Beautiful Minds – Outtakes
by Soledad
Author's notes: For disclaimer, rating, etc. see Outtakes 01.
Also, please consider the big, honking AU label.
This part is set at the same time as the first one and is its direct continuation. Obviously.
Some lines of dialogue are borrowed from the 3rd season finale "His Last Vow". Necessarily.
Outtakes 03 – Hell Hath No Fury…
Part 02
Unbeknownst of the conspiracy taking part on the other side of London, at 221B Baker Street Sherlock is about to make his own invasion plans.
John, as usual, is torn between exasperation and amazement.
"Right," he says. "I understand that your brother didn't want you to take Lady Smallwood's case, which was the very reason for you to take Lady Smallwood's case… why didn't he want you to take Lady Smallwood's case? And, more importantly, how is there still a case? Lord Smallwood is dead, his dirty secret out in the open, and Lady Smallwood is still in the office, so…"
"John," Sherlock interrupts sternly. "You're babbling."
John pulls a face. "Geez, thanks so much, Sherlock!" he clears his throat and returns to the original topic. "So, Magnussen? Why are you still after him?"
"Because he's like a shark," Sherlock replies darkly. "It is the only way to describe him. Have you ever been to the shark tank at the London Aquarium, John?" Stood up close to the glass? Those floating, flat faces, those dead eyes… That's what he is. I've dealt with murderers, psychopaths, terrorists, serial killers. None of them can turn my stomach like Charles Augustus Magnussen."
"Considering your, er, dysfunctional relationship with the press, I'm not really surprised," John comments, grinning.
"Oh, he's so much more than just another media mogul," Sherlock sits down at the coffee table and opens his laptop while John is watching him with a frown. "I'm not exaggerating when I say that he's the Napoleon of blackmail."
John gives him a doubtful look. "Napoleon, right. When did Napoleon visit an adversary just to urinate in their fireplace?"
Sherlock scowls at the poor attempt of a joke and pulls up the image of a futuristic house, together with the blueprint of the building.
"That was just a manifestation of his power," he says unhappily. "Oh, he does have power, don't make any mistake: the power of forbidden knowledge. And all of that is kept here," he turns the laptop to show the screen to John. "In Appledore."
"You mean this is his house?" John tries to translate Sherlock's dramatics into everyday English.
Sherlock, clearly disappointed by his failure to impress, looks over his shoulder at John scathingly.
"It's not just a house, John! It's the greatest repository of potentially dangerous information, the Alexandrian Library of blackmail material – and none of it is digitally stored."
"It isn't?" John echoes, not entirely sure if he's supposed to be surprised or not. "Is that good of us or bad?"
"It's very, very inconvenient; but again, he is smart," Sherlock replies in a tone that suggests that John isn't. "He knows I can hack into any computer I want; and so can Mycroft's people. "But if he keeps hard copies in vaults underneath that house," he points at the rotating blueprint on the screen, "we'll have to get through his many layers of security to get what we want. And that won't be easy, not even for me."
"Why would you want to get in anyway?" John asks, baffled.
"Because as long as those vaults are there, full of scandals and secrets, the personal freedom of anyone you've ever met is a fantasy," Sherlock explains.
"So that's why Mycroft tries to protect him!" John is finally getting the picture. "I wonder what he knows about your brother."
"Probably more than Mycroft himself," Sherlock shrugs. "But that's not my concern at the moment. Lady Smallwood still wants those compromising letters of her late husband retrieved, so that they can be destroyed, and we're going to get them."
All that sounds plausible, but John has known Sherlock long enough to know when he's lying; or not telling the whole truth anyway.
"That's not the true reason why you want to get there, though," he says.
It's not a question but Sherlock nods anyway.
"No; or rather not the only reason. The other one has something to do with my idiot brother. He can't make his move against Magnussen, for several very good reasons, some of which not even I know. I'll have to do it for him."
"I thought you no longer accepted cases from Mycroft," John says, and Sherlock nods again.
