After days of nothing, of no contact or useful intelligence whatsoever, there had been a sudden eruption of activity – so sudden that he had been unable to get out of attending his current meeting. Not without arousing suspicion at any rate. Of course, the small coterie of individuals in the room with him were well aware of Sherlock's current assignment – that wasn't the issue – but with less than four weeks having passed since Mycroft placed his brother on a plane, there was the distinct risk that his handling of the situation might be called into question. Saying 'Yes, but it's Sherlock – you take over if you think you can do better' probably wouldn't absolve him of blame.
He had been keeping one eye trained on his silenced phone for the past forty minutes – Anthea was under clear instructions to contact him if there was a credible development.
"Not keeping you from something, are we, Mycroft?" Sir Edwin asked with a smile that barely hid its condescension.
"My apologies," Mycroft replied, hoping that his own smile was equally disingenuous. "A small family matter."
His colleague gave a dry laugh.
"Hardly narrows it down in your case, does it?"
Again, Mycroft managed to force his features into a tolerant grimace. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed that at least Lady Smallwood appeared somewhat more sympathetic.
Five days. Five days since Sherlock had gone 'off-grid', in Belgium of all places. Up until that point, the patterns of activity from the tracker in his phone had been consistent with a man pin-balling across the continent in response to new leads, but suddenly it appeared that Sherlock was enjoying a slow sojourn in the Low Countries. After attempts to contact him failed, local field agents had been dispatched to track him down – only to find the phone in the possession of a local homeless man. His story was that the owner of the phone had paid him a hundred euros to 'carry it around' for a few days.
Mycroft had barely had time to think of a suitable expletive to direct at his brother before word came from trusted sources that Sherlock was back in London. Then it all started to make infuriating sense. The latest development – one picked up via police scanners – had taken place just minutes before this meeting; a man vaguely matching Sherlock's description had been involved in a violent altercation a matter of hours ago, near the Tobacco Dock in Wapping. Mycroft had immediately requested security footage from the area, and found himself watching an unkempt figure with curly hair tangling with three unsavoury-looking characters, laying all three out on the pavement before limping and stumbling away from the scene and eventually out of sight of the cameras.
Somewhere in London, Sherlock was tending his wounds – and he had better have a good explanation of the circumstances that led to their acquisition.
Moments before entering the meeting room, Mycroft had given the order for agents to search all of the usual locations; it was now after seven pm, and Sherlock would soon have the cover of darkness on his side.
Sir Edwin was droning on about fiscal estimates again when Mycroft noticed the screen of his phone light up. A message from Anthea.
Reports all back. Your input required for next step.
It didn't sound particularly encouraging, though he assumed that Anthea would have worded her text slightly differently if he was going to be required to recover a body from an East London gutter. Giving his apologies, and turning a blind eye to the inevitable exchange of looks around the table, Mycroft quickly excused himself before any questions could be asked. He was fairly certain that his colleagues could agree on next year's tea-and-biscuits budget without his help, anyway.
Anthea was waiting for him outside his office, along with the agent leading the taskforce.
"I take it you haven't found him?" Mycroft asked, handing Anthea his briefcase.
"Negative, sir," the agent replied. "We've carried out exhaustive searches of the locations on the list. No sign."
"You've been to Leinster Gardens? Parliament Hill?" Mycroft probed. Sherlock's favoured bolt-holes were constantly changing, but it seemed unlikely that an injured man would travel very far.
"Yes, sir. The only location remaining is Big Ben."
"They need special authorisation," Anthea clarified.
With a sigh, Mycroft took out his phone again, preparing - not for the first time - to make the call to the Lord Great Chamberlain's office. It was always slightly painful to have to explain that one's little brother was suspected of playing hide-and-seek in one of the nation's best-loved landmarks. But in the middle of this thought, the realisation hit - and Mycroft's hand dropped away from his phone. For a moment, he was almost embarrassed. How could he have missed what was now so blindingly obvious?
"Bring everyone back in," he told the agent. "Anthea is going to give you an address, and you're going to take two of your best agents with you and meet me there."
The lead agent nodded his agreement, and was about to take his leave when Mycroft had a further thought.
"Better make it three agents," he said, over his shoulder. "My brother doesn't have a strong history of coming quietly."
000000000
Molly Hooper wasn't answering her phone; the landline had clearly been disconnected at the wall, and her mobile switched off. Mycroft could only think this was at his brother's urging. There was no sign of occupancy from the front of the property – curtains drawn and lights turned off – but a cursory inspection by one of the agents confirmed that there was a small light visible at the back of the flat.
Aware that his brother could be armed – and still unclear as to what Sherlock was playing at - Mycroft advised the agent to be careful when he approached the front door. It seemed faintly ridiculous to be ringing the doorbell, but there was protocol to be followed. He was hardly surprised when the agent turned and shook his head.
