Chapter Nineteen.
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Mycroft's right forefinger twitched against his lips, and his brows drew downward, faint lines appearing above the bridge of his nose. Something had disturbed him. There were voices; a slight shift in the air.
There were two people speaking. He registered the sounds, sifted them, understood their meaning, and immediately cast them aside. They were unimportant. Calmly, he drew a long breath through his nose, and began again.
Mycroft Holmes was thinking.
In his mind, there was a city. Superficially, it was a city rather like London, but within its grey and rain-streaked streets were held memories of Rostov and Krasnodar and Moscow, Stuttgart and Dresden, Istanbul and Ankara, and other places further still.
Within the city, there was a blank space, a compound of cement and iron: frigid, grimy, cruel. Within the compound there was a building, blasted by a Russian winter, half obscured by constant eddying snow.
Within the building, there was a prison cell; and within the cell, there was a man.
Mycroft hesitated a moment outside the door. It was old and heavy, bolted with iron. At eye level was set a small barred window. The light in the cell was dim: yellow and aged. Through the window, Mycroft saw the prisoner for the first time, little more than a hulking silhouette.
"Dostatochno," he said to the men who accompanied him. "Vy budete zhdat' zdes'."
The shorter of the two nodded his assent.
"Da," he confirmed.
They positioned themselves one on either side of the door, their rifles held loosely across their bodies. Mycroft unbolted the door and stepped inside the cell.
The prisoner sat in an upright chair at a small table. Both were bolted to the floor. Above him, high out of reach, a bare lightbulb hung from a wire.
The prisoner was lean and sallow, swathed in a greatcoat of heavy, dark grey wool. His voice, when he spoke, was an ironic rasp:
"The Kingmaker himself. I'm honoured."
Mycroft smiled thinly.
"Hello Knight."
There were healing scrapes across the man's knuckles and yellowing bruises on his face and neck. The last two fingers of his right hand were strapped together in a crude splint. He had not come quietly then.
Deliberately, Mycroft withdrew the packet of cigarettes from his pocket and tapped two into the palm of his hand. He slid them between his lips and lit them, drawing deep and slow. The hiss of the lighter was loud in the quiet of the cell. Removing one, he reached across the table and slipped the filter end into the corner of Knight's mouth. His fingers brushed the unshaven line of the other man's jaw.
Knight raised his un-splinted hand to the cigarette and exhaled a long trail of smoke that plumed breathily in the frigid air. His hands were cuffed, but chained together only loosely. As he smoked, the splinted hand rested in the crook of his left arm.
"You were foolish to get caught," Mycroft said.
He spoke in English, the words of his mother-tongue curling unfamiliarly in his mouth. Even now, after six years undercover, he spoke with no trace of an accent. Why would he? English, Russian, Polish, Slovak, Serbo-Croat, French, Czech, German, Ukrainian, Basque… he spoke them all, each faultless and unaccented. A man who spoke English with a Russian accent would be a poor spymaster indeed.
Knight shrugged, his narrow shoulders hitched laconically.
"Not foolish; merely unlucky."
Mycroft's eyes narrowed. "If you share what you know, I may yet be able to broker a deal."
The prisoner laughed, but there was no mirth in it.
"There won't be a deal, Kingmaker. Not this time."
In response, Mycroft offered a faint tilt of his head. He gave another smile, the kind that stretched the corners of his mouth while the rest of his face remained impassive. No, there would be no deal. Mycroft couldn't be the man on the white charger riding to the rescue against insurmountable odds. He was not that brazen.
What must it feel like, Mycroft wondered, to realise you are expendable?
He couldn't say what he wanted to say, not with men outside in the corridor and wires in the corners of the cell. He couldn't tell Knight that he was sorry. He could not say "I hope it will be quick", or "You should never have gone against me". He could not say "Do you remember the last night we spent in Lisbon, when the moon was a waning crescent and the orchestra played Chopin?"
But he needed Knight's information, and he needed it quickly.
Of necessity, they spoke in abstractions and ambiguities. Each cryptic statement was a maze of possibilities and traps for the unwary, and Mycroft's mind blazed with it, synapses flying faster than conscious thought. 'The eyeless man fears not the winter', Knight told him, like some strange composite of sage and Shakespearian prophet, his mouth curling in satisfaction at his own wit. 'East is east, and west is west, and never the twain shall meet'. His eyes were dark with words unspoken.
And Mycroft revelled, perhaps for the last time, in this effortless and all-consuming connection, this utterly singular thing; this man, the only man – his cocaine-addled younger brother aside – who had ever understood him.
'Beware of dragons, Kingmaker. Beware of pirates and of fools'.
He could have stayed there all night, revelling in the use of his mind, but the watch on his wrist chimed once, marking the hour and recalling him to duty. He silenced it ruthlessly.
"Well," he said coldly. "Pleasant as this cryptic little chat has been, I do have a rather more pressing engagement."
He straightened, flicking the cigarette – his fourth – to the floor of the cell. He bowed his head ironically, and stepped toward the door.
