John moved quietly through the hallway of the hospital, avoiding eye-contact, trying hard to look purposeful. A group of nurses passed, chatting loudly. He approached the office and, leaning against the closed door casually, pretended to look at his phone until the hallway cleared. The door was unlocked and the former soldier slid into the dim room noiselessly. He hoped that Sherlock's assumption was right and he wasn't committing a felony for nothing. Doctor Roylott's office was lined with shelves featuring multiple thick volumes of lexica and other medical reference. Anatomy models, old and dusty, were carelessly thrown into the corners behind some sad looking, dehydrated plants. On an oak table in the centre of the room stood his laptop. John opened it carefully, finding to his relieve that it wasn't locked. Using the data Sherlock had obtained –God knows where- he logged into the hospitals database and searched for Reginald Musgrave's data. As expected, Marilyn and Samantha Jones where noted as recipients of his donation and had been contacted by Doctor Roylott, regarding the unfortunate disease the donor had suffered from. Their child, a young boy named Samuel, was apparently of the best health. Nothing in the notes suggested any close relationship between the mothers and the biological father of their son. John wrote down the contact information and the most important data and closed the laptop carefully. A dead end.
He moved towards the door as it flew open violently, causing him to jump. Pushing his notes into his pocket, he stood straight, facing the intruder. It was another doctor, a young woman staring at him in shock. "I'm sorry, what are you doing here?" She asked, crossing her arms. John extended his hand, smiling. "My name is Doctor Watson, I was just looking for Doctor Roylott?" The woman ignored his hand and raised her brow. "He isn't here." "So I noticed. I was just leaving a note." "Stay away from my husband!" She hissed through clenched teeth. John stared at her in bewilderment. "I was just- I'll be leaving then…" He carefully pushed through the doorframe, flinching at the poisonous stare, and ran down the corridor as fast as he could.
Sherlock was, once again, covered in tubes and cables, though this time none of them actually pierced his skin. Molly's contacts had made up a good stage for the Detective's brilliant acting as a traumatized patient. It was only when John entered that the lifeless eyes burned with energy once again and the frail body regained it's posture. "What did you find?" He asked eagerly. "Nothing new," John answered. "Same things Molly dug out for us. The Jones' child is a boy named Samuel, 3 years old and completely healthy according to the hospital's data." Sherlock frowned thoughtfully. "What a shame. I had hoped to find him similarly ill, it would have given us a motive. Nothing else?" His partner shook his head. "A scary woman found me in Roylott's office and yelled at me but I hardly think that's related." The detective chuckled. "His wife, was she? He cheats on her with some of the staff here, one of the male nurses smelled very strongly of him and another friendly doctor had a mark made by his wedding ring on her neck. You should probably try to find the doctor and come up with a reasons you've been looking for him before he gets suspicious." John arched his brow but nodded, leaving the room to find the unfaithful doctor, while Sherlock sank back into his performance of pain and misery. Just as he walked down the lonely corridor, a nurse bumped into him and he felt something being pressed into his palm. Before he could recover from the shock, the stranger had disappeared behind a corner. Checking that no one else was watching, he retreated into a storage room. It was a scribbled note on the back of an old receipt. "Found something. Will visit tonight. Make sure we are alone. –M"
Nightmares haunted Mycroft whenever he dared to close his eyes. His whole body ached from lack of movement and the slimy food made him sick. He was almost relieved as the heavy door opened with a loud creaking noise and Sebastian Moran entered, smiling, to take him out of his misery. He wondered who'd take care of his sister when he was dead. Then again, he probably wouldn't be here if it wasn't for her. Mycroft closed his eyes, remembering the last time he faced certain death. He remembered being afraid and sad but determined that it was the right thing. Back then, facing Sherlock's gun, he had had the consolation of dying with pride and honour. Now he was crawling on the dusty floor, dirty and scared and all alone.
