Part 6: The Showdown
Mr and Mrs Holmes' house. The kitchen, warmly lit, very cosy and both nicely reassuring and slightly absurd in its normality. Mrs Holmes, in an apron, is clearing the table of the remainders of a late breakfast. Mr Holmes is nowhere to be seen. Victor, wearing a camel-coloured woollen cardigan that looks several sizes too big for him over his freshly laundered black t-shirt, is sitting in the low armchair in the left hand corner of the room, by the sideboard. He looks in better health than last time we saw him, not quite as underfed any more, and no longer quite as jumpy either. He has rolled up his right sleeve, and John, who has pulled up a chair for himself from the kitchen table, is renewing the bandage on his arm. Sherlock is sitting on the edge of the table with a first aid kit open on his lap, looking on. Sherlock and John have apparently both had a shower and a shave, in addition to a late breakfast, and are both looking neat again - and, in John's case, a lot less grumpy than earlier on. Mrs Holmes passes behind her son with a stack of used plates in her hands and gives him a gentle little nudge with her elbow.
MRS HOLMES: Don't do that, please.
Sherlock immediately slides down from his seat.
SHERLOCK: Sorry.
John gets up, his task finished, relieves Sherlock of the first aid kit, repacks it neatly and zips it closed. Sherlock takes John's place in the chair next to Victor's.
SHERLOCK (to Victor): Right.
VICTOR: Yeah. What now?
John walks over to the other side of the room, where Mrs Holmes has started filling the sink for the washing up. She gives him an enquiring and slightly worried look.
JOHN (reassuringly): No, it's all well, Mrs Holmes. You took very good care of him. The signs of infection are gone, and there's really nothing left for me to do.
MRS HOLMES (relieved): Oh, I'm glad you approve. I know little enough about these things. Our handbooks are all out of date, and Tim thought it wouldn't be wise to look up anything about it on the internet right now. It's amazing how careful you have to be when you have a public enemy staying at your house. It does broaden one's horizon, to be sure. (Lowering her voice) But I admit I found it hard to just sit there and watch him struggle through the first night, and not be allowed to get help if he got worse.
JOHN (raising his eyebrows): That bad?
Mrs Holmes nods, grimacing sympathetically at the memory.
MRS HOLMES: He was a trembling wreck when he got here, you know. Looked like something the cat had dragged in. We put him straight to bed. (She smiles a little wistfully.) It's a long time since I sat at someone's bedside like that, shooing away bad dreams.
JOHN: Fever?
MRS HOLMES: Mmh. But it was down again by morning, and he slept peacefully most of that day. In fact, he's done little else ever since. Except eat like a wolf whenever there's food on the table. I'd forgotten that a bit, too, just how much hungry boys can eat.
She glances affectionately at her son, then turns her attention to the dishes in the sink. John, as a matter of course, takes a tea towel from its hook on the wall to lend her a hand.
At the other side of the room, Sherlock, leaning forward in his chair with his elbows on his knees, has been speaking to Victor all the while in a low voice. Now he leans back as if to give Victor time to digest what he's just heard. Victor is staring at him, lost for words. It takes him a considerable time to find his voice again, during which Sherlock regards him steadily and patiently.
VICTOR: You're not serious.
SHERLOCK: Yes, I am. Absolutely.
VICTOR: It's just one of your bloody jokes, right?
SHERLOCK: Didn't hear me laugh, did you?
Victor shakes his head.
VICTOR: Listen, I know you can sell just about anything to anyone, but that is completely impossible in so many ways.
SHERLOCK: Why? D'you think I'd suggest it if I didn't think you could do it?
VICTOR: I could, maybe. But why the hell wouldthey trust someone with a record like mine?
SHERLOCK (with a wry grin): What, you mean a record of doing the wrong thing for the right reason? No problem. They're world class in that field themselves.
VICTOR (sarcastically): And loved and respected for it by everyone.
SHERLOCK (with a shrug): Think of it as the lowest common denominator, if you find it so hard to see any others.