"Wait."
Knight had raised himself to his feet, his eyes dark again with something Mycroft could not divine. He stepped boldly into Mycroft's space until they were toe to toe, his head tilted down; and then, with his hands still cuffed awkwardly in front of him, he stooped and pressed a terse kiss against Mycroft's cheek.
Mycroft felt warm breath and hard stubble, smelled wool and skin and home.
He stepped away, clearing his throat.
"You know of course, that tradition holds it to be Judas who did the kissing."
Knight raised an elegant brow, his mouth curling as though Mycroft had said something much wittier than he really had.
"And who's to say that Our Lord did not kiss back?"
Mycroft's mouth was dry, but he managed something close to his usual smirk. "Equating yourself with the Redeemer now, Knight? God help us all."
"Perhaps I just wanted to kiss you."
Mycroft cleared his throat again, pushing past the thin figure and rapping heavily against the door. It was opened at once. Mycroft stepped through into the light of the corridor, but Knight made no move to follow him. He simply stood, in the dim light of the cell, with his head cocked to one side and his hands resting easy in their chains. Even without needing to look back, Mycroft knew that he was smiling.
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The touch of a hand on his shoulder brought him back to awareness, and Mycroft blinked in the light of a lamp that had not been lit when he closed his eyes. Gregory Lestrade was leaning over his chair, recently showered and dressed in clean nightwear.
"Hey," he murmured. "You ok?"
"Of course. Perfectly."
"Sorry. Just looked like you were kinda lost in your head there for a bit."
Mycroft frowned. "I was thinking."
"What about?"
"I was recalling the last time I saw Theodore Knight. Wondering what I had missed."
Lestrade's head cocked to one side, considering. "So you have a mind palace too then?"
"Something of the sort, yes."
The brown eyes sparked with interest. "What's it like?"
Against all expectation, Mycroft found himself amused.
"Complex," he said, repressively.
Lestrade huffed, his mouth twitching and his eyes affectionate. There was no due cause for affection that Mycroft could see, and the likelihood of its being directed at himself was slim, so presumably something he'd done had reminded the Inspector of Sherlock. He cleared his throat.
"So, Detective Inspector, to what do I owe the pleasure of your company?"
Rather to his surprise, Lestrade flushed.
"Ehm… Sharing with you now, actually. If that's ok, that is. You were kind of out of it when I came in."
Mycroft frowned. "You no longer wish to share quarters with Miss Hooper?"
Lestrade flushed even more darkly, rubbing the back of his neck. "Well… it's a bit… awkward."
Mycroft looked up at him, his brow furrowed. Lestrade was newly washed, despite having showered earlier in the day. He was wearing the boxer shorts with the twisted elastic in the waistband rather than the older, more comfortable pair that he seemed to favour, so he'd discarded those after his shower. There were two places on the side of his neck where the skin was faintly reddened, the marks fading now, but still visible.
"I must apologise," Mycroft said slowly. "I had assumed that by this stage of the journey your relationship with Miss Hooper would have progressed to the extent that a degree of intimacy was not undesirable…" He frowned. "Clearly, I was wrong."
Greg stared at him a moment, nonplussed.
"You actually booked us a double room on purpose, didn't you? Oh god, you did. You bloody did."
He collapsed onto the bed that had formerly been Irene's, torn between exasperation, amusement, and flaming embarrassment.
Mycroft didn't deny it.
"I had thought that the opportunity would be not unwelcome."
Greg laughed slightly hysterically.
"You can't just plot out other people's love lives, Mycroft. It's not like planning a coup or overthrowing a state or whatever the hell it is you spend your days doing."
He ran his fingers through his hair and groaned, covering his eyes with a hairy forearm. "People don't just fall in love to order, yeah?"
"I am aware," Mycroft said, stiffly. "I have had occasion before now to find it most vexing, believe me. But I had thought in this case that the necessary regard was already in place. A romantic attachment should have been the natural outcome – your own well-developed protective instincts combined with Miss Hooper's insecurity; the shared anxiety of a common goal; the example of domesticity presented by your friends the Watsons; the increased frequency and duration of physical proximity in recent weeks…"
His expression was so genuinely ruffled that Greg laughed. He put a hand on Mycroft's shoulder and squeezed. Mycroft didn't start, exactly, but stilled, staring up at him in unfeigned surprise. Greg let go quickly.
"Sorry."
"My apologies."
"Thanks for the thought an' all."
"Of course."
"Stellar wing-man. Full marks."
"Don't mention it."
"…Perhaps best not, no."
There was an extended, rather awkward silence.
"…So Miss Hooper is sleeping with Irene then?"
"Thought she'd probably be happier sharing with her than with one of us."
Mycroft arched a brow.
"You thought that she would feel happier in the company of a criminal dominatrix with rather less-than-heterosexual proclivities?"
Greg choked a little on his own tongue.
"Um… Wow. Ok. Did not know that."
The corners of Mycroft's lips twitched. Greg caught his eye, unable to suppress his snort of laughter. To his everlasting amazement, Mycroft joined in.