"Wakey wakey, Mr. Holmes!" A hand grabbed him by the collar, forcing him to look up. "I'm afraid your brother has given up on you quite quickly so that makes you rather useless to us." Mycroft stared into his captor's face. He felt strangely empty. Struggling to find his mask of courage, he met the other man's gaze. "My brother will not be defeated. You don't stand a chance against him." He wasn't sure he had even convinced himself. But what was the point? Moran was still smiling sweetly. "Oh Mycroft, Mycroft, don't be stupid, it doesn't suit you. He already is defeated. Not even strong enough to beat some cheap thugs I sent for mere entertainment! Oh, he is a broken man already. And so are you, I'm afraid. Love has made you soft." He loosened the shackles and dragged him into a standing position, a revolver aimed at his head. Mycroft gave in to his touch, barely enough energy left to stand on his feet. His eyes lost focus, staring into nothingness. Soon it would all be over. Moran grinned. "This has been fun but playtime's over, I got business to take care of." He laughed. "Don't worry, I'll be gentleman and make it quick. We'll send your body to your parents, I'm sure they'll have a nice little funeral." He started pacing excitedly. "I should get the morgue girl first, though, imagine the chaos, brother dead, friend gone and a funeral to arrange!" A deadly, icy rage set on his face, the empty eyes staring at Mycroft with pure hatred. Moran took out his phone and held the camera up. "Smile." He said coldly.
All of the sudden, the fear was gone. All his anxiety and pain seemed to wash away as Mycroft met Sebastian Moran's deadly gaze. Instead, determination burned through his veins like fire, crawling over his skin, his muscles tensing and eyes sparking. If he was going to die, he's still die with pride. And there was no way this man going to harm his brother any longer. He thought of Sherlock and Greg, even his parents, and his face hardened. For a second, puzzlement flashed across the Colonel's face as he realized the change that had overcome his victim. In a blur of movement, Mycroft threw his arms up and launched himself against Moran with a cry of anger, taking the Colonel by surprise. The gunshot echoed through the cell and Mycroft yelled with pain. With a crash, the men fell against the metal shelves, knocking them to the ground, tools clattering to the hard floor. They struggled, a tangled mass of arms and legs. Mycroft wrapped his arm around the other man's throat, focusing all his strength. A sharp pain went through his body as the other's elbow rammed into his sides. He gasped for breath. Another hit met his bullet wound, causing him to collapse in agony, releasing Moran, who got on his feet quickly, grabbing the gun and firing a second, clumsy shot as he gasped for air. Mycroft screamed in pained, still scrambling through piles of rusty metal. Moran's eyes flashed with victory as he aimed straight at his head. Something flashed through the air and the revolver hit the ground with a loud clang. Both men stared at the entrance door in bewilderment, where Irene Adler stood, hand still raised, staring at Sebastian with glinting eyes, his wrist pouring a stream of scarlet blood down his arm. Instinctively, the man wrapped his free hand around the wound. Mycroft forced himself on his feet, face twisted with rage and pain, and jumped for the weapon. Moran yelled, kicked at his stomach and reached for his gun with the injured arm. A shiny, red high heel came down hard on his hand and another kicked the revolver out of his reach. Irene placed another sharp kick against his head, making him drop, unconscious. She grabbed Mycroft by the arm, dragging him up, pressing the gun into his hand. "Out. Quickly now."
