A/N – Beta read by the fantastic Mugenmine.
This chapter borrows (well, bastardises) elements from ACD's "The Valley of Fear".
Part Seven: The Fraud II
There had still been traces of daylight when Sherlock made his entrance. Now, like his mood, it had darkened considerably. The only lit place in the run-down factory was the windowless room he just left, and that light dwindled to nothing fast. He was left with the moonlight as his only source of light; a faint, laughable substitute that barely made it past the overhead windows.
Aggravation made Sherlock stomp forward, consciously lengthening his steps. The huge abandoned building was in shambles, piles of rubble scattered all over the place and some parts of the flooring loosening dangerously. Deep in thought, he didn't bother to strain his eyes in order to avoid the obstacles in his way. Instead, he operated by memory, relying on his body and his mind's subconscious ability to lead him safely though the ruins.
He was halfway out of the building when he opened his mouth to speak. The syllables caught in his throat when he realised John wasn't actually there. Sherlock stopped dead in his tracks, choking down a flash of panic. It was fear induced adrenaline, not physical exertion, which made his heart begin to pound in his chest and which caused his breath to quicken. And it all happened because, for several moments, Sherlock had lost touch with his surroundings.
He clenched his fists, refusing to let his hands shake. He chastised himself, for becoming so rattled, for allowing himself to lose control. Weakness was not a luxury he could afford.
Easy, he thought. He put the wall to his back, and allowed himself to shut his eyes. They were useless in the darkness, anyway. You're alone. Not compromised, he reminded himself. He let his remaining senses adjust to the here and now, taking in reality to the fullest, until his heart stopped hammering and his anxiety subsided.
Since his early childhood, Sherlock had a habit of retreating into his own mind. Oblivious and numb to the outside world, sometimes working on autopilot alone. It was a bad habit to have around certain individuals who violently disliked being tuned out.
So Sherlock trained himself out of it. He learned to stay alert at all times. Even as he delved into his subconscious, his mind palace, even as he slept; a small part of him was still alert and in control. Or at least, it should have been. Somehow, without noticing, Sherlock had regressed into that old habit once again.
Damn it all, and damn Mycroft, too. Sherlock should have arranged Jim's incarceration all by himself. He should never have trusted Mycroft with him, should have known his brother would want to meddle.
Now, John. When did he misplace John? Sherlock exhaled slowly, turning back on his heels in search of his friend.
"Sherlock?" He heard John's half-whisper (why was he whispering?) before he saw him. They almost collided. John cursed when he tried to stop his body's momentum and nearly stumbled. Sherlock caught on to his arm to steady him.
"Thanks," John said, a little out of breath.
"You took your time," Sherlock commented, squinting past John into the darkness. "Mycroft didn't follow you, did he?"
"Not unless he scaled the ceiling." John snorted. "Ah, you know a way out of this place, right?" He asked. Deadpan, he added, "It's pretty creepy; wouldn't want to find any ghosts tonight."
Sherlock didn't take the bait, instead he said, "Well, try to keep up," and turned on his heels, letting the cover of darkness obscure his smile. John followed right behind him, and stayed close.
"Right, so, where are we going?" John asked.
"I'm taking you home," Sherlock said.
"Taking me… Wait, hold on a minute." John stopped Sherlock by grabbing on to his arm.
"What?" Sherlock snapped, pulling back from John's grip.
The John-shaped shadow sighed, holding both palms up in apology. "You're not planning on disappearing again, are you?" John asked quietly. "Because if you are, I'm warning you, I'm not letting you run off to get yourself killed. What was that all about, that phone call? What exactly are you playing at, Sherlock?"
"I've managed to get by so far," Sherlock said in a tone that was perhaps a bit too churlish, and not particularly caring. "Somehow."
"Sherlock…" John sighed in that disconcertingly familiar way of his. If he were anyone else, Sherlock would have immediately bristled at his tone. Since it was John, Sherlock softened instead.
"Look, I'm here aren't I?" Sherlock said. He shook his head. "I'm not going to disappear, and I will explain everything… but I'd rather it not be here. Come on." He turned toward the exit and then as an afterthought he amended, "Please."