Victor gives a snort.
VICTOR: Alright. Let's assume for a moment that this is feasible - that I'd do it, and that they'd let me. If ever word got around of what's become of me, I wouldn't last a week. There are other people almost as bad as Arbo and Yevgeny out there behind those masks, you know, ones that I know and that know me. They won't be exactly happy to hear what I've done.
SHERLOCK: They won't hear of it. Not unless you yourself shout it from the rooftops. Furnishing someone with a new name and a nice, harmless new biography to go with it is child's play for my brother. I agree that it will be a necessity, with all that it entails. But I guarantee you that it will be absolutely watertight, as long as you play along.
Victor looks unhappy.
SHERLOCK (quietly): Look, you can't possibly have thought that there wouldn't be a price to pay for all this, one day. What we might still have time for is to negotiate the currency you will pay it in. You know the way in which my brother and his American friends will exact it from you. If you're content with that, say so, and I'll shut up.
VICTOR (desperately): No, of course not. But it's not as simple as that. This stuff has been my life for years now, and there's a lot that I'm not ashamed of, and neither you nor anyone else will ever make me see it that way.
SHERLOCK: What, the decent stuff? Kareem, the generous? That's over anyway.
VICTOR: It was my life, Sherlock.
SHERLOCK: No. It was a Trojan horse, and you're inches away from a system crash. Time to debug, Victor.
VICTOR: You talk about changing sides like you'd talk about changing a shirt.
SHERLOCK: And that premise is all wrong.
VICTOR: What premise?
SHERLOCK: That you'll be changing sides.
VICTOR: What? You've just told me to –
SHERLOCK (mock-dramatically): - to betray everything you believe in? (He rolls his eyes.) Well, no. All I'm suggesting is that you go back to doing what you do best, and do it for the reason why you used to love it in the first place. (With a note of impatience in his voice) Just stop inflating it with all those high-riding notions of belief and purpose and the greater good of humankind. Look where it got you.
VICTOR: And you wouldn't call that a betrayal?
SHERLOCK: I call it playing the game for the game's own sake.
VICTOR (after a moment, sarcastically): Well, that sounds snappy, at least. (Serious again) No, but be honest, Sherlock. Don't you believe in the work you do? That there is a point in doing it, beyond getting the bills paid and the hours of your day filled?
SHERLOCK (calmly): I do what I know I do best. I take pride in doing it well. It irks me when I fall short of my own standards, and I try to do better next time. That's the essence of it. But I still do cases, Victor, not causes. Belief doesn't come into it.
VICTOR (drily): You used to be a much better liar.
SHERLOCK: And you used to be someone who wouldn't go back on his word.
VICTOR: What word?
SHERLOCK: "I fucked up royally, and if I could see a way to make it good, I'd do it."
At the other side of the room, Mrs Holmes and John have finished doing the dishes, and Mrs Holmes is putting them away. Then she returns to John, takes off her apron and hangs it on a hook next to the tea towels. They both glance across at Sherlock and Victor in their corner, who have fallen silent.
MRS HOLMES (to John, quietly): Would you believe Tim and I never met him, never until now? I asked Sherlock so many times to invite him to stay, but he never would. (With a sigh) Well, you know what he's like.
JOHN: Yeah. (On consideration) Sometimes.
MRS HOLMES: And then Victor dropped out and left, of course, and that was it. Never even heard his name mentioned again, though we certainly knew what that meant. And then he turns up on our doorstep, just like that, fifteen years later, and with a story that made our hair stand on end when we heard it. (She shakes her head in disbelief.)
JOHN: So he told you who he was, and what he did?
MRS HOLMES: Oh yes. Could barely stop talking once he'd started. (With a meaningful look at John) By the way, I'm glad you just said he "was".
John automatically glances at Sherlock and Victor again, and we return to their side of the room. Victor is sitting hunched in his chair now, his face hidden in both hands, the very picture of plain honest misery. Sherlock, with his arm propped on the back of his chair and his head in his hand, is watching him thoughtfully. When Victor looks up again at last, his eyes are dry but red.