The hospital wing was a lot quieter at night. The staff moved silently, their chatter reduced to a few whispers, as they checked on their patients. John sat next to Sherlock's bed, waiting for their friends, eyeing the door nervously. "D'you realize how many bloody hospitals rooms we've seen over the past few weeks? I feel like it's more than I've seen working as a Doctor." Sherlock nodded thoughtfully. "I had also hoped never to see one again after what happened with Culverton Smith. We live a dangerous life, John, that much was always clear. I just never thought it'd be a danger to everyone else, too." He dug his hands into the soft blanket. "We don't even know if he's still alive…" John took his hand, softly. "Mycroft is smart, he'll find a way to stay alive." The door opened with a soft creak. "I won't give up on him." Greg said quietly. He looked very tired, his face was sunk and gray, his eyes rimmed with red. Molly touched his shoulder softly, looking just as exhausted. "We spent all day and night in the archives and we found something that might help you." They gathered around the bed, an old cardboard box placed on the sheets. The Inspector took out a sheet of paper and some pictures. "Old police reports. Turns out Miss Marilyn Jones was accused of drug dealing when she was 14, but they never had enough evidence for an arrest. When she was 16 years old she was arrested for illegal prostitution and four years later she was tangled up in a murder investigation but again, they didn't have enough evidence. And now guess who paid the lawyer for her?" He took out a photograph of a younger and much friendlier looking Sebastian Moran. Sherlock drew his brows together, staring at the picture. "That can hardly be a coincidence then." "I also received a note from one of your men on the streets," Molly added, "and the Jones family hasn't been seen around the neighbourhood for a few weeks. He asked around in the streets and the next-door neighbour said one day they just left. Took a cab and disappeared, the car and dog still at home, curtains open. He took the poor pet in eventually after they had been gone for a couple of days." "And he didn't file a missing person report?" She nodded. "He tried but the police told him they knew about the Jones' whereabouts and there was no reason to worry." Sherlock squinted his eyes in suspicion. "You did, of course check with the Yard on that?" Greg nodded. "Yeah, we tried to check on that and Marilyn Jones' credit card activity was checked on two weeks ago. She is still using it. Can't get any details without a warrant and I didn't want to take any risks."
"Wise choice, we still need to keep low." The Detective said, drumming his fingers on the bedside table, his eyes darting over the laid-out papers, thinking. "There's a couple of things that don't make sense yet. Molly, do we have any details on how the sperm donation was processed? Did the couple choose the donor?" She shrugged. "The usual process, they write down their wishes, get a selection of available donors and choose one." Sherlock shook his head. "Then how did the donor get tangled up in it? It's not very common for the biological father to be in contact with his offspring and the child is hardly old enough to ask for him." He sighed, massaging his temples. "Then there's the question why they left and where they went. I'm afraid we'll have to check their house ourselves. I need to take a look around."
"How is any of this going to help us find Mycroft?" Greg snapped. "Or his body, for all we know." Sherlock looked at his friend with deepest sympathy in his eyes. "It's the best we've got. He could be anywhere and Moran is smart, he would've made sure not to leave any traces, so all we have is the mistakes more ordinary people have made." "You think you're so clever, Sherlock, better than anyone else, but it was you who led us into that hotel, your plan, your fault!" Pain burned in the Inspector's eyes, his voice shaking. Molly reached out to touch his shoulder. "Greg…" She whispered. "He's right." Sherlock said, his voice strained with sadness. "I was foolish to fall for Moran's trick, I lead you into that danger. You have every right to hate me, Greg. But I am scared too. Mycroft is my brother and if he got hurt because of me, I'd never forgive myself for it." John reached out to touch his hand but Sherlock pulled it away, looking down. "We will find him. We have to."
It took a bit of discussing and bribing but the team managed to persuade Doctor Roylott that Sherlock could be taken care of in 221B. A dummy, that Sherlock had used to trick his enemies on multiple cases before, was placed in the flat and Molly's friends made a big scene of taking their patient into the flat. When the diversion had been arranged, they took the bus out of the city's centre, each dressed in one of Sherlock's disguises. Norwood Hill was quiet and empty compared to the raging streets of London and Greg felt awfully vulnerable out on almost the empty streets. The sun had broken through the clouds, illuminating the trees and flowers with golden light. The Inspector rose his head, feeling the warm rays on his skin. What a beautiful day. He dreamed, so often, of a nice picnic in a quiet park, lying on the grass, bathing in the sun, Mycroft beside him. How beautiful his lover would look, all white porcelain in the rich green. The thought was ridiculous and gay but he couldn't help it, he had always been a hopeless romantic. Sharp pain stabbed his chest. It tore him apart, not knowing where his love was, if he was even still alive. Would he know if he wasn't? Would he feel it, the life of the man he loved fading away? Or would the world keep turning, painfully normal, the sun rising and setting as if the wonderful man had never existed? The thought made him sick.