"I don't. He doesn't know of this. He'd try to stop me if he knew… don't worry, I've removed his bugs less than an hour ago and his lackeys couldn't have replaced them yet. If we move quickly enough, we'll be done before he realises what we're up to."
John shakes his head in exasperation. "I thought you hated him."
"I do," Sherlock replies easily. "But he's still the only idiot brother I have. Besides, if anything happened to him or to his stupid position, it would upset Mummy terribly."
"And we wouldn't want to upset your mother, of course," John, who still has to meet Lady Holmes, says lightly.
Sherlock gives him a sharp glance. "Believe me, John, that's the last thing we'd want."
"But why would the loss of Mycroft's position upset her?" the few conversations with Sherlock's aunt, Lady Diane, have familiarised John a bit with the inner dynamics of the Holmes clan but not enough to understand the finer nuances. "I thought you were her favourite son."
"I am; but Mycroft is her heir," Sherlock explains with an expression of vague disgust on his face. "He inherited the title and the estate in Sussex – Mummy might live and reign there, but ownership goes down the male line. Ridiculous 19th century customs," he adds dismissively.
"Wait, wait!" John interrupts. "What title?"
Sherlock gives him a surprised look. "Aunt Diane hasn't told you? Mycroft is a baron; or, to be more accurate, the Viscount of Sherringford. Mummy is an only child, so, due to the lack of a male heir in her generation, the title and the estate went to Mycroft as the oldest grandson after Grandfather's death. Mummy might not particularly like him – he is too much like our father in her opinion – but she'd be very upset if something happened that would cast a bad light upon the name Sherringford. She's very particular about her own ancestry."
"If your mother didn't like your father, while did she marry him in the first place?" John decides to deal with the shocking knowledge that Mycroft is a bloody baron at a much later time.
Sherlock shrugs. "She might have been the daughter of a peer of the realm, but Father's family was rich; and not just one of those newly risen industrials, either. The Holmeses have been country squires, civil servants and scientists – sometimes at the same time – since the age of Queen Victoria. Father was an able scientist, with a shrewd sense for the best possible investments. The Torchwood Institute has existed since the 19th century; that and the Holmes lands around London were the foundation of the family wealth. The marriage saved the Sherringford estate from being turned into one of those ridiculous safari parks and Mummy from becoming a penniless noble with nothing but a title, but she always let Father feel that he was beneath her."
"Charming," John says with a grimace. "So you're about to make a dangerous enemy of Magnussen, to help Mycroft keep his position, so that your mother can keep looking down at him as a person because he's like your father, but she'd still accept him because of the title he's inherited from her family."
Unlike other people, Sherlock has no difficulty following the logic of John's deductions, no matter how meandering it is.
"Basically… yes," he answers simply.
"My sincerest condolences," John says dryly. "With family like yours, who needs enemies?"
"My thoughts exactly," Sherlock replies in all seriousness. "Still, there are certain family obligations not even I can avoid. Which is why we're going to break into Appledore."
"Sorry, what?" John can't quite believe his ears.
Sherlock rolls his eyes.
"We're going to break into Magnussen's house; do try to keep up, John! We'll slip in, search the vaults under the house, take what we need… and slip out again."
"Just like that, eh?" John says doubtfully. "Easy-peasy."
"Of course not, don't be an idiot!" Sherlock snaps. "There will be fourteen levels of security between the front gate and the vaults, two of which aren't even legal in this country."
"And you intend to slip through those security checkpoints… how exactly?" John asks.
Sherlock grins like a shark. "I have my methods. You'll see. Now come and help me choose a proper engagement ring. As a married man you've got more experience with such things."
"What do you need an engagement ring for?" John is completely dumbfounded now.
Sherlock gives him his patented long-suffering look that says, without actual words: Why must I be surrounded by idiots all the time?
"Why, to get engaged, obviously," he replies.
Johns blinks in understandable confusion at this unexpected piece of news. Several times. "Get engaged to who?" he finally asks.
"Whom," Sherlock corrects absent-mindedly, and John has the sheer irresistible urge to punch him. "To Magnussen's PA, of course. Where, do you think, do I have the information about his security system from?"
"Of course," John echoes flatly.