John followed without another word. The silence not unwelcome for the time being. Sherlock led them to the other side of the building until finally they reached its south-east entrance. The grounds were large enough to keep both ends of the factory relatively private. Sherlock agreed with Mycroft on the logistics earlier that day. The two of them couldn't be seen in each other's company out in the open. Besides, neither of them arrived alone, and it wouldn't do for their drivers to become chatty (on the off chance that it might even happen.)
Then there was the matter of Sherlock's transportation. The vehicle's distinct shape came into view beyond the factory's run down gates. Its headlights turned on, illuminating their passage. Its beams low as to not blind them - the driver had some healthy fear of him, after all. He heard, rather than saw, John stop with a surprised, "huh."
Sherlock turned back around, looking at his companion in puzzlement.
"It's a hearse," John said in response to Sherlock's unvoiced question. "You drove here in a funeral car?"
"I was in a middle of a different project before I came to meet you," Sherlock said with a shrug. "I don't normally travel like this." Out in the open, John's features were more visible, made sharp by the vehicle's headlights. It registered to Sherlock that John was barely keeping his amusement contained.
"Is there a problem?" Sherlock asked.
"Oh my God, Sherlock," John said, his voice low. "You came back from the dead in a hearse."
"I didn't actually come back from the dead." Sherlock replied, but he couldn't swallow his smile, or help but begin to chuckle at John's amused snort. One good look at each other's face was all it took for them to escalate it into full blown laughter, John going so far as to clutch his knees for support.
"I hope you have seats back there," John said in a voiced choked with hilarity. He used the back of his hand to wipe tears from his eyes. Sherlock himself had to swallow a lump in his throat, and suddenly it dawned on him that there was probably a bit more to their laughter besides Sherlock's unfortunate choice in transport.
Irritably, he shook his head, turning to the vehicle once more.
The driver chose that moment to roll down his window, looking at the two of them in bemusement. "Uh, Boss?" The man called out tentatively. He was a ratty looking individual, long faced and twitchy. "Any change in directions?" The driver asked.
"None at all," Sherlock replied, and stepped back to the vehicle's rear entrance. Their next stop, as it was all along, was John's flat back in London.
The hearse had no backseat to speak of. Four darkened windows added a sombre feature to the long compartment in the back. The words Birlstone Funeral Services were painted on each side of the vehicle; white lettering stark against the dark metal. Underneath the name was a phone number. If one were to ring that number, they would reach a real funeral home with the same name. One whose bookkeeping recorded jobs it never handled, and which registered a phantom vehicle to its business. For our special long distance or international transportation services, press 5.
Sherlock held one of the backdoors open for John. "After you," he said, musing that he probably should have warned John about their company beforehand. He did not wish to do so in earshot of the driver.
John's recent good mood shrivelled and died as soon as he glanced at the contents of the vehicle. No longer smiling, his shoulders squared with tension, he looked up at Sherlock in alarm. A silent question. Sherlock merely jerked his head toward the entrance. "Later," he said, and John understood, climbing inside the vehicle with visible unease.
Sherlock stepped inside as well, shutting the door behind him. Almost immediately they were on the move. It was a clumsy vehicle, not suited for the rough terrain, and they were able to feel every bump it made on the uneven road.
Without a backseat, the hearse's long interior was lined with padded benches on each side. Their cream colour complimented the rich mahogany wood of the coffin that rested between them, laid fastened to the vehicle's floor.
The exterior of the coffin exterior was basic, belying its interior which was by far more complex. The engineer who designed it was no longer among the living, but his clever creation prevailed. Its design - made not of metal but only fibreglass, wood and silk covered cushions - proved to be extremely useful in masking any insidious components that might be hidden inside. It was virtually undetectable by machines. That was all they needed for transport, their paperwork was legit and no one– not even the police or customs officials - was all too eager to peak inside a closed coffin themselves (unless of course they were alone, and unable to hide their morbid curiosity. They never were alone.)
The construction had been used many times in the past. No one had been able to replicate it exactly since the engineer died, and so it was high in demand. Of course it also served as a regular coffin from time to time, transport for the human body, albeit with some modifications. At the moment the coffin held no dangerous contraband.
