The Charred Remains
Chapter 15: What It Is That We See
A/N: So this took longer than expected, and you can blame me entirely for it, well not really, blame my gallbladder. Recovering from that surgery took way more out of me than I thought it might! I am also working on another story that I will be posting either after this one, or at the same time as this one. I'm going to finish it before posting, which shouldn't take long because I want it to be only 10-15 chapters long. Anyways, without further ado, here we go! A bit more Sherlock in this chapter and some humor to lighten things up! Grizziesmom is amazing.
Your brother is a bloody wanker arse-hole. –HG
Laxatives in the tea then? –MH
I should just quit right now, no one would fault me! –HG
No they would not Agent Graham, but then you would leave an assignment unfinished, which we both know is not something you would do. I do apologise. I will find him and talk with him. –MH
Talk to him, as if that has ever done much good in the past. You find him and then I will bloody well kill him. –HG
Good luck Agent Graham. –MH
After reading Mycroft's last message Agent Graham snarled before carefully setting his phone on the sink next to where he sat on the loo. He placed his elbows on his thighs and buried his face into his hands. Bloody fucking laxatives in his tea. He was so going to kill Sherlock when he came back home. Better yet, he'd do it slowly, drawing it out until the detective, who Graham had been informed never begged, would beg for his life to end. Just imagining what he could do made Graham smile before a vicious cramp assailed his gut and he had to grit his teeth.
"Never working for a Holmes again," he growled, his fists clenching at his sides as another wave hit him. At least he was satisfied that this whole endeavor was taking place in Sherlock's flat.
Meanwhile on the other side of London a black car pulled up to the mouth of an alley. The tip of an expensive umbrella preceded the well-polished shoe of one, Mycroft Holmes. He waved his hand, staying his assistant.
"I won't be but a moment dear, keep George company," he requested before he began the trek towards the Belstaff clad figure bent over at the other end of the alley.
"Go away Mycroft, you are no help," Sherlock growled, moving away from the presence of his older brother.
Mycroft simply leaned into his umbrella, "I beg to differ brother dear, without my help, you never would have seen the tapes or read the files on James and Sebastian."
The tall red head studied his nails as if they held the secrets to the universe.
Sherlock sighed, pushing to stand up, though his back was still to Mycroft.
"You let him be taken in the first place. You could have stopped it, but you let it happen because you are using him to find Moriarty's base, the one place we've yet to dismantle. I am not stupid Mycroft."
The last few words were snarled in a show of coattails flying as Sherlock stalked off towards the other end of the alley where a loading dock led into the bowels of St. Bart's hospital.
Mycroft made a noncommittal noise.
"Then you also know that I would never have let it happen had there been any indication that John would be further injured or killed."
At this Sherlock whipped around to face his brother, his steps furious as he leaned into the older man's personal space, his opalescent eyes screaming in rage.
"You have no way of knowing. You are risking his life for nothing; you are risking my life, Mycroft. I only made you promise me one thing, one bloody thing and you let it be taken. I can trust nothing that comes out of your mouth, which is why your agent is stuck at my flat. I am doing this alone because alone is all that I have…you guaranteed that when you let a psychopath take John away from me!"
Mycroft stood for a moment in stunned silence. He cleared his throat, straightening his waistcoat.
"Your life, Sherlock, is the thing that matters most to me. It always has. I would do, and have done, everything in my power to ensure your survival. I am doing all that I can to assist you, but it will be for naught unless you accept it. You are not alone. I should think that John's presence in your life would have made that clear enough some time ago."
Sherlock let a measured breath out through his nose before straightening up. His glare remained icy.
"John is the only person in my life I can rely on; that is why I will do whatever I can to get him back. You do not care what happens to him as long as you finally get Moriarty, you claim to care only for my life and my heart, but did you ever think that my life and my heart are not really my own anymore?"
Before Mycroft could even reply to that, the back door to Bart's opened, a startled Molly Hooper looking a bit baffled upon seeing Mycroft.
"Oh, hullo Mr. Holmes, I um…erm…"
Mycroft turned his gaze towards the mousy woman, his face falling into a friendly mask.
"Good day Miss Hooper," he nodded.
He watched as Sherlock stalked away from him and into the building, bending down for a moment to speak quietly with Molly before the woman turned and followed him, offering Mycroft a small wave before disappearing.