VICTOR (with almost childlike frankness): I feel so sick right now.
SHERLOCK (quietly): Nobody ever said that coming down from a high was fun.
VICTOR: No… (Wryly) And I suppose not even you with all your eloquence could make it feel like that.
SHERLOCK (almost gently): If I knew how, I would. If that's a comfort.
VICTOR (with a very sad little smile): As a matter of fact, it is.
They fall silent again for a long moment.
VICTOR: You know who I'm thinking of right now?
SHERLOCK: Who?
VICTOR: Violet Westbury.
SHERLOCK (raising his eyebrows): Oh, please,Victor. She never was your type to start with, and by now she's happily married anyway. Don't you think it's time you moved on?
VICTOR(not rising to the bait, dead serious): I'm not thinking about the pretty girl in the miniskirt. I'm thinking about the human being that you destroyed in order to save.
Sherlock's face falls.
VICTOR: I'd never have thought to find myself in the same boat one day.
SHERLOCK (after a moment, soberly): I see your point. But she'd certainly object to your choice of words.
VICTOR: How d'you know that? She left.
SHERLOCK: I know it because she sends me a Christmas card every year to assure me that she's fine. Nice job, three kids, happy ever after. (Seeing the surprise on Victor's face) Don't worry, you won't have to do that. I always find her cards slightly embarrassing. I don't think I need any more of that sort.
Victor looks at Sherlock as if he doesn't know whether to laugh or cry.
SHERLOCK: And now you're wondering whether the offer to hit me in the head still stands, am I right? The answer is yes, if that's what it takes.
He smiles tentatively. After a moment, Victor exhales audibly, and his face relaxes into the beginnings of the first true smile we have seen from him in fifteen years, when suddenly, apropos of nothing - at least nothing that we can see or hear - Sherlock raises his head and pricks up his ears. The smile on his face freezes, every muscle in his body suddenly tense. He glances at the clock on the wall. It is at ten past twelve. At the other end of the room, John is immediately alert.
JOHN: What is it?
Sherlock is out of his chair and on his feet in the blink of an eye.
SHERLOCK (to Victor, urgently): Ready, Victor?
VICTOR (confused): For what?
With an almighty BANG, the door to the kitchen is thrown open, and with a rush of trampling feet, a group of armed men in the full black combat gear of the Specialist Firearms Command erupts into the room. Victor jumps up as well, but the officers have already taken up their obviously pre-arranged stations. Wordlessly and with perfectly dispassionate efficiency, they point their submachine guns at the three men - one at John, one at Victor, and two at Sherlock - and unlock them in a quick series of menacing metallic clicks. Sherlock's eyes immediately fix on the open door. He allows himself a brief but very disdainful smile. Then, acknowledging that they are hopelessly outnumbered and outgunned, he raises his hands. Victor and John, taking their lead from him, do the same, Victor looking horrified, John looking angry.
MYCROFT (into the silence, from the direction of the open door): Well met, little brother.
He holds Sherlock's gaze for a moment, then strides into the room, looking very pleased with himself. Mrs Holmes, frozen to the spot, is staring at her older son, completely overwhelmed by such a ruthless invasion of her usually peaceful kitchen.
MYCROFT (to John, as he walks past him): Doctor Watson, any practical demonstration of loyalty on your part is strongly discouraged, no matter how well-intentioned.
He nods to the officer covering John, who steps forward and starts patting John's pockets for hidden weapons.
MYCROFT (to his mother, curtly): Where's dad?
MRS HOLMES (automatically): Shopping.
MYCROFT: Good.
JOHN (testily): It's in my jacket, on a hook in the hall.
Unimpressed, the officer completes his search, then takes up his station at John's back, his gun levelled on him again. Ignoring his brother, Mycroft now walks forward to face Victor. Victor recoils as far as the cramped space allows, staring at Mycroft with naked panic in his eyes.