John sat on one of the plush benches opposite Sherlock, legs scrunched up close as to not dirty the coffin with the mud his shoes picked up outside. Sherlock himself had no such qualms. He leaned back comfortably in his seat, one foot propped on the lid.
"We can speak freely now," Sherlock said. He nodded toward the tinted glass standing between them and the driver. "The partition is sound proof." The driver was also half-deaf, or at least he pretended to be. It was something of an advantage in his line of work.
"Who's this for?" John asked, gesturing to the coffin. From the lines of his mouth, he probably hoped it was empty. Yes, Sherlock's scientific interests were hardly breaking news, but Sherlock knew that to John this would be different. John probably had a few ideas why someone pretending to be a master criminal would be hijacking funeral cars and coffins, and none of them were very reassuring.
"A man named John Douglas." Sherlock chose to answer the literal question instead of the underlying one, if only because he was curious about John's reaction. He continued, waving his hand in a dismissive gesture, "He's not very important." Entirely true, since Sherlock wasn't actually interested in the man himself.
John opened his mouth to speak, but as if on cue, a mobile phone went off, interrupting their conversation for the second time that day. It wasn't Sherlock's ridiculous ring tone, but one of those old fashioned Nokia jingles that apparently hadn't died early last decade. Sherlock groaned, and resentfully removed his foot from the coffin's lid. He spent several moments fiddling with its various catches, in which time the ringing stopped only to be renewed by a second call shortly thereafter.
Finally, Sherlock was able to remove the lid, revealing the man lying inside. John Douglas; middle aged, hairline of a twenty year old, going soft around the middle.
Douglas was dressed in an expensive, if generic business suit. Sherlock didn't hesitate before he reached into the jacket's inner pocket (for where else would a suited man keep his mobile?) The phone turned out to be a new smartphone, instead of an indestructible antique as its ringtone suggested. Sentimental fool.
Sherlock didn't have to check the mobile's screen to know who the caller was. "Hello Mrs. Douglas," he said, his alternate persona switching on with a bare minimum of effort. "I know I haven't given you my number, it was rather the point," He said snidely, causing to woman on the other side of the line to stumble on her words, but only for a moment.
Sherlock sighed, cutting into the onslaught of questions. "Of course he is. And yes, your husband's execution was flawless. You can probably already download the video online." He rolled his eyes, "I don't know, one of those snuff websites. Google it. Now piss off." Unceremoniously he rolled down a window and tossed the mobile phone out of the car.
"Sorry," Sherlock said to John, who now looked at him with a weary regard. "You were saying?"
"Sherlock," John said quietly. "Did you arrange for this man to be killed?" He asked, unconsciously placing a small pause before the word killed, as if it carried a better connotation than murdered. "Did his wife put you up to it?"
Sherlock couldn't help but smile. John hadn't even checked. "In a manner of speaking," he said. When John only frowned he huffed in exasperation. "John, have I taught you nothing? You look but you do not observe. This is your area."
John blinked. It took a few seconds for Sherlock's words to sink in and for John to finally look, really look, at the man lying between them. John took Douglas' wrist in hand, revealing a small tattoo on the inside of his wrist; a rectangle within a circle. Sherlock's eyebrow rose in admonishment when John glanced up at him in surprise; he found a steady pulse. John continued to examine the man's passive form, noticing, for the first time, Sherlock knew, the slight rise and fall of Douglas' chest.
The man was perfectly still, though not stiff, pale but not deathly so. Douglas was drugged to the point of unnatural stillness, but he was obviously not dead. By all accounts, John shouldn't have been fooled. He was a trained and experienced physician, after all. However, Douglas was lying in a coffin. John simply took the truth as it was presented to him. He allowed his mind to fill in the blanks for him and jumped to conclusions.
"You utter twat," John said in a flat tone.
Sherlock grinned. "I have a medical examiner's report which says this man died of severe haemorrhaging brought on by multiple gunshots. Who am I to argue with a professional, John?"
"Except that no sane M.E. would ever declare this man dead," John said. "So, why is he unconscious?" John asked.
"Sanity had nothing at all to do with it, just money, in fact." Sherlock shrugged. "They needed something to work with for appearances' sake, and it's easier to drug someone to immobility than to have them fake it."
"I meant, why is he still unconscious?"