The man sighed, his eyes closing a moment to keep his emotions in check.
"I do know brother, trust me, I do know," he turned grimly back towards his waiting car.
He knew he had made a mistake, but he wouldn't let it go unsolved. He'd keep throwing his help at Sherlock until the man had no choice but to accept it. Anthea looked up from her PDA as he slid into the car.
"There is a tumbler of whiskey waiting back at your desk, the lights have been dimmed and everyone knows to not disturb you for thirty minutes."
"Thank you Anthea, that should be sufficient. Also, send Agent Graham a basket of tea and biscuits. I fear it might take more than that to soothe him, but we'll start there."
Mycroft removed his mobile and typed out a quick message before settling into his seat, remaining silent on the way back to his office.
DI Gregory Lestrade huffed when he noted the sender to the latest text on his mobile. He was in the midst of a double homicide that Sherlock refused to even look at while also trying to help the mad man locate John. Lestrade was concerned about his friend, but his job took priority much to his and the Holmes brothers' annoyance. He swiped his thumb over the screen to open the text.
If you're not too terribly busy, I have a small favour to ask. –MH
Lestrade snorted, there was no such thing as a small favour for Mycroft Holmes. He sighed, leaning back in his desk chair as he typed out a response.
I will not be going back to Baskerville, or anywhere of the like. What is the favour? –GL
Go 'round to Baker Street and check up on my agent. I fear he is in need of a sympathetic ear. Sherlock has been abusing him. –MH
Greg sighed, running the palm of his hand over his face. It had only been a week since Sherlock's return, and Greg was still dealing with how he felt about it. He also was struggling with helping to locate John Watson, but with lack of evidence and witnesses, the case was slow. He thumbed on his phone again and typed out a quick message as he rose from his chair.
You owe me a pint and/or dinner. –GL
Knowing he wouldn't get a response until Mycroft was free to fulfill the debt, Greg left NSY, handing a few files over to a new inspector on his team, Kellan Bhone.
"Look those over again, my vision is getting blurry from all the times I've run through it," Greg stated when Bhone looked up at him.
"Uh, yeah, sure thing boss, I'll call you if I find anything new."
He swiveled around to his desk and opened the file folder. Greg merely grunted in response before finally leaving The Yard. He shrugged into his suit jacket before rounding the corner where he had his personal car parked. He pulled the keys from his trouser pocket to unlock his doors. He slid into the driver's seat, depositing his phone in the cup holder next to his thigh before pulling out into the light London traffic.
It didn't take him more than fifteen minutes to reach Baker Street. He jogged up the steps, using his knuckles to wrap against the door. He waited a few moments before opening the door, catching Mrs. Hudson as she stepped out of her flat. He grinned as the door clicked shut behind him.
"Afternoon Mrs. Hudson, how are you?"
The older woman grinned, relaxing into her door jamb at the sight of the DI.
"I'm not sure how much more this old heart of mine can take Detective Inspector. You're here for Sherlock?"
He nodded, smiling sympathetically at her confession, "No news this time, and I'm here to see to the agent Sherlock left behind this morning"
Mrs. Hudson made a tsking noise, shaking her head, "Oh that man, not back from the dead for more than a fortnight and he's already kicking up trouble, not that I mind if it brings John back home, but he should mind his manners."
Greg chuckled, nodding his agreement. He ran a hand wearily through his hair, glancing up the stairs at the sound of a toilet flushing.
"I'll go see what Sherlock's left behind. You have a good day Mrs. Hudson," he nodded to her, flashing a quick smile before hurrying up the stairs.
"You bring the good doctor home soon detective inspector. Between you and Sherlock, it shouldn't be much longer before he's back here," she gave him a look which held all of the trust and belief in her boys before shaking her head and going back into her flat.
Greg pressed his lips together, continuing his trek up the stairs. He sighed, knocking at the door before opening it.
"Hello? Agent Graham?" he called, stepping past the threshold. He heard some movement from the back of the flat near the loo.
"Yeah, detective inspector Lestrade?" a muffled voice called from the hall.
Greg looked up from the papers scattered in the sitting room, "Yeah, Mycroft said you might need a bit of help?"