SHERLOCK: Alright, fine. Well done, Mycroft. We're all suitably impressed.
Mycroft turns on his heel towards Sherlock, eyebrows raised.
SHERLOCK: Now stop the hocus-pocus, stand your men down, and let's have a civilised discussion instead of empty threats. (He jerks his head at Victor.) Victor here has prepared a little speech for you, and I'm sure he'll deliver it better if he doesn't have to do it at gunpoint.
Victor glances at Sherlock in surprise.
MYCROFT (to Sherlock, smoothly): I don't know where you get that idea, but I assure you that I'm not here to listen to any speeches, however well prepared. (Raising his chin, sharply) I'm here to execute a warrant of arrest and an extradition order. That is what I will do, and there is nothing that you will be able to do to stop it. You got this far, you will get no further. Do I make myself clear?
Mrs Holmes cringes at her older son's tone. John glances at her with concern.
SHERLOCK: Oh, don't get me wrong. I don't grudge you your little moment of glory.
MYCROFT (smugly): But?
SHERLOCK: But when you're done gloating, take a look at the two of us, and tell me what you see. You see one man who holds all the cards, and another for whom the game is as good as over, don't you?
MYCROFT: That appears to be an accurate description.
SHERLOCK: But are you certain which of them you are?
Mycroft's eyes narrow. He looks his brother up and down with close attention, and a smile begins to form on his lips.
MYCROFT: Oh, I knew we'd get to that point eventually. In fact, I've been looking forward to it. (He crosses his arms.) Go on. Try and talk your way out of this, if you can. I might even find it amusing, for a while. I would suggest that you don't prolong it unnecessarily though. (In a tone of mock-concern) Your arms must be hurting by now.
SHERLOCK: Oh, I'll be quick. I was just going to point out the one essential difference between your position and mine.
MYCROFT (looking around pointedly at his armed men): I'd have thought it was rather obvious?
SHERLOCK: It is, isn't it? You're scared, and I'm not. So I will win, and you will lose. It's as simple as that.
For the briefest of moments, Mycroft seems uncertain how to respond. Then he regains his composure and, without haste, takes a couple of steps towards his brother until they are directly face to face, so close they're almost touching.
MYCROFT (very softly): Scared, am I?
SHERLOCK: Of course. I can see it in your eyes. I can feel it on my skin.(He sniffs.) I can even smell it. Acceleration of the breathing rate, constriction of the peripheral blood vessels, increasing muscle tension. And getting worse by the minute.
Mycroft starts circling Sherlock, very slowly, his eyes never leaving his brother's face.
MYCROFT (as softly as before): What would I be afraid of?
Sherlock resists the temptation to turn his head.
SHERLOCK: You know that as well as I do.
MYCROFT: You tell me.
He is almost outside Sherlock's field of vision now, standing at his brother's left shoulder.
SHERLOCK (still looking straight ahead): You're afraid of misjudging the situation. Afraid that you already have. You're afraid of what the Americans will do when they realise that they shouldn't have left this in your hands. And, most of all, you're afraid of what may happen right now if any one of us makes one - false - move. (Along with the last words, but still without lowering his hands, he has turned very slowly on the spot until he is face to face with Mycroft again. He smiles.) Fear is a very potent activator in some ways, but it does do strange things to that part of your brain that's responsible for long-term planning. Which means that within the next five minutes, you will panic and make a big mistake that no demonstration of brute force will be able to repair. So you might as well spare yourself the humiliation and put an end to this ridiculous business right now.
There is a silence while the room seems to collectively hold its breath. Then Mycroft's lips curl in a sneer. He straightens up, turns away from Sherlock, glances around at his men and nods towards Victor.
MYCROFT: Secure him.