He knows Sherlock can be devastatingly charming if he puts his mind to it. The man is an excellent actor; few people can see through his charming act, and even if they do, they find it hard to resist nonetheless. And Sherlock, manipulative bastard that he is, knows this and exploits it mercilessly to get what he wants.
Sometimes John wonders if the two Holmes brothers are really so different, deep down.
"Let me set this straight," he says. "You went all Prince Charming on Magnussen's PA, made her fall in love with you, just to get from her the data you need to break into Appledore, and now you want to get engaged to her… why exactly?"
"To get me into the house in the first place," Sherlock replies impatiently. "Really, John, even you should have figured out that much. We can't break into the Vaults, unless somebody summons us inside the house first."
"Ta," John says laconically.
The casual insult towards his intelligence is so familiar by now that he no longer actually feels insulted. That's what Sherlock does. He realises with a jolt that he missed being insulted by this brilliant madman on a daily basis in the long, triste years while Sherlock was gone.
It's almost like old times again. Almost.
"Well," Sherlock says briskly. "Now that you've managed to catch up with the plan, let's go to the jeweller's and purchase that ring. I intend to propose to my girlfriend tonight."
Several hours alter they're sitting in a rental car – which Sherlock has rented under a false name to keep Mycroft off their scent – driving towards Hampstead. The surrounding landscape is beautiful: all rolling green hills, barely a sign of human life around them.
The prerogative of the obscenely rich to live undisturbed by the common crowd, John thinks bitterly, knowing that Magnussen has acquired his riches by destroying other people's lives.
According to what Sherlock has already told him, Magnussen is a parasite; a malevolent and extremely harmful one. Unfortunately, just like their floral or animal counterparts in nature, human parasites tend to be highly successful. Which makes John think about the necessity of pest control.
Sherlock turns the car into a private lane, which is apparently called Church Row, and less than five minutes later they reach the ornate electronic gates that cut off their access to a wide drive, which curves across the centre of a small lake. At the end of the drive, practically gleaming in the deepening dusk, stands a large, beautiful, futuristic-looking house with tall windows and oddly curved walls.
John shakes his head in tolerant amazement.
"This is either the settings of the newest X-Men film, or Appledore Tower," he says.
Sherlock rolls his eyes. "It is Appledore. And you're being ridiculous."
But John is still staring at the house in awe. "It actually does have a tower!"
Sherlock rolls his eyes. "And a bowling alley and a swimming pool and a squash court, not to mention a landing pad for the private helicopter of CAM News, yes. It's all very interesting, I'm sure, but can we go in before the security guards spot us dawdling in front of the gate?"
"Don't let me hold you back," John replies sarcastically.
As usual, sarcasm doesn't work with Sherlock. He gets out of the car and approaches the electronic gate… or, to be more precise, the security card reader beside it. He fishes a security card out of the breast pocket of his jacket and swipes it through the reader.
For a moment, nothing happens, and John already imagines the howling of the alarm klaxons inside the house. But after that moment the gate wings swing inward noiselessly. Sherlock jumps back into the car, drives through and pockets the security card again.
John is baffled… to put it mildly.
"You have a card that grants you access to Magnusson's house?"
"Of course I don't," Sherlock snorts. "But Janine does."
"And Janine is…" John trails off expectantly.
"Magnussen's PA, obviously," Sherlock progresses along the drive.
"The one you're going to propose to," John clarifies.
"Mhm," Sherlock actually deigns the rhetoric question with an answer. "Delightful woman. She lives in the house, too."
"Don't you think she might take offence that you've stolen her security card?" John asks.
"I didn't steal it," Sherlock answers in a bored tone. "Just switched it with a fairly good copy. She wouldn't get in trouble if her card turned up an access error."
"You faked a security card to Magnussen's house?" John is beginning to ask himself what other illegal practices Sherlock has picked up during his two-year-absence. Breaking into crime scenes is one thing, but falsifying documents…
"Not me, obviously," Sherlock replies. "You need an expert for faking a functioning copy. Fortunately, there are experts for such jobs in my homeless network. You do remember Billy Wiggins, I assume?"