"Oh," Sherlock made a small, non-descript sound. "Terribly dull company."
John looked like he didn't know whether to laugh or to shout. "Right," he said, settling on neither. "Of course. Uh, you don't suppose…" He gestured at the coffin lid awkwardly.
"Not at all," Sherlock replied, lifting the heavy lid back on the coffin, and fastening its catches back into place. "Better?"
John's expression was a little guilty. "He can breathe in there, right? I don't think these things are made for living people."
"This one was," Sherlock assured him.
"Faking people's death, that's your speciality, then?" John asked.
"It was simple enough: a few convincing actors and a lot of fake blood. We had to go through the old gunshot routine." Sherlock sighed. "Everything about this case became incredibly dull once we wrapped up the execution scene. Nevertheless, it was effective. Douglas' pursuers believe him to be dead, and will leave him alone from this point on." Sherlock propped both feet on the coffin. "Both he and his family are preparing to relocate abroad in a short time. He'll have to endure an overseas flight inside this thing," Sherlock thumped the coffin with his foot. It was a marvel of engineering, really. "That should be the end of it. Arranging for the flight though, ugh, you have no idea how many people I had to buy off along the way. It's exhausting."
John's brows crinkled in confusion. "Why'd you bother? Wouldn't this guy get arrested by that time? I just gathered, with all that information you've given Mycroft earlier…"
"Oh, that. No, Douglas is fairly inconsequential in the grand scheme of things. I was actually more concerned about flushing out the group who were after him in the first place."
"Yeah, but this guy came to Moriarty for help. Not to you. He's not exactly spotless then, is he?" John argued.
Sherlock snorted. "What difference does that make? Believe it or not, not the entire clientele is evil incarnate."
"I can't imagine anyone involved with Moriarty who wasn't," John said, his face heating up even in the artificial chill.
"I know your vision isn't quite so black and white, John."
"It is when it comes to Moriarty."
"You'd be surprised," Sherlock said, but decided not to elaborate on that.
John looked at him in bemusement. "You almost sound like you're defending him."
Sherlock paused at that. "I'm not," He said. He brought his hands to clasp before his face. "What about me?" He asked at last.
"What about you?"
"You asked me before whether I really had this man killed. You believed I had."
John groaned. "I was just worried you were taking the role too far, that's all."
"But, John, this is just one case," Sherlock said, one finger protruding from his clasped hands for emphasis. He tapped it against his mouth, his eyes closed. "It's all right. I'd have wondered the same thing," he said. He opened his eyes, dropped his hands to his lap. "I think it's time I told you everything."
Sherlock took a deep breath before he began to talk. He started at the very beginning: how during that day, when Jim dismantled him piece by piece, he understood that Jim's intent was for him to kill himself as a final disgrace. He explained how he planned to fool Jim by faking his death, with the help of one Molly Hooper.
Amusingly, John's mouth fell open in disbelief when Sherlock told him about Molly's involvement.
"I asked her to look out for you," Sherlock added.
"Yes, she, she kept in touch." John mumbled.
Sherlock's amusement died when he recalled Jim's condition, his friends or his life, and how Sherlock's hopes were dashed when Jim revealed he knew all about Sherlock's plan. That Molly was being watched as well, one last figure on the bargain. He told John about Jim's final ultimatum.
From that point onward, and without meaning to, Sherlock found himself telling John a carefully constructed version of the truth. He never lied, but he deliberately glossed over details he did not care to repeat or disclose. Not out of shame, or guilt, but something else that did not bear too much thought. It was unimportant, sentimental, and Sherlock preferred stick to the cold facts.
Whatever was left unsaid - John did not ask. He sat before Sherlock, listening, taking in everything Sherlock had to say in Sherlock's own pace. John nodded, occasionally injecting a relevant question. For the most part, he was silent; one hand covering his mouth, a slight flush rising on his cheeks.
Sherlock told John how he studied The Network, that labyrinth of connections Jim controlled like a marionette's puppeteer. He explained how he had maintained contact with Mycroft, sabotaged as much of Jim's plans as he could, and how eventually he was able to use Jim's own campaign against him. He explained how he took over Jim's name and position, and that he had Mycroft clean up all public records of Sherlock's existence, starting from his birth certificate to his flat, making it impossible to ascertain for sure whether or not Sherlock Holmes ever existed.