The officers jump to obey the order. The one who has been covering Victor grabs him by the arm, on the exact spot where his sleeve hides his bandaged burns, twists the arm behind Victor's back and pushes him forward. Victor gives a little yelp of pain, doubles over to get away from the pressure, and ends up bent over the table, his forehead bumping against the table top, held down in a firm grip. Sherlock has instinctively made a little move forward, but has stopped himself again immediately, even before the officer who stands at his back shoves the muzzle of his gun into his ribs to remind him to keep still. Another one steps up to the table and puts handcuffs on Victor's wrists, securing his hands behind his back. Then he and his colleague take him one by each shoulder and pull him upright again. Victor's eyes search for Sherlock's, and find them. They have filled with tears, of pain or despair or both. He looks very small between his two massive guards. John's eyes are flickering back and forth between Mycroft, Victor and the door, obviously considering the practical demonstration of loyalty he has been warned against earlier. Mrs Holmes stands utterly still, her mouth open in silent, disbelieving protest. Mycroft takes in the changed set-up with an approving look.
MYCROFT: Very good. (To the officers) The same for my brother, please. Take them outside, put them in separate cars. I'll be with you in a moment.
The officer still covering Sherlock lowers his weapon and puts his gloved hand on Sherlock's upper arm. And Mrs Holmes finally explodes in a magnificent rage. Completely heedless of the fact that there is a heavily armed man standing in each corner of the room, she advances on her older son like a fury, her eyes flashing, her teeth bared in a snarl.
MRS HOLMES (very loudly, her voice ringing with righteous anger): Don't you dare! Don't you dare, Mycroft! (She points a finger at Victor.) This young man, whatever he may have done, is a guest in my and your father's house, and I will be damned before I let you take him away from here like a common criminal, and your own brother with him, for shame! (She gestures around at the armed officers, beside herself with indignation.) Who do you think you are, marching in here with these ugly big men and their ugly black things like you own the place, without even knocking on the door? (Even louder) If you have a shred of decency left in you, you will tell them to get out of the house now, or by God, I will put them out with my own hands!
A ringing silence. Mycroft stands gaping at his mother, thunderstruck. The officers exchange uncertain looks. The one who was going to seize Sherlock almost furtively takes his hand off him again. For a seemingly endless while, Mrs Holmes keeps glaring at her older son, Mycroft stares helplessly back at her, and Sherlock is having difficulties suppressing a very fond smile. Then he slowly, inch by inch, lowers his hands. John, seeing it, follows his example, grimacing with the relief. None of the officers intervenes. At long last, Mycroft exhales sharply, turns his eyes away from his mother's flushed face and glances around at his men.
MYCROFT: Wait for me outside.
The officers lower their weapons, and one after the other exit the room, all of them looking rather sheepish, until only one of those who were keeping hold of Victor remains. He glances enquiringly at Mycroft. Mycroft holds out his hand, receives the key to the handcuffs and pockets it. When the last of the officers has left the room, Mycroft turns abruptly towards his brother. As if on command, Sherlock immediately wipes the smile off his face.
MYCROFT: Whatever you're going to say now, it's not going to be helpful.
SHERLOCK (without the least hint of sarcasm): I know.
Mycroft waits for a moment, regarding Sherlock with narrowed eyes, but when there is nothing more forthcoming, he sighs, pushes the chair Sherlock was sitting in earlier back into its place at the end of the table and waves Victor into it. Victor, moving a little clumsily with his hands still secured behind his back, obeys and sits down, very upright, still very tense. Sherlock takes a chair at right angles to Victor's, John the one closest to where he has been standing, at the other end of the table. Mycroft walks around the table and sits down opposite his brother.
MRS HOLMES (calm again, except for a very bright red spot on each of her cheeks): Now, that looks much better to me. I'll make tea.
She proceeds to put the kettle on. Mycroft turns sideways towards Victor and folds his hands on top of the table.
MYCROFT: Well, Mr Trevor. I believe I was promised a speech. (With an angry glance at Sherlock) And it had better be good, or I might just call them back in.
Victor looks at Sherlock for support.
SHERLOCK (to Victor): It's alright. I think you can cut out all the poetry about remorse and regret and seeing the error of your ways, and come straight to the point of what you're offering him.