John does and it isn't a pleasant memory. Billy Wiggins is one of the least appealing members of Sherlock's homeless network: a junkie who likes to cook up his own special brand of drugs (the sort that would kill most other people) and a thief but, apparently, occasionally useful. Even if his usefulness might be hard to justify, should either Lestrade or Mycroft come behind their current actions.
Sherlock clearly considers the topic closed because he drives the car to the parking lot. There are two other cars parked already: a sleek black one bearing the licence plate 1 CAM, and a regular-looking Audi that might be another rental.
"It seems he has a visitor," John comments.
"All the better," Sherlock says. "We can move more freely if he's distracted. Now, let's make contact, shall we?"
He steps to the other security reader, beside the main entrance, and grins into the not-too-carefully-hidden camera. "Hi Janine. It's me."
The quiet voice of a woman answers through the intercom. "Sherlock, you complete loon! What are you doing here?"
"Visiting you," Sherlock replies as if it had been the most natural thing of the world. "Go on, let me in."
"I can't!" the voice of the woman protests. "You know I can't. Don't be silly."
"Don't make me do it out here," Sherlock says softly, in his best fake emotional tone. He pauses and turns his head, as if checking whether someone is listening to them or not. "Not in front of everyone."
"Do what in front of everyone?" the female voice asks in exasperation.
Sherlock lowers his eyes and fakes a mournful sigh, then takes out a small dark red box and clicks it open before holding it up to the camera to show the large diamond engagement ring inside it. The woman on the other end of the intercom channel can be heard gasping in surprise… and then laughing quietly in delight.
Then there's a low, buzzing noise, the card reader screen beside the front door turns from red to blue and the door opens, allowing them into an opulent-looking hall, the walls of which are part pale grey brick and part plastered in white. The floor, too, is a pale colour, and glass panels line the staircases.
Sherlock clicks the box closed and turns to John. "You see? As long as there's people, there's always a weak spot."
"What now?" John asks, eyeing the nearly colourless environment with growing unease. The whole thing has an unreal air about it, like a glass sarcophagus. All that's missing is Snow White and the poisoned apple.
"We need to get the keys to the Vaults," Sherlock answers. "Or rather the key cards, I presume. Let's go to Magnussen's office."
"I though he has a visitor," John frowns. "Why would he be in his office?"
"He isn't; that's what I'm counting on," Sherlock explains with forced patience. "Janine is filing away the daily work there in the evenings. But we can gain access to Magnussen's safe from there, and that is where I suppose the key cards would be."
"Unless he has them on his person all the time," John says, because that is what he would do.
Of course, he's not the world's most notorious blackmailer, so what he would do probably doesn't count.
Sherlock shrugs. "In that case we'll have to join his little tête-à-tête with his visitor in the master bedroom. Now, listen carefully, John, because you'll have to help me with this. While I distract Janine…"
"… by proposing to her?"
"Yes, of course, how else? While I distract her, you'll have to test if the door to the safe room is closed. If it isn't we've won."
"And if it is?"
"Then we'll have to look for the key for that door, too. Which would be tedious. I don't intend to spend here more time than we absolutely have to."
"What about the safe itself?" John asks. "Won't it have a combination lock? Where would you get the code from?"
"From Janine, of course," Sherlock replies with a shrug. "She works with some of the sensitive material stored in that safe; she must have access."
"Yeah, but why would she tell you the combination?" Join points out. "That would cost her job… and possibly more than just her job. She can't be a complete moron if Magnussen chose to employ her."
"Of course not; but I won't need her to tell me the combination, which is changed on the daily basis anyway," Sherlock says confidently. "People always hide such things in the most obvious places. I'll find it within twenty seconds, tops."
"If she lets you search for it," John reminds him.
Sherlock produces one of those hideously false smiles of his, the falseness of which, strangely enough, only a handful of people can see. John is one of those people, but he chooses not to comment on it right now.
"Oh, I can be very persuasive," Sherlock says. "Come on!"