Oh, Sherlock.
Mycroft closed his eyes momentarily, fingers curling around his umbrella handle. When he opened them again, the lead agent was watching him, waiting.
He sighed.
"Force entry."
They weren't in the business of battering rams or reckless use of bodily force; instead, while one agent covered the back of the flat and two covered the front, the latch mechanism was expertly removed in a matter of seconds. There followed an immediate flurry of activity; the agents entered, rooms were swept, and when Mycroft himself finally entered the hallway, he saw that two of the men had their weapons trained on the open door to Molly Hooper's bedroom.
"Target located," one of them said, rather needlessly.
When Mycroft moved past them, he was greeted by the sight of Sherlock pointing a gun in his direction. He was shirtless and bloodied, and his other hand clutched his chest. On the floor by his feet was a grimy, blood-streaked t-shirt and a dark hooded sweatshirt. Behind him, to one side of the king-size bed, stood Dr Hooper, dressed in what Mycroft took to be pyjamas, and visibly shaken.
At least it wasn't the kind of in flagrante that a small part of Mycroft's brain had feared. When Sherlock realised that there was no threat of physical harm, his face broke out into a slightly crazed smile.
"Oh hey, bro."
He tossed the gun (not the one he'd been issued with, Mycroft noticed) onto the bed, and sunk down onto the floral-patterned duvet. It was only then that Mycroft had the opportunity to take in the contents of a medical kit strewn across the bed, and a washcloth on the bedside table next to a bowl of reddish water.
"My apologies for the manner of our entrance, Dr Hooper," Mycroft said, glancing briefly her way before rounding on the sorry-looking figure close to her. "Sherlock, in case it had somehow escaped your understanding, now is the point at which you tell me what the hell is going on."
"I'm alright, thanks for asking," Sherlock replied, holding the left side of his chest again.
"Yes, I've seen the footage of your recent little contretemps," Mycroft replied, trying to keep an even tone. "How fortunate that, as usual, the injuries acquired don't extend to your mouth."
Even in the corner of his vision, he could see that Dr Hooper's whole posture had changed; where she initially she had been unnerved, rattled, he now strongly sensed a simmering hostility. Her hands moved restlessly.
"I'm doing your bidding, in case you've forgotten," Sherlock replied, testily. His breathing, Mycroft acknowledged, sounded shallow. His left eyebrow was swollen, a wide gash bisecting the bruise.
Molly made a move towards his brother, but seemed to stop herself, instead picking up a roll of gauze bandage from the bedcovers by where she was standing, squeezing it in her palm.
"You go missing for days, with no means of contact, and then you resurface in London without warning and I find you – here."
Mycroft hadn't intended to spit out that final word in quite that way, but he was beginning to feel his ire build.
"Perhaps you should have told me about the tracking device in my phone," Sherlock snarled.
"That was a measure taken for your safety!" Mycroft retorted, causing his brother to stumble to his feet and Dr Hooper to audibly gasp in alarm. "Entrusting it to a vagrant in Antwerp didn't do you a lot of good tonight, did it?"
"Sherlock-"
Molly was, it seemed, attempting to coax his brother into backing down; Mycroft saw him blink, swallow and then resume his defiant stance.
"I had legitimate leads back in London," Sherlock replied, his jaw set.
"In which case you should have made contact," Mycroft pressed.
"You would have said no."
"There are ways to do these things."
Sherlock looked up at him from underneath dishevelled, matted curls.
"Mycroft, I know what I'm doing."
"What you're doing," Mycroft said, meeting the insolent glare head-on. "Is jeopardising the whole operation, everything we've worked for – and your own life, on the evidence of tonight."
He saw Sherlock slow roll his eyes.
"I'm beginning to think I should have stayed in Belgium," he drawled. "The chocolate and waffles are pretty good."
This glib utterance ended in a rattling cough that caused Molly to finally leave her mark and come to his brother's aid. Firing a look of quite remarkable venom at Mycroft, she moved in front of Sherlock, taking one of his hands in hers and using her other hand on his shoulder to guide him back to a sitting position. A moment later, she was placing a glass of water in his hands, bringing a throw blanket up to wrap around his shoulders. He let her do it, his gaze fixed on Mycroft, but his eyes occasionally watching Molly Hooper's ministrations.
"When you found yourself needing medical assistance, you should have made contact," Mycroft reminded him. "There are ways, and you know it. How many people do you think saw you making your way here? I can't imagine you were very inconspicuous. An unmarked ambulance could have been there within minutes."
Sherlock set down the glass on his knee.
"Molly is a doctor."
Mycroft narrowed his eyes at his brother.