Mycroft raises his eyebrows. Victor clears his throat.
VICTOR: I - I saw it. He killed Pavel. Yevgeny, I mean. And Sherlock said that Yevgeny was arrested, so if there's going to be a trial, I can - I mean - (He clears his throat again.) And if there's going to be one about the CCTV thing, too, I can show you -
He falters. Mycroft regards him in silence, without hostility, but determined not to make things easier for him either.
VICTOR: I'd need my laptop for that, though.
MYCROFT: You're forgetting that we already have it. It was very conveniently left behind for us to pick up when you took to your heels in Kentish Town the other night.
SHERLOCK (impatiently): Oh, don't try and trick the poor boy. If it's his, there's no way your people will have got past even the first encryption layer by now.
Mycroft gives him an annoyed look but keeps a very eloquent silence. Victor looks hopeful again.
SHERLOCK: Go on, Victor.
VICTOR (to Mycroft, very quietly): And there's more on it than the CCTV stuff. You can have that, too.
He looks down, avoiding everyone's eyes.
MYCROFT (to Sherlock, after a moment): Well. That wasn't all that impressive.
SHERLOCK: It goes straight to the point.
MYCROFT: The point that he wants to turn witness for the prosecution, in exchange for a slightly reduced sentence and a passport with a new name on it once he's released?
SHERLOCK: No.
MYCROFT: Oh, good. Because it won't work that way. There will be no trial here, neither for murder nor for computer crimes. (He nods towards Victor.) I've promised him to the Americans. He'll be on a plane by tonight. Yevgeny is already on the way.
Victor raises his head and stares at Mycroft, then at Sherlock, and gulps.
SHERLOCK (calmly): Cancel the plane.
MYCROFT: You don't understand. I said I promised. And they won't thank me for not honouring that promise.
SHERLOCK: Being who they are, they won't thank you for honouring it, either. (In a sudden burst of anger, very loudly) God, Mycroft, you cut a pitiful figure, you really do. I thought I was piling it on a bit when I said you were scared of them, but now I see it was an understatement, if anything. It's embarrassing, it really is - you of all people kowtowing to the Americans like that. Switch your brain back on, if you please. You don't needme to teach you how to serve your own country best. (Mycroft opens his mouth to protest, but Sherlock talks over him.) Look at what you'll gain if you keep him here, and weigh that against the literally nothing that you gain if you hand him over, and then keep telling me that he has to go!
MYCROFT (coolly): And what exactly do I stand to gain by keeping him?
SHERLOCK: He's Victor Trevor.
MYCROFT: I know. Your old friend. What's in it for me?
SHERLOCK: Recruit him.
Mycroft stares at Sherlock, completely taken aback. Victor glances furtively at Mycroft, holding his breath.
SHERLOCK: Experts like him aren't ten a penny. How many applicants do you get every year who can boast of both a decade and more of training with the world's leading IT security companies, and of such an impressive amount of first-hand knowledge of how to blast it all to pieces again? You've seen his record, both the official and the other one. He always was one of the best in his field, always. Let him take that laptop of his to your friends from the GCHQ and show them what he can do. They will see it. And they'll be better judges of it than either you or me, when it comes to the details.
Mycroft shakes his head.
SHERLOCK (more quietly than before, but no less intently): You hate waste, just like I do – waste of time, waste of resources, waste of anything of value. And you should know, better than anyone else, the value that a single person's brain can constitute. Why let it rot in a prison somewhere in America when it can be of so much better use here at home? Look at him now. He means it, and he'll see it through.
Mycroft glances at Victor, who sits up even straighter than before and bravely forces himself to meet Mycroft's eyes.
SHERLOCK: What are they going to say when they hear that you had the single most valuable asset to their work of the last years handed to you on a silver platter, and declined? Out of fear? Out of spite? Whatever it is that still makes you hesitate right now, it's miles below you, and you know it.
MYCROFT: Well – letting him turn informer is one thing. But recruiting him into our own ranks would be a bit of a stretch, don't you think?