They walk up a light brown wooden spiral staircase, lined with glass panels, till they reach a semi-translucent glass wall with a glass door in it. The door slides to the side as they approach, and they enter a spacious office that is dominated by a large desk and an avant-garde arrangement of shelves on the wall, on which are some slender, strange-looking ornaments with no apparent function.
Another semi-translucent glass door – presumably that of the safe room – is beside the shelf. It seems to be closed, but it may be an automated one, too. John will have to get closer to test it. Who can't be seen, though, is Sherlock's newly acquired fiancée.
"So where did she go?" John wonders, and Sherlock pretends to be insulted, though it isn't very convincing.
"It's a bit rude," he sniffs. "I just proposed to her."
"And such a romantic gesture it was," John comments dryly. He walks across the room towards the window and stops abruptly as he sees the pretty brunette lying on the floor. "Sherlock..."
Sherlock hurries over to him and looks down at his girlfriend with clinical interest. "Did she faint? Do they really do that?"
"Not without help from outside in these days, no," John lowers himself to his knees and leans closer to her face; then he grimaces when the familiar smell hits his nostrils. "Chloroform. She's been knocked out. But she's still breathing regularly, so it must have been mildly dosed. She'll be all right, once she's slept out the effects."
Sherlock is only listening to him with half an ear. He prowls around the rest of the office like some big cat, looking for clues. When he approaches the door of the safe room, the glass panel automatically slides to the side, revealing a suited man lying face down on the floor.
"Another one in here," he calls out to John, who rises from his kneeling position to join him. "Security."
"Does he need help?" John asks.
Sherlock squats down at the man's side to examine him. The man is heavily built and looks like the stereotypical security guard: beefy, square-jawed, with short-cropped hair and – presumably – a hang to violence. Behind his left ear, which has an earpiece in it, is a small tattoo of the number 14 and two small, round burn marks.
"Ex-con," Sherlock decides. "Neutralised by a taser, most likely."
John bends to examine the twin burn marks under the man's ear. "And one with a rather high voltage, too. He's gonna feel like shit for a while when he wakes up."
Sherlock shrugs, lifting the man's right hand and examining another tattoo between his thumb and index finger. The tattoo is five small dots, four of them in a square shape and the fifth in the middle of the square.
"White supremacist, by the tattoo, so who cares?" Sherlock drops the hand carelessly. "Let's check the safe."
John's eyebrows climb high enough to touch the roots of his hair. "You've found the combination already?"
"Obviously," Sherlock's tone is bored. "It was written on a stick-it note, on the underside of Janine's keyboard. I told you: people choose the most idiotic places to hide their passwords and such stuff."
He's already moving towards the safe, stepping over the unconscious man carelessly. The doctor in John, however, is still occupied with the two patients. He takes his phone from his pocket and stares at it uncertainly.
"We should call the police," he says. "Or, at least, an ambulance."
Sherlock gives him a withering look. "During our own burglary?! You're really not a natural at this, are you?"
John sighs and switches his phone off again. He vaguely considers handcuffing the security guard – he never goes anywhere with Sherlock without those plastic restrains in these days – but in the end he decides against it. Unlike Sherlock, he isn't wearing rubber gloves and leaving his fingerprints behind would be unwise.
Sherlock, in the meantime, has already opened the safe and is rifling through its contents with a speed at which it would be impossible for anyone else to even read the labels. Finally, he picks out a file that has a photograph of Lady Smallwood paper-clipped to the inside and smiles a little. Next to her photograph there is the picture of a man of roughly her age, but it's striked through with a big X in black ink.
John recognises Lord Smallwood. It's the same picture that has been shown in the news when the big scandal was launched. The scandal that made the lord take his own life.
Under the same paperclip is the photo of a beautiful girl who looks to be in her late teens. She has ornately coiffed hair and is wearing a strappy white top. She's looking directly into the camera, clearly posing for the photograph – or for the photographer? In the folder, there are about a dozen or so hand-written letters, the ink a bit faded and smudged with age. Sherlock quickly scans the letters and counts the sheets of paper – and looks supremely smug and content.