What sounded like a bitten off curse answered Lestrade as he lowered himself onto the sofa. He spread his arms along the back, smirking when he heard the toilet flush again followed by the clinking of a belt. Lestrade rolled his head along the back of the sofa when he heard the door to the loo open. He smirked at the agent.
"Sherlock giving you a run for your money then?" he asked, a chuckle present in the undertones of his voice.
"You could say that. Bloody wanker put laxatives in my tea," Graham reported on the gush of a large breath as he collapsed into Sherlock's chair, having learned to leave John's chair well enough alone.
Lestrade chuckled, shaking his head, "Sounds like something he would do. He truly is a child in a man's body. How John put up with him is beyond me," Greg muttered, sighing gently as he took in the state of the flat.
Graham saw the DI looking over the mess Sherlock had made and pursed his lips, "The man is so disorganised, I have no clue how he can even think. The mess drives me bonkers!"
Lestrade nodded, completely understanding where the government agent was coming from, "John was a bit of a built in housekeeper. He picked up after the lanky git, made him mind his manners, and overall made dealing with Sherlock a little bit easier. We need to find him agent Graham, no matter the costs. Have you and Sherlock worked out any leads?"
Graham sobered at Lestrade's words, nodding in understanding at the mention of getting John back, "We haven't made much, Sherlock keeps pestering Mycroft for CCTV footage, but there is none. I don't know much more, but I did have a thought while in the loo…" Graham trailed off as he shuffled a few of the papers around and drew out a map.
Lestrade scooted forward, his brows furrowed in curiosity as the agent spread the map out, "I managed to work this out this morning, which I think is why I found myself trapped in the loo with Sherlock gone. I thought of Moriarty knocking out the CCTV cameras so that we couldn't trace his path, but then I thought about the negative space, like…where nothing is. Moriarty made sure the cameras weren't working on the route he took out of the city so I traced the line of non-functioning cameras the day Dr. Watson was taken. Now, I only got as far as an exit out of the city heading south, from there I have no clue where they headed."
Lestrade studied the map, nodding, "Wonder if Sherlock got all pissy because you thought of tracing the…erm…neg-downed cameras. He's probably checking into your theory right now," Lestrade stated, leaning back into the sofa again.
Graham shot him a look before shuffling a few more papers, "He's a dead man the next time I see him."
Lestrade raised a brow at the statement, "Looks like a murder I'll solve quickly then if he ever turns up and is actually dead," after the statement left his mouth Lestrade winced in bad taste.
Graham chuckled, getting to his feet, "Right then, even a mind as grand as Sherlock's can't get far on his own, so I'll put the kettle on to boil and wait for him to return. Will you stick around?"
Lestrade's eyes followed Graham as he walked from the sitting room into the kitchen.
"I'll stay here until the git gets back, but I can't stay much longer after that, there's a game on tonight and I mean to take some time to myself and watch it."
Graham chuckled as he flipped the kettle on, "Ah, I envy you detective inspector. Sherlock would throw the ultimate sulk if I turned on the telly for myself. He's extremely dedicated and focused on finding his old flatmate."
Lestrade nodded, despite the agent not being able to see him, "John Watson is a great man agent Graham, and I want him back almost as much as Sherlock. So I can assure you that Sherlock's dedication is of utmost importance until we find John."
Lestrade's voice held a note of finality, almost harshness as he defended Sherlock and his obsessive nature over the case of Dr. Watson. Graham snapped his mouth shut, his face falling back into seriousness as he entered the sitting room with two cups of tea. He placed one on the coffee table in front of Lestrade while resuming his spot in Sherlock's chair.
"Apologies detective inspector. I'm not used to cases being so personal to those involved. I usually work to reach an end. Emotions have nothing to do with it. Mr. Holmes has told us all, many times, that caring is not an advantage. Well detective inspector…Sherlock Holmes is proving just how much of an advantage it is to care about someone. We will find John, but not because of the man hours we put in, but because Sherlock Holmes will go to the ends of the earth to find him, and he will bloody well drag us along with him."
Lestrade raised his brows as he looked at the agent over the lip of his cuppa. He swallowed quickly, nodding.
"Moriarty may not have died before, but now, now that he's taken John…there is no way Sherlock will let the bastard walk. I think I'll be a bit indisposed when Sherlock corners Moriarty…I