiya!

That was it for Mycroft and his proxies! If Sherlock and Fanny are not going to break their necks, we can look forward to a happy conclusion to the adventure! I hope to install the last chapter before Christmas.

Love, Mrs. F