"But that's absurd. People are going to remember you whether or not you have a passport," John said.
"Is it? It's only my childhood I needed to obscure, my connection to Mycroft, the homestead." He sighed. "There wasn't much to hide. Besides, my intent was to confuse, not convince. I'm not planning on staying in the role for that long. And speaking of, that's fairly recent," Sherlock said, slightly out of breath. "I've only been James Moriarty for a little over a week. I suppose I can see why Jim likes it." He shrugged. "I only need to say jump and-"
"Sherlock," John interrupted, quiet and serious. "What now?"
"Now," he said. "We burn it. I've summoned the worst of the lot to a conference in The Berkeley hotel this Saturday, without the option of declining." Sherlock smiled, and it was a harsh, cold smile. "Some of those people you'll surely recognise, though many will arrive under false identities. The rest are fairly anonymous, which makes them even more dangerous, I suppose. Regardless, I've given Mycroft all he needs to send his team to swoop in and scoop them all up, but that's just the tip of the iceberg. After that, the rest of The Network shall crumble. Like a house made of cards."
He sighed, closing his eyes for a brief moment. "And then it'll be over."
"Are you coming back to Baker Street?" John asked softly.
"Where else will I go?" Sherlock replied. The vehicle slowed to a stop. "You're home," he said. Sherlock looked out the window to what he knew was John's flat. A woman was peering out the second storey window, clearly waiting for someone to return. Her features were too obscured by the distance and the darkness to make out. John's fiancée, he supposed.
"Now that I'm back you'll need to move closer to Baker Street, obviously. This is too far away, John." He frowned at the exasperated sigh John gave him. "What? You're only renting."
"Sherlock."
Sherlock turned back to face John. "I'll see you again this Saturday," he said. "But I need you to do me a favour first. Here." Without bothering to wait for John's reply, he pulled out a small flash card from his pocket, holding it out in the palm of his hand. "Pass this on to Lestrade. It's important it comes from you," Sherlock said.
John reached out to take the flash card from Sherlock's outstretched hand. "What is it?" He asked.
"An apology of sorts; I saved the best arrest for him." Sherlock paused before he added, "I know his reputation was shot because of me."
John hesitated, but then he nodded in confirmation. "You should know he's on a leave of absence right now."
"I know," Sherlock said. "Believe me; he'll want to come back for this. Tell him I sent you."
John smiled at that. "He's going to think I lost it."
"I'm sure you can convince him to the contrary."
"I'll give it my best shot," John said with a small laugh. "Saturday, you say?"
"I'll pick you up. With a different car." Sherlock promised.
John nodded, and moved to exit the car. For whatever reason, his hand paused on the door handle. He turned back to Sherlock, a look of concern on his face.
"Sherlock, are you all right?" John asked slowly, his voice serious.
Sherlock was taken aback at that. "Of course I'm all right," he said.
"Just, be careful, okay?"
"I'll see you on Saturday." Sherlock smiled.
"Right," John nodded. He left the vehicle, which was soon once again on the move. Sherlock watched him through the window until the hearse made a sharp turn around a street corner and he lost his line of sight. He slumped back in his seat, pinching the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger, willing away his fatigue.
XXX
Anyone could walk in anywhere given the right timing, or, barring that, some good connections.
Once inside the secured compound, Sherlock made his way to the inner structure. He stopped by a door labelled "Authorised Personnel Only". It was the backdoor access, used by people who, for whatever reason, needed to access the facility covertly. For the most part it was only used by visiting high ranking government officials, Sherlock's own brother, and most importantly - the cleaning staff.
Sherlock swiped his forged security card over the magnetic reader. The small LED attached to the door panel flashed green. He keyed in a secondary access code, one that changed on a daily basis. Yes, Sherlock had very good connections indeed.
The code was rejected. A different LED light flashed a warning red. Unperturbed, Sherlock keyed in the code a second time. Once again, it was declined. On his third attempt the green light flashed again, and the door finally opened. Had Sherlock used a different code in any of the three prompts, he would have been immediately flagged for questioning. As it was, he simply walked in.