SHERLOCK(with a shrug): Why? It's by far the most practical solution. He'll need a job, you know, now that saving the world hasn't turned out to pay off all that well. And wouldn't they prefer to be able to keep an eye on him and his doings on a daily basis, rather than having to worry constantly about him hooking up with the wrong crowd again? (To Victor) Because, you know, you can actually do worse than with the GCHQ bunch.(To John) And I don't believe I just said that.
John smiles. Mycroft is looking down at the table, pressing down hard on the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. There is a pause. Everyone's eyes are on Mycroft. After a moment, he raises his head again.
MYCROFT (to Sherlock): You have no idea, no idea at all, what a headache it's going to cause me to make that work.
SHERLOCK: Oh, come on. Be creative. (He nods at Victor's arm.) You can tell what's under there, can't you? Nasty batch of second degree burns – infection – sepsis – pegged out somewhere in a ditch, nothing left for you to arrest but a dead body. (He leans forward in his chair.) Kareem's dead, Mycroft. Might as well make it official.
Victor grimaces inadvertently. Mycroft makes a dismissive gesture with his hand.
MYCROFT: I'm not concerned with the technicalities. But I do wonder whether you realise what it means to ask me to hold my hand over the same person that, only an hour ago -
SHERLOCK: - you were about to throw to the wolves? Yes, I am. It's part of why I'm doing it, in case you hadn't noticed. Because, if you really find it so difficult, then woe betide all of us who simply try to do the right thing.(Impatiently) What do you carry that stupid big umbrella for? Use it, for God's sake! And don't tell me that it isn't raining.
John suppresses another smile. Victor, completely bewildered, glances out of the window to check what Sherlock is talking about, and is none the wiser. Mycroft leans back in his chair and folds his arms, still unconvinced. Then he abruptly turns to face Victor. Victor gives a little start.
MYCROFT: You're very quiet. What do you say to all of this? Is this just one of my brother's more original little ideas, or are you asking me for a second chance, too?
Victor takes a deep breath.
VICTOR: Yes, sir, I am. (A little stiffly) And I'd be more grateful for it than words can express.
Meanwhile, Mrs Holmes in the background has placed four cups, the teapot, milk and sugar on a large tray, which she now picks up from the worktop and walks over to the table with, looking very pleased.
MRS HOLMES: And wasn't that a beautiful way of saying it.
She puts the tray down on the table.
MRS HOLMES (nodding at Victor but addressing Mycroft): And how is he going to drink that, now?
Mycroft gives her an exasperated look, hesitates for a moment, but then takes the key to the handcuffs out of his pocket and pushes it across the table at Sherlock. For a moment, Sherlock looks as if he is going to push it right back, but then he picks it up, gets to his feet and takes Victor's handcuffs off. Victor sighs with relief and gives Sherlock a nod of thanks.
MYCROFT (to Sherlock): He'll always be a risk.
SHERLOCK: Like every human being.
There is another silence, in which Mycroft sits staring at the tea set in front of him as if it is a miniature alien spaceship that has just landed on his parents' kitchen table. Then rather suddenly he, too, stands up and squares his shoulders.
MYCROFT: Well, I believe there's a lot of work waiting to be done. (With an expectant look at Victor) Better get started.
He lets his eyes travel pointedly towards the door. Victor looks at him uneasily, then slowly gets to his feet, more than a little overwhelmed by the sudden turn of events.
VICTOR (to Sherlock): So - where am I going now?
SHERLOCK: To Cheltenham, eventually.
VICTOR: Will I see you there?
SHERLOCK: I don't think so. (He smiles a little wistfully.) Old friends don't go well with new identities, I'm afraid.
Victor nods unhappily.
SHERLOCK: You'll like it there, though. Very pretty place. Good cycling in the area, too. You'll be fine, once you've settled in. Don't mind him. (He glances at Mycroft.) I know it won't be fun, but I spent my entire childhood with him breathing down my neck, and look, I survived.