"This is it." Molly said quietly, looking at a red brick house. It looked as normal as any other building in the street. A silver SUV was parked in the front, the curtains were drawn back, revealing a living room and a kitchen. The only thing that suggested the absence of inhabitants was the pile of newspapers and mail overflowing from the letterbox. The group split up, each spreading over the street, trying to blend in with the surroundings, as it would rouse suspicion to have a bunch of strangers investigate a house.
Sherlock approached the house alone and picked up the letters from the floor, shuffling through them. There was a loud yelping and barking and a black dog dashed towards the group, tail wagging in excitement. As it reached the front yard and realized the man was a stranger to him, it dropped in disappointment, whining softly. The Detective sat down next to it, reaching out to pet it's head. "Hello there. You must be the Jones' faithful companion. Now why did they leave you behind?" He stroked the creature's head, watching it carefully. "I'm so sorry, Sir, he just broke through the fence, I really hope he didn't scare you!" A man came after it, leash in hand, face red with embarrassment. He was middle-aged, clean shaven and silver-haired, his face friendly and open. "Not a problem, my friend," Sherlock smiled, "I am quite fond of them. A Staffordshire Terrier, isn't he? Very loyal and reliable breed if they are treated right." The man shrugged. "I wouldn't know, Sir, he isn't mine. Neighbours left poor Coco all to himself, so I took him in. Was hoping they'd come back for him but it's been weeks. Dunno how much longer I can afford to keep him." He sighed. "Anyways, so sorry, where are my manners? Craig Saxon! Are you a friend of theirs?" Sherlock stood up and shook his hand. "Nice to meet you, I'm James Musgrave. I am looking for the Jones, they're friends of mine and I can't find them anywhere." Worry glistened in his eyes as he spoke, but his mind was working coolly, scanning the stranger. "I'm afraid I know nothing about where they went. Police said they're found and fine, but wouldn't tell me where or when they're coming back." He shook his head. "So, Musgrave, eh? Relative of little Sam's father?" Sherlock smiled and nodded. "A distant cousin. You know him then?" Saxon nodded.
"A fine man, he was, the boy adored him and the two girls where very grateful to always have a babysitter at hand when they needed some time for themselves."
"Ah yes, he was a good guy. How lucky that Marilyn and Samantha found him as donor."
"Found him? They go way back, don't they? Colleagues and all that. But I suppose it was luck that timing was so right." He shook his head sadly. "It's a shame he had to go so soon. Very sorry for your loss, Mr. Musgrave."
"Thank you." Sherlock said softly. "If Coco is too much of a burden to you, I can keep him, if you like! I am rather good with dogs and as you see, he knows me well." He glanced at the dog, obediently sitting before him, looking at him expectantly.
"You would do me a great service, Sir! I'm not at my best health and all these walks are very tiring. And the amount of food that creature eats!" He pressed the leash into Sherlock's hands, followed by a small key. "Backdoor key. I suppose you know where his other things are? Oh and here, my number, do call me if you ever need anything and tell me if you find them!" The man hurried of quickly, leaving Sherlock alone with Coco. He eyed the dog suspiciously. Something must be odd about the pet if the faithful neighbour was so desperate to get rid of it. With a quick glance to the shadowy bench on the other side of the street, he signalled the others to follow and made his way into the house through the back door. Yelping happily, Coco burst in, scratching at a small cupboard. Sherlock followed and opened it, finding bags of cheap dog food and a jar of treats.
The others entered, one by one, waiting quietly as the Detective watched the Pitbull, his eyes alert. "Dogs are a reflection of the family they live with." He said, as they were all gathered. "If they are happy, if they are healthy, well trained, well groomed. You can tell a lot about a person by the way they treat their pets." His eyes followed the creature around the room. "He's awfully obedient and he looks well fed, yet our friend over there was desperate to get rid of him." Molly got to her knees and made a cooing sound. "Come here, Coco, let me have a look at you." The dog looked up from his food, noticing the newcomers for the first time. He winced, his ears flat to his head and his tail between his legs. Whining, the pet lay flat on the ground. Molly backed off in shock, glancing at Sherlock questioningly. The Detective watched the dog, approaching it carefully. "It's alright, old boy, don't worry." Coco crept over the ground, his eyes fixed on the girl, cowering behind him. Sherlock picked up a picture hanging from the wall. "Interesting…"
"What is it? Did I do something wrong?"