"Yes, of dead people, if I recall."
He saw Molly bristle, although her back was to him. Mycroft had imagination enough to picture her expression.
"Weeeell…I was sort of nearly dead," Sherlock replied. "Thought I might die."
Mycroft responded with his most withering look, which he hoped sufficiently conveyed his exasperation. They weren't getting anywhere, and certainly Sherlock didn't seem to be going anywhere.
"Dr Hooper, I need to talk to my brother in private," he said, causing Sherlock to roll his eyes again.
But Molly Hooper showed no sign of going anywhere either. She looked at him as though he was suggesting he might drown her cat.
"Sorry, but I don't think you appreciate how badly hurt he is," she said, her tone uncomprehending. "Sherlock has multiple contusions, a laceration that's possibly going to need stitches, a possible fracture to his eye socket, and I also need to rule out a punctured lung. If you want to talk to him, you're going to have to wait until I'm finished."
After she'd finished speaking, Molly Hooper remained rooted to the spot. Mycroft realised after a beat – and with a flare of incredulity - that she was expecting him to leave, and that nothing would move forward until he did. Even Sherlock looked mildly taken aback by this; his brother's gaze, Mycroft noticed, lingered on his defender for a few seconds before he turned to face him again, offering a look that roughly translated as 'what she said'.
Mycroft opened his mouth, more out of reflex than anything, but Molly was already at work, tearing open an antiseptic wipe and encouraging Sherlock to tilt his damaged eye socket in her direction. Reluctantly, he withdrew from the room. The door, which he had pulled behind him, fell open again, just a few inches; when Mycroft looked back, still smarting, he saw Molly Hooper standing over his brother, her fingers holding Sherlock's hair back from his forehead while she carefully cleaned the wound. The pathologist's expression was one of fixed concentration laced with concern, but when Sherlock said something to her – in a low voice that Mycroft couldn't hear – he saw her briefly smile in spite of herself.
It was frankly a relief to be back in the hallway, where he could at least pretend that this wasn't happening. Pretending would be easier, he decided, if there weren't four highly-trained MI5 agents standing there awaiting his order, and so he directed them to return to the car. At the same time, he texted Anthea about sending out a locksmith (it was probably time to consider keeping one on salary).
Mycroft couldn't help but think that Sherlock would be enjoying making him wait; it would take his mind off the pain of his injuries more than any local anaesthetic.
Eventually, the bedroom door opened again and Molly emerged first, his brother appearing behind her. Sherlock's face had been cleaned, and the gash above his eye sutured (the stitching was surprisingly neat, considering that it was done by someone more used to practicing their needlecraft on chest cavities). Sherlock had pulled on the filthy hooded sweatshirt, but it hung open, revealing the bandages that tightly wrapped the top of his chest. Mycroft couldn't help but observe that Dr Hooper didn't look any happier.
"He's suffered serious trauma to the chest," she said, swallowing. "But as best as I can tell without an x-ray being taken, his lungs are functioning properly."
"Thank you," Mycroft replied, with an approximation of a gracious nod. "I will take things from here. Sherlock, the car is outside."
He made brief but pointed eye contact with Sherlock before turning and starting towards the door.
"He'll…he'll need to be properly monitored. He needs to rest."
Mycroft slowly turned again. Molly Hooper, whether she realised it or not, looked very much as though she was forming a barrier between him and his brother. Behind her, Sherlock let out a dry cough, his body leaning heavily against the doorframe.
"Further exertion or trauma could still lead to a pneumothorax," Molly continued, her hands in fists by her sides. "And then he wouldn't be capable of going anywhere for a very long time."
"You needn't worry, Dr Hooper," Mycroft replied. "Sherlock will have access to the finest doctors in their field."
She looked as though she wanted to debate it further, but apparently had the good sense to recognise an argument lost.
"I'm not going with you," Sherlock said. His words, spoken in a hoarse growl, made Dr Hooper turn.
Mycroft exhaled heavily. His brother's dishevelled countenance, his physical frailty, his utter bloody-minded defiance; it was too familiar - although instead of battling the grip of a debilitating drug habit, Sherlock now seemed to be in thrall to something else, even if he wasn't acknowledging it. His injuries were a mere convenience, Mycroft was sure of it.
"Surely we don't have to go through the 'easy way, hard way' routine again, Sherlock?" Mycroft said, rubbing his temple. "It's embarrassing, and frankly a waste of everyone's time. Now get in the car."
"Nope. Not happening."
"I'm sorry - I'm assuming you've overlooked the fact that there are four government agents in a car outside who are very capable of making it happen?"
"How about we forget about them, and you make me, hm?"
"For God's sake, now you're just being juvenile-"
"Stop!"