"Excellent," he says. "Everything is accounted for. Lady Smallwood will be so pleased."
"Can we go now?" John asks, because the entire situation makes him nervous. More nervous than he's ever felt since Sherlock's return. Sherlock glares at him with his patented are-you-really-such-an-idiot? glare.
"Of course not," he replies. "We need to search the Vaults first."
"What for?" John literally feels his blood pressure rising. "You've got what you wanted, haven't you? This is not the right time to give in to your curiosity."
Sherlock doesn't answer and that tells John more than a thousand words. Sherlock never stonewalls like this, unless…
"It's Mycroft, isn't it?" John asks quietly. "You want to find what Magnussen has on him."
"I don't know what you're talking about, John," Sherlock replies airily. "I just want to see the Vaults. They are infamous, but no outsider ever got to see them… until now. I'll be the first – and with Magnussen in the house, too!"
John rolls his eyes. "Is this some weird secret agent competition? 'Cause if it is, then the other team is already ahead of us."
"What other team?" Sherlock frowns, his over-active mind already preoccupied with the possible ways to get into the Vaults.
"The ones who knocked out Janine and the trained gorilla in here," John reminds him. "For a supposedly oh-so-secure house there is quite a bit of traffic here."
Sherlock blinks and John can almost see the little cogwheels whirling in his head.
"Right," he then says. "In the Vaults, now. If we're quick, we can put the blame on the competition."
And with that, he tucks the Smallwood file inside his jacket and sweeps downstairs again. John shakes his head in exasperation but follows him nonetheless.
From the spacious hall, they walk downstairs, passing a kitchen which is all pale brown tiling and stainless steel. The light brown wooden spiral staircase, again, is lined with glass panels. Further down, it becomes narrower and is now made of some light grey metal; they have to tread carefully, so that their footsteps won't make any echoes.
The stairs lead into a large library, the shelves of which are full of books – mostly fairly new ones – but there are also quite a few files and ledgers. At the rear of the library there's another semi-translucent glass wall, with a sliding door in the middle. Two vaguely human-shaped shadows can be glimpsed through the glass.
Considering its location, it has to be Magnussen's private study. And yet there are no armed security guards anywhere. Instead, there is a very faint trace of… something in the air. Something other than just books and dust and old leather.
"Perfume," Sherlock murmurs. He closes his eyes, sniffs deeply and holds his hands out to the sides. "Not Janine's though. Not Prado, either. Or Dior."
Keeping his eyes closed, he waves his hand around beside his head as if to force other suggestions from his mind. John waits with forced patience. It isn't the first time that he sees Sherlock search his Mind Palace for information and knows that breaking his concentration would only cost more time.
Sherlock sniffs twice more, the final one a deep long sniff, and points upwards triumphantly, as if reading the correct brand name on a whiteboard. "Jasmine Dreams," he says quietly; then he turns around, grimacing. "Why do I know it?"
"Toshiko wears it," a youthful voice with a lilting Welsh accent answers softly, and Ianto Jones walks out from behind the free-standing bookshelf on the right.
Both Sherlock and John are mildly shocked – although, perhaps, for different reasons. Naturally, Sherlock is the first to find his voice again.
"What are you doing here, Jeeves?" he hisses angrily.
"Presumably looking for the same thing as you are," Ianto shrugs, completely unfazed. "I'm sorry to inform you that we've both failed."
It's not often that John sees Sherlock totally clueless. This is one of those rare times, but he's not sure he likes the possible reason for it.
"What are you talking about?" Sherlock demands.
"There are no vaults beneath this building," Ianto tells him bluntly. "I've searched the underground levels with this," he briefly lifts a small, hand-held gizmo that looks a lot like a Star Trek issue tricorder. "Torchwood used such scanners to discover hidden underground or underwater rooms. Every room below the surface here has a completely innocent purpose – and there's nothing beneath them."
"Are you sure?" John asks, because Sherlock is momentarily stunned speechless. Ianto nods.