He handed her the picture, showing a brunette woman with a blonde child in her arms. "I suppose that is Marilyn Jones. She looks a bit like you, from a distance. She wasn't a very kind woman, I would guess. Poor Coco here must've suffered quite the abuse from her hand. If the Saxons have a female family member, which is likely, then they would have to put up with a terrified animal. Maybe he even bit her at some point."
"Then why does he like you so much?"
"Reginald Musgrave visited them often, maybe he consoled him, offered refuge from the mishandling." He carefully put the leash back on the whining creature's collar, tying him to the kitchen table. "Let's see if we can find any documents or notes, calendar entries, anything. Split u, see what you can find, stay away from windows and Molly, be careful with the dog, no need to stress him any further."
The air was stale and musky. They stepped over the motionless bodies of Moran's henchmen, knocked out by whatever Irene had mixed in their coffee. Mycroft had realized by now where he was and he wished he had never found out. The woman lead the way, gun ready, heals clicking. He wondered why she had chosen this attire, she might as well shout "traitor" as she walked through the corridors, climbing the stone staircase out of the basement. His wounds were burning, he felt dizzy, everything spinning and shaking, his head heavy. Breathing hard, he followed the sound of his saviour's heals, pulling himself upstairs. The pain was unbearable. White hot agony shot from the holes in his chest and stomach. He could feel the warm blood soak his ragged clothes. The world blurred and the edges of his vision darkened. He felt a welcoming black nothing approach. A cold hand grasped his arm, pulling him up. "Pull yourself together or I'll leave you to die." Irene hissed. Mycroft looked up, trying to focus his tired eyes on the pretty face. Maybe he wanted to die. Anything to make it stop, the pain and fear and exhaustion. He closed his eyes.
Warm, brown eyes and a charming smile burned in his memory. His chest ached, a pain stronger than any bullet could cause. Hopeless longing. Would he not do anything to be back in his lover's arms? Had he not spent years in cold loneliness and only a few weeks in the warmth of his love? The hand grasping him loosened and he dropped to the cold floor, feeling his head rest on the rough step. Fighting through the torturous agony, Mycroft pulled himself to his feet, forcing his heavy eyelids open. Irene was staring down at him, impatiently. She took his hand again and dragged him after her, ascending from the cold, musky basement to a warm, almost welcoming cottage. The sunlight pouring through the windows was bright and stung his eyes, yet he welcomed the warmth on his skin.
"Alright boys!" Irene announced loudly, her voice sweet and cold. "You know the game, off you go!" She was aiming her gun at another pair of henchmen, her silhouette elegant and confident against the blinding light, the bulky, dangerous-looking men glanced at the armed woman in fear and scuttled out the door in terror. She grinned.
Mycroft barely had time to adjust to the new brightness of his surroundings, as he was dragged down the hallway, through a kitchen, where a shy servant girl cowered at the sight of them and let them through without a word. The pain spread further through his body, his limbs went numb and the sounds around him were muffled. Everything was happening too fast for him to comprehend. He knew he only had a few more minutes of consciousness before pain and blood loss would overwhelm him. "Why…?" He gasped, staggering. Irene pulled his arm viciously. "Don't ask questions, just go!" Her voice was full of authority. There was a time where Mycroft would have despised to be rescued, especially by criminal in heels and lingerie, but he swallowed his pride, relieved ad grateful. "Tha-" The woman whipped around. "I said shut up!" She hissed. He shrank back.
Vaguely aware of being pushed through a small door, he stumbled outside, sunshine on his dry, sore skin, warm and comforting, wind softly caressing his cheeks and the smell of trees and grass. He took a few steps forward, eyes closed against the golden sunlight. Someone was shouting. Or singing? Mumbling? The pain ebbed away, the light against his eyes died away. The last thing Mycroft felt was soft grass on his face as he tumbled forward.