The information he had gathered about the compound's schematics and security layout was still somewhat outdated, so Sherlock took the time he needed to make changes to his mental data; noting where new security measures had been installed and what else seemed to have changed. He twirled his forged access card around in his hand, enough to show that he had it, but not enough to permit anyone to inspect it all too closely.
His attire had stuck out like a sore thumb among the troops he passed earlier, but this far inside the compound the prevalent dress code changed to suits and business wear. Once inside, the people around him took to his unhurried pace and aloof expression and assumed that he was supposed to be there. No one addressed him beyond the customary glance and a nod, and usually not even that.
He came upon the compound's security room. Two bored looking men in Army fatigues sat behind an array of screens, monitoring the entire facility. Stammering an apology, Sherlock mentioned that he was new, and then asked for directions to the loo. They were only too happy to point him the way. Then he stopped by a break room. It was empty, so he took the liberty of confiscating a plain white mug and made himself a cup of coffee. He took it with him as he continued on his stroll throughout the facility.
Coming here wasn't part of his initial plan; in fact, if it were up to him he would have been on the other side of the country and not snooping around a secured military compound. Recent revelations, however, made Sherlock's trip necessary. Specifically, that little smudge of blood he caught on the sharp tip of Mycroft's umbrella.
Perhaps it wasn't even real blood; perhaps Mycroft was just testing him. Either way, Sherlock didn't care. He just needed to see for himself.
He was deliberately delaying, he knew, stalling far more than he should. He did not even come close to the underground level, where his real interest lay. But no matter, he would get to that shortly. He decided it was time to make his presence known. He might as well kill two birds with one stone.
He stepped into a spacious lift, followed by a young woman in business attire. She was one of Mycroft's, specifically. Sherlock kept his face in profile, just in case she might recognise him. She didn't. She did, however, notice the look of disdain that passed over his face when dreadfully cheerful music began to emit from the lift speakers.
"Everybody hates it too." The woman confided, flashing him a small smile. "Sorry, are you new here?" She asked. "You seem familiar."
Sherlock huffed out a non-verbal response. Taken aback by his rudeness, the woman fell silent, giving him one last puzzled look over her shoulder as she stepped out onto her floor. The doors closed behind her.
The lift carried him to his final stop – the top floor. He made his way to the rooftop entrance, taking the heavy padlock he brought with him in hand. Sherlock was probably going to have a bruise later where the damned thing kept bumping against him, threatening to rip the fabric of his coat pocket. He had to sneak it in with a supplies truck earlier, since he was unable to carry it on his person during the various security checkpoints leading to the compound. He used the padlock to secure the heavy metal door behind him. He didn't bring a key.
The building wasn't tall enough to block out all sounds from below, and yet where he stood there seemed to exist an undisturbed pocket of silence. Even the wind couldn't be heard, blocked by the concrete cavern that made out the rooftop door. He paused there for a moment to enjoy the sound of silence before he carried on with his task.
Satisfied that the door would keep, Sherlock walked to the edge. The wind caused his coat to flirt about his legs. He lifted his now empty mug over the edge - and let go. The coffee wasn't even all that good.
He smiled when it shattered, six storeys below, startling various Uniforms and Suits alike. Now he was noticed. It wouldn't take long for them to figure out that he wasn't authorised to be there. Sherlock glanced at his watch. He estimated it would take approximately fourteen minutes for the security breach to reach Mycroft's ears. Faster than normal, perhaps, but Mycroft did have a special interest in the facility at the moment.
News travelled fast around the compound, and very soon a crowd of spectators gathered on the ground, albeit at a safe distance from him, perfectly visible from Sherlock's vantage point on the roof. They thought he was suicidal at first, but once they confirmed he entered the facility illegally, their tone changed fast. A team of armed operatives stood almost directly below him, and attempted to persuade him to surrender.
"Sir, I'm going to ask you one last time, put your hands where I can see them!" The soldier shouted from the ground below. Behind Sherlock, a consistent pounding could be heard as someone attempted to break down the rooftop door.
Fourteen minutes. He decided the pandemonium was sufficient, and that he was beginning to be in real danger of getting shot. Sherlock exhaled loudly, stepping away from the edge. He pulled Jim's mobile from his pocket.