"Oh, I'm sure there are a few actual documents scattered here or there; like the one Mr Holmes has put under his jacket," he says. "But the Appledore Vaults seem to be of completely, er, virtual nature," he glances at Sherlock. "You know about Mind Palaces, don't you? How to store information so you never forget it – by picturing it? The Appledore Vaults are Mr Magnussen's Mind Palace. Whenever he needs a piece of all that stored information, he just sits down in his study, closes his eyes… and finds it. It's all about knowledge. Everything is. Knowing is owning, as he's been reported to have said. Repeatedly," he gives a still stunned Sherlock a wry look. "It is something your brother likes to emphasize occasionally, too."
Sherlock's eyes are unnaturally wide as he slowly realises the full impact of the truth; he bares his teeth in utter fury for a moment.
"Does Mycroft know?" he then asks.
Ianto's answer is careful and more than a little vague. "He's been… suspecting it, yes, but we didn't have any proof… until now."
John still doesn't quite understand it. "But if Magnussen just knows it, then he doesn't have any proof, either!"
The looks Ianto shoot him is definitely pitying. "Haven't your experiences with the press taught you anything, Dr Watson? Mr Magnussen is in news. He doesn't have to prove anything. He just has to print it."
John knows how very true that is – it was the press that Moriarty used to destroy Sherlock's reputation and to drive him to suicide… and he nearly succeeded. A look at the clearly beaten Sherlock, who lowers his head with that shocked look still on his face tells him that there won't be any help from their resident genius; not yet, anyway.
So he turns to Ianto instead. "What do we do now?"
"Nothing," Ianto replies, his face carefully blank. "There's nothing for you to be done."
The emphasis isn't lost on John, but before he could ask for clarification, they can hear Magnussen's voice from the room at the other end of the library, sounding very anxious and almost tearful.
"What-what-what would your husband think, eh? He... your lovely husband, upright, honourable... so English. What-what would he say to you now?"
"That is of no importance now," a shockingly familiar voice replies, and every single drop of blood leaves John's face in that very instant. He moves toward the glass door on autopilot, but Ianto grabs his good arm.
"I wouldn't go in there if I were you, Dr Watson."
John yanks himself free with a force that sends Ianto staggering against the nearest bookshelf.
"Well, ain't we lucky, then that you are not me?" he replies, marching towards Magnussen's study with deadly determination, Sherlock hot on his heels.
The door slides to the side obediently, and they can see Magnussen on his knees with his hands behind his head and cowering. The calm arrogance on his face belies the submissive gesture, though.
Standing in front of him, dressed in a neat, charcoal-grey skirt suit, complete with high heels and a silk blouse, is Toshiko. She holds a futuristic-looking weapon, some sort of pistol, a bit clumsily built but obviously deadly, pointing at Magnussen. He cowers, whimpering and momentarily lapsing into his native Danish.
"Nej, nej!" And he continues tearfully, tremulously, "You're-you're doing this to protect him from the truth ... but is this protection he would want?"
John is fairly sure that the man is merely acting to stall his time but damn him, he's a very good actor. John would buy his act if he didn't know what he does. Toshiko, however, doesn't seem to be buying it.
"My husband doesn't need to be protected from the truth," she replies coldly. "I always intended to tell him; I just hoped the circumstances would be different. This isn't about him and me, though. Whatever we might have had will be over as soon as I've pulled the trigger."
"Then don't," Magnussen says, much calmer now, in the confident belief that he's found her pressure point.
"I don't have a choice," Toshiko's voice is full of regret. "I've been living on borrowed time all these years; now it seems that my time has run out," she calls over her shoulder, without actually taking her eyes off Magnussen. "Ianto, do we have clarification?"
"Afraid so," Ianto replies. "Aside from a few actual documents, Appledore's Vaults seem only to exist in Mr Magnussen's mind; nowhere else, just there."
Toshiko nods, as if she hadn't expected anything else.
"Then I really don't have any other choice," she says with infinite sadness. "I cannot allow this man to ruin more lives as he's ruined Lady Smallwood's; or mine. And, most importantly, I cannot allow him to ruin the man who saved me all these years ago. Bon voyage, Mr Magnussen!"