The intervention came, of course, from Dr Hooper, and when Mycroft turned to look at her, she seemed surprised that the word had escaped out of her with such vehemence. Sherlock was looking at her, too.
"Can...can we just stop this?" Molly continued, finding a more measured tone. "Please."
Mycroft had to concede that he had allowed matters to degenerate sharply, and he offered her a conciliatory nod. Even Sherlock, he noticed, looked chastened, which was a not insignificant thing. The effort of arguing his corner had also left him breathless, and in that moment, Mycroft saw a flicker of his true vulnerability.
"I…I know that I don't fully understand what Sherlock is involved in," Molly said, addressing Mycroft. "And I know that you probably think you're doing the right thing, the best thing. But this isn't helping. Sherlock came to me as a doctor, and as a doctor I agree that he does need further examination, including x-rays of his chest and his eye. But he's not in any immediate danger, and I don't believe he's in a fit state to go anywhere tonight. He needs to rest and be monitored and be comfortable. I can update you first thing in the morning, and then you can...make whatever arrangements you need."
At the end of this speech, her gaze flicked briefly to Sherlock, who was looking increasingly hollow-eyed and queasy by the second.
Mycroft cleared his throat.
"Could you permit me a moment with your patient?" he requested.
Molly gave a wary nod and said, more to Sherlock than to him, "I'll go and make up that ice-pack."
She disappeared into the kitchen, and Sherlock turned to Mycroft, dragging a hand across the sandpaper scruff of his jaw.
"So," he said, coughing again. "Have I won a few hours in the sick bay?"
Mycroft narrowed his eyes.
"You're fortunate that I trust her more than I do you," he replied. "Although saying that, I'm sure you'll understand if I leave some light surveillance in place outside the property?"
Sherlock gave a dismissive, apathetic wave in response, and started to head in the direction of the kitchen. He didn't understand, he simply didn't comprehend – and the frustration of it was maddening.
"You know you can't keep doing this," Mycroft said. His brother stopped, but didn't turn. "'Popping back' whenever you feel like it. That was never part of the plan."
"Good for the air miles, though," came the gruff reply.
"You know perfectly well what I mean: turning up here, playing the wounded hero. It has to stop."
This time Sherlock turned, and gave a short, incredulous laugh.
"You think I'd do this for…effect?" he asked, gesturing to his face.
Mycroft thought it best not to answer that directly.
"Whatever your reasons might be," he said instead. "You will end up jeopardising Dr Hooper's safety, not to mention the success of the operation. Don't make me doubt your motivations, Sherlock."
At this, Sherlock's physical demeanour seemed to transform in front of his eyes; suddenly, he was inches from Mycroft's face, so close that he could see the network of damaged capillaries underneath his skin.
"In case you've forgotten, big brother," he said, through clenched teeth. "I have already delivered you eight of Moriarty's former associates in the past month, and made a number of others seriously consider their career choices. Here-"
Mycroft felt a piece of paper being shoved into his hand.
"Names, aliases,and addresses of the men I had the pleasure of meeting tonight," Sherlock spat. "I'm sure you can all have a nice chat about my motivations when they're feeling a bit better."
Sherlock backed off, giving Mycroft the space to unfold the dog-eared piece of paper; he glanced at it for a moment, then tucked it into the inside pocket of his jacket. Perhaps Sherlock expected him to feel chastened, remorseful – perhaps, heaven forbid, he even expected an apology – but when all was said and done, they were still standing in Molly Hooper's hallway and Mycroft had yet to be persuaded as to why.
"A car will be here at seven A.M.," he said.
His brother didn't respond; he was watching the cat approaching from the living room. It sauntered straight past Mycroft and started to wind itself through Sherlock's ankles, nosing around and rubbing its head against the grubby denim. He watched Sherlock scoop up the animal and briefly scratch behind its ears before setting it down on the floor again.
"They're fickle, you know," Mycroft said, as Sherlock watched the animal head off in the direction of the kitchen. "They forget. They move on."
Sherlock brought his eyes up to meet his, and Mycroft saw in that moment that they understood each other, despite the hostility of his brother's expression.
In the short silence that followed, Molly Hooper appeared at Sherlock's side holding what he assumed was an ice-pack; it obviously hadn't taken her this long to wrap a bag of frozen peas in a tea towel, so it was clear that she had kept a diplomatic distance. Mycroft saw his offer a lopsided smile of gratitude, and then a look passed between Sherlock and his pathologist as their fingers grazed each other's over the ice-pack.
As he left Molly Hooper's flat a few moments later, and climbed into the back of the waiting car, Mycroft looked back at the unassuming mid-terrace property. He was more convinced than ever that the 'clean break' that he and Sherlock had discussed several weeks earlier wasn't quite as clean as he'd hoped.