Once the call connected, he gushed sarcastically, "You'll never believe where I am right now."
"Oh dear," Mycroft said.
"Quite."
The banging from the locked door grew in intensity for several moments until suddenly it stopped, only to be replaced by drilling. Finally someone had the good sense to remove the door's hinges, instead of relying on brute force to get past the door.
"You're the madman on the roof, I take it? What am I saying, of course you are," Mycroft said in clear exasperation.
Sherlock smiled grimly. "Have you thought about our conversation?"
There was a palpable pause. "I'll be there shortly. Don't do anything I might regret later," Mycroft said with a sigh. "Pass me over."
A stream of uniformed men spilled through to the roof, surrounding Sherlock, firearms pointing in his direction. Sherlock gave them a smile of pure faux cheer in greeting. He lifted one hand lazily in the air, the other still holding the phone to his ear.
"It's for you," Sherlock said, and presented the phone to the nearest soldier, who all but ripped it out of his hand.
Sherlock allowed himself to be handcuffed and pushed back inside the building. He was led through the now familiar corridors, down to the illusive basement floor and into a bleak room with grey walls. An interrogation room, he concluded; featuring a table, two chairs, a flickering ceiling lamp and a one sided mirror. He was sat on one of the chairs with more force than was probably necessary. He rolled his eyes. Amateurs.
Minutes later, a thin, flinty eyed man in a grey suit stepped through the door. He whispered something to Sherlock's appointed guard. The soldier's aggressive posture turned comical, at odds with the way his eyed widened in surprise and confusion. He moved to kneel behind Sherlock, releasing him from his handcuffs.
"Mr. Holmes." The suited man nodded in greeting. "If you could please just wait here, thank you." He said gruffly. He looked extremely aggravated, but that had more to do with his daughter dropping out of university to pursue a singing career than with the current situation, as Sherlock noted to himself.
"Of course," Sherlock said with a polite smile. It wiped clear off his face as soon as he was left alone.
After what seemed like hours of idle sitting and drumming his fingers on the table, his brother finally made an appearance. Silently, Mycroft placed Jim's phone on the table between them. He remained standing, looking far from amused. Sherlock watched him expectantly, waiting for his brother to finish his stand off.
"What are you doing, Sherlock?" Mycroft said quietly.
Sherlock glanced at his watch before replying, and when he did, he didn't even bother answering Mycroft's question. "Took you long enough," Sherlock commented.
"The traffic was murder," Mycroft said dryly. "Sherlock…"
Sherlock groaned. "Spare me the lecture, Mycroft. You know why I'm here. You're obviously not going to send me away, seeing that you bothered to come in person at all."
Mycroft pursed his lips, looking at Sherlock with that calculating look Sherlock knew so well. Usually it irritated him to the core, but right then, well, Sherlock decided he ought not to feel anything at all.
"Do you really think this is wise?" Mycroft asked. Sherlock did not answer, merely drummed his fingers on the table, looking anywhere but at his brother.
"Fine," Mycroft sighed. He walked to the door, speaking in hushed tones with the man standing just outside. Then he nodded, and turned back to Sherlock.
"You have five minutes." Mycroft informed him. "Say whatever it is that needs saying, and let us be done with it."
"Might not even need that much," Sherlock said.
"I'll be right outside," Mycroft added unnecessarily.
"You always are." Sherlock snapped. "Get on with it, Mycroft."
Mycroft gave him another one of his looks, but then thankfully stepped out.
Sherlock took back Jim's phone, and slipped it into his coat pocket. Left with nothing else to do but wait, he clasped his hands together over the table, sitting up straight and perfectly composed. He reminded himself that he did not feel a thing.
Soon the door reopened, and two men walked into the small interrogation room. That is to say, one man walked, the other hobbled on his one good foot. He had a bag over his head, and his body was covered in ill-fitted clothes which were clearly only just handed to him - not hard to deduce, they were clean. But even tattered and off-balance, Sherlock would have recognised Jim anywhere.
Jim was pushed down onto the seat opposite Sherlock. Only the table stood between them. The escort quickly cuffed Jim's arms and legs to the chair - no lack of caution there, if only they'd been as vigilant during Sherlock's stroll through the facility earlier – and then left, door slamming shut behind him.