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Thursday morning brought a rather welcome piece of news: Irene had found a way into Guantanamo.
"Tyler Davis," she told them, between mouthfuls of toast and coffee. "Corporal, twenty-six, acting captain of the guard on the north-west gatehouse for the next three weeks. I know what he likes."
Mycroft's grey eyes sparked with the first sign of interest he'd shown since breakfast began.
"And I take it that your new friend is feeling… talkative?"
Irene smirked.
"When he's not tied up, you mean? Oh yes."
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Sally Donovan wasn't entirely surprised, when she finally stumbled through the door of her flat after one hell of a day at the office, to find Mycroft Holmes's assistant waiting for her.
"I suppose you're still not going to tell me your name?" she asked, in lieu of many more sensible questions such as 'How the hell did you get in here?' or 'Is that my wine you're drinking?'
The woman smiled and crossed one leg flirtily over the other. "Nice to see you too."
In truth, Sally had half been expecting her. Their carefully orchestrated press release had gone out the night before, and Sally had been kept busy all day fielding vague tip-offs about the possible location of Mycroft Holmes. She didn't expect any of them to yield much. But then, that was hardly the point.
"Will you be staying for dinner?" she asked, turning towards the kitchen. She tossed her keys onto the counter and heaved a pair of shopping bags up beside them.
"Depends on what it is."
"Nothing fancy. It's either burritos or mashed spud with leftover coleslaw. Take your pick."
Anthea's pretty nose wrinkled with distaste. "I think I'll pass, thanks."
Sally shrugged. "Your loss."
She flicked the kettle on out of habit before registering the wine bottle on the counter top and thinking better of it. She had the feeling that this conversation was going to require alcohol.
She poured herself a generous measure (and it was her own wine, dammit, so was shouldn't she/) and turned back to the tedious task of unloading groceries.
"So why are you here?" she asked, shoving open the fridge door with her hip. "News?"
"Bits and pieces, nothing concrete." Anthea was hidden from her view by the wall that divided kitchen from dining room, but Sally could still picture her careless, limpid-eyed shrug. Clearly Sally was going to be giving, not getting, information tonight.
"Tell me something," Anthea said. "Have you heard from Inspector Lestrade at all recently?"
Sally frowned, unloading half a dozen apples from a shopping bag. "No. Why? You can't possibly think he's involved somehow."
"Mm... Perhaps. I was interested to note that his little holiday began less than a week after Mr Holmes disappeared."
"Coincidence. It's got to be. Look, no offence, but Holmes is creepy as fuck. Why would Greg want to help him?"
"An excellent question, Ms. Donovan." The voice was cool, male, and altogether threatening. Sally spun around, apples scattering across the bench and floor.
"Now raise your hands over your head and step out here to join us, if you please."
Like Hell she would.
The knives were all in the drawer behind her. No way to get at them without making a noise. Her eyes flew rapidly over the available options. Wine bottles made shitty weapons, the toaster was too unwieldy, and the bag of mushrooms was definitely out. The little cardboard packets of nutmeg and cinnamon, however, had potential. She stuffed them hastily into a pocket and snatched the enamelled rolling pin from the shelf above the microwave as she barrelled through the door.
The rolling pin came down on the meaty shoulder of the closest body and the man buckled with an oath. For a moment she struggled to sort out the confused jumble of images her brain was sending her, but they resolved themselves rapidly into five dark-suited bodies. One was Anthea's, belly-downwards on the ground with a man's weight holding her there and a gun barrel pressing into the soft skin at the back of her neck. The man she'd winged with the rolling pin was already rising, hands outstretched, and there were two others, both women, armed and deadly-looking. The first got a faceful of ground nutmeg and a knee to the groin, but she brought her arm down in a heavy chopping motion that caught Sally in the side of the neck and made her stagger. The man on the floor tackled her around the knees and she hit the ground on pelvis, elbows, and the back of her head. Her teeth clicked together painfully and her brain seemed to jar against the inside of her skull. She swung the arm bearing the rolling pin and heard a satisfying crunch as it found her assailant's nose, but the game was over and Sally knew it. She heard the snick of a cocked firearm and sagged backwards in surrender, her face pressed against the skirting board. She stared at the floor beneath the legs of the dining table, where the dust had gathered since she'd last swept. Her kitchen tiles were broken, she realised, muzzily.
Sally felt the pain throb, white hot, in the recesses of her skull, and realised what was about to happen. 'Oh damn', she thought. 'I'm going to pass out.' And then she recognised the grey encroaching fuzzily on her field of vision, the spinning lights behind her eyes.
'Yup,' she thought, 'I was right.'
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A/N: My apologies for the lengthy delay, oh most-lovely readers! Real life is hard. Hopefully this piece of awkward Mycroft and Sally love will go some way to making up for it. Stay tuned for the next chapter in which the long-anticipated rescue mission will finally be upon us...
Incidentally, the final episode of Season Four has yet to reach we poor suckers in the primitive Antipodes. Please please please don't leave spoilers in the comments. xx