And before they could do anything, she pulls the trigger. There's no sound reminding a gunshot; not even the characteristic noise of a silencer. Instead, it's a high-pitched whining, as if a huge electronic charge were building up. And Magnussen starts jerking uncontrollably, as if in horrible pain, blood trickling from his nose and ears.
Less than ten seconds later he suddenly goes still. The whining stops. Toshiko deactivates the weapon and throws it at Magnussen's lifeless body.
Only then does she turn around. Her nose is bleeding, too, and there are burn marks on her fingers. She was too close to the charge of… whatever that weapon is.
"I'm sorry, John," she says quietly, her beautiful eyes full of tears. "This is not how I planned to tell you the truth."
"You haven't actually told me anything," John has a hard time to overcome his shock. He's always known, in theory, that Toshiko worked for Mycroft in some nebulous capacity; this is the first time he's beginning to ask himself what exactly that capacity is.
"No, I haven't," she agrees. "And now I won't have the time. Ianto will have to do it for me; or Sherlock. You must go now… all three of you. The security systems will have alerted the police by now that some sort of shot was fired in the house. They'll be here in no time."
"What about you?" John asks. „I must stay here and accept responsibility for the life I've taken," she replies simply. "Even if it was the life of a spineless worm. I may have been many things in the past, but one I never was: a murderer. Until now. In a way, Magnussen has managed to destroy my life completely." She turns to Sherlock. "Tell your brother that he's safe now; and that I'm grateful for what he did for me. Now we are even."
Sherlock nods, obviously knowing what she's talking about, even if John isn't. Nor is he going to accept the loss of his wife just like that.
"Come with us!" he begs. "We can make the weapon vanish; this could be one of those murder cases that never get solved."
But she shakes her head. "No; the only weapon I could smuggle through Appledore's security system is the only one that would, without doubt, identify me as the murderer."
"Why?"
"I don't have the time to explain. You must go now, all of you, or I'll have murdered somebody for nothing."
"Will I ever see you again?" John can almost physically feel his heart breaking, can hardly speak.
"I don't know," she replies. "It's unlikely, though. In this case won't be a trial, none of the facts will ever become public. I'll probably vanish in some secret, high-security government prison and never see the light of the day again. That's how those things work."
"But what about our baby?" John asks in despair.
"I don't know," she says again. "I hope they'll allow you to have her, assuming I can carry her to term, but there are no guarantees. I'm sorry, John. I'm so terribly sorry. I love you so much, and I hoped we could make this work, I really did. Obviously, it wasn't meant to be."
"It's not fair!" John protests, horrified by the tears rolling down his own face. She steps closer and kisses him, and he can taste her blood on his lips.
"No," she agrees," it is not. But life rarely is. Please, go with Sherlock and Ianto now. Leave your rental car for me; I'll have to explain how I got here. Ianto, what about the security cameras?"
"I've planted the virus already," Ianto replies. "We're ready to go."
"Then do so," Toshiko says. "And tell John everything he needs or wants to know, as soon as you're safe."
"I will," Ianto promises; then he turns to John. "Dr Watson, we have to go."
"Come on, John," Sherlock urges him, too. "You can't help her; nobody can at this point, not even Mycroft. But if you stay behind now, everything will be lost."
John wants to scream, to fight, to tell them that for him everything already is lost… but he doesn't. Instead, he follows Sherlock and Ianto docilely, because that is what Toshiko wants, what she's sacrificed everything for. To keep him safe.
He climbs into Ianto's Audi obediently, and while the young Welshman drives his car beyond all safety limits yet with a steady hand away from Appledore, he numbly wonders why has his life to fall to pieces completely every couple of years. What has he done to deserve this?
In the distance, the police sirens are howling, but they are already far enough from Appledore to be overlooked. Ianto has manipulated the security cameras, so no-one will ever suspect that they were there.
The only one the police will find next to Magnussen's body is Toshiko, with a weapon that supposedly won't lead to anyone else. They'll have to arrest her, and then John will never see her again.
Suddenly the idea of escaping doesn't seem so appealing anymore.
~TBC~