Jim waited patiently. Sherlock had no doubt Jim knew who was there with him. And yet, when Sherlock leaned over the table to lift the cloth off of Jim's head, Jim visibly started, as if he really did not realise it was Sherlock all along.
Jim watched Sherlock through his one good eye, red with blood as it was. His other eye was swollen shut. The rest of him, what Sherlock could see, did not fare much better. It wasn't the worst state Sherlock had seen him in, generally speaking. Nothing quite compared to Jim's Silent Days. Yet Jim still trembled, pale where he wasn't black and blue. His one good eye was wide, Adam's apple bobbing up and down as his breath quickened.
Sherlock could only let loose a sigh.
"Sherlock," Jim said in a quiet voice, as if he didn't want their observers to hear. "Sherlock, oh my God. Please, Sherlock, you've got to get me out of here," Jim continued, his voice breaking in places. He spent a moment just taking in short, sobbing breaths. "I don't know how much more I can take."
Sherlock watched him dispassionately. "You don't say," he said dryly.
Jim whimpered, and let his head slump down to his chest. He sighed deeply. "No, you… you don't understand." He looked up again, giving Sherlock a small, pleading smile. "They haven't even asked me any questions."
Sherlock regarded Jim for a long moment. It seemed that perhaps his visit had been unjustified after all.
"Well," Sherlock spoke finally. "Clearly this has been a waste of my time." He began to rise from his seat.
Bound as he was, Jim couldn't reach out and stop him. "No, no, wait, wait." Jim called out instead, and it wasn't in that tiny, broken voice anymore. A single tear rolled down his puffed, bruised face, but the misery was no where to be seen when he started to laugh – a rattling, uneven sound that hinted at injuries or an illness far worse than the superficial.
"This is tedious, Jim," Sherlock said. "Are you quite done?"
"Sorry, I'm sorry. I couldn't help myself." Jim sniggered. "You're just so precious." His mouth twisted in a wide grin, revealing a chipped front tooth and several missing molars. "Let's start again. Hi!" He licked his cracked lips, leaning forward in his seat. "What, no kiss?" He asked. At Sherlock's blank look he sniggered again. "Nah, I suppose not." Jim drawled. "Big Brother's watching." Jim added, his head swaying from side to side. "Listening."
"You're looking better than I expected," Sherlock commented.
"Fucking amateurs," Jim agreed cheerfully. "So, big promotion. Well done. Well done, indeed. How's that working out for you?"
Sherlock smiled. "The hours are terrible."
"Oh, but look at you now, my dear." Jim said, cocking his head to better watch Sherlock with his good eye. "You know," Jim smiled. "Big Brother and I finally had the chance to get properly reacquainted. It's nice. He's so proud of you, it's just too sweet. Isn't that what you've always wanted?" He licked his cracked, bruised lips and added, "He knows all your little secrets now."
Sherlock ignored him. He watched Jim quietly, until the smile left Jim's face abruptly, like it was never really there. It didn't take much to goad him, after all, Sherlock knew him so well.
"Say something." Jim hissed.
"This is still just a game to you, isn't it?" Sherlock asked after a moment.
The good cheer returned. Jim gasped mockingly. "Oh, honey," he said. "Tell me that's not what this is all about. Don't worry, Daddy's not angry." Jim's tongue swiped over that new gap between his front teeth.
"You do, of course, realise what I took from you?" Sherlock asked. "Jim, that was all you." He stood up suddenly with so much force his chair tumbled backwards. He leaned across the table to tower over Jim, his hands pressed to the smooth metallic surface. He was close enough to whisper in Jim's face. Jim watched him intently, no longer smiling.
"I didn't get too close." Sherlock murmured. "You did, my dear." He straightened slowly. "There's not a place on earth where you can hide from me now." Sherlock's lips curved in a small smile. "It seems we've come full circle, then, haven't we?"
Jim inhaled sharply, his breath rattling and frail. Only there was nothing frail in the way he looked at Sherlock then. A small, knowing smile played over his lips.
Sherlock straightened his coat. "Goodbye Jim," he said.
Jim's voice stopped him at the door. "See you soon," Jim called out. Softly, he added, "my love."