Mycroft rolls his eyes.
SHERLOCK (to Victor): Just see to it that you keep up your end of the bargain, if only for my sake. Because if you don't, I will be taken to one of those cosy basement rooms that don't really exist, by some charming people that don't really exist either, and they will take me to pieces in the most painful way human ingenuity can contrive, just because they finally can. (Jerking his head at Mycroft) He's been waiting for an excuse to do that for years. Don't be the one that gives it to him.
VICTOR (contritely): Looks like I almost was.
Mycroft opens his mouth, and then, exercising monumental self-restraint, closes it again.
VICTOR (to Sherlock, serious again): I – I let you down once, and I never even knew how badly, until – (He glances at Mrs Holmes, and thinks better of finishing that sentence. Firmly) Not doing it again.
SHERLOCK: Good. Now be off.
Victor nods, then turns to Mrs Holmes.
VICTOR: Thank you, Mrs Holmes. For everything. I – I feel like a human being again.
Mrs Holmes puts both her hands on his shoulders and smiles warmly.
MRS HOLMES: Well, that makes me glad. I'd have loved to have you here longer. Take care, now.
She tightens her hold for a moment, then releases him.
VICTOR: Oh, and -
He makes a move as if to take off the cardigan he is wearing, but Mrs Holmes puts out her hand to stop him.
MRS HOLMES: Oh, no. Keep it, please. He's got far too many of those anyway.
Victor nods again, and is in the act of turning towards the door when John rises from his chair, too, steps forward and holds out his hand. Victor looks at him, faintly surprised.
JOHN: Well – (He clears his throat.) Take care.
VICTOR(taking his hand): You, too.
They look at each other for a long moment, then Victor lets go, turns away and walks out of the kitchen. Mycroft follows him. When he passes Sherlock on his way out, he hesitates, then turns to face his brother once more.
MYCROFT: When will you finally lose that strange urge of yours to make other people happy at the highest possible cost to yourself?
SHERLOCK: As long as you want me to, never.
MRS HOLMES (frostily): And you would do well to recognise it for what it is, Mycroft Holmes.
Mycroft juts out his chin, sniffs audibly, and exits the room. The remaining three watch him out in silence, until they hear the sounds of car doors opening and closing again outside, engines being started and the vehicles moving away down the road. Then Sherlock closes his eyes for a moment. He is suddenly looking very pale. His hands at his sides curl into fists, and the muscles in his face are working. He blinks a couple of times.
JOHN (in a tone of concern): You OK?
SHERLOCK (in a tense voice): Yeah. No. (He exhales shakily.) Caught a cold on the journey, I think. (His teeth have actually started chattering.) Sorry.
He turns away abruptly and hurries out of the kitchen. For a moment, John seems in two minds about following him, but when he looks across at Mrs Holmes, she is shaking her head. John sighs.
Ten minutes later by the clock on the wall, there is a steaming pot on the hob, and Mrs Holmes is busily pottering around the kitchen making lunch, while John is standing at the worktop chopping carrots. There is a cheerful knock on the door, and Mr Holmes, in a warm woollen jacket, scarf and cloth cap, enters the kitchen, carrying several bulging plastic bags in each hand.
MR HOLMES: Here we are. Sorry that took so long.
He gives his wife an affectionate peck on the cheek, heaves his bags up onto the kitchen table and points over his shoulder back towards the living room, looking mildly puzzled.
MR HOLMES: How come there's Sherlock sleeping on the sofa?
MRS HOLMES: Oh. He said he might be catching a cold. (She smiles.) Nothing serious, dear.
Mr Holmes nods a little absently, then turns to John, smiles at him warmly and offers him his hand. John takes it, smiling back.
MR HOLMES: John. Good to see you. Ah, how nice to have the place livened up a bit, for a change. (Beaming at his wife) Don't tell me Mycroft's coming for lunch, too?
John and Mrs Holmes exchange a look.
MRS HOLMES (a little sadly): No, dear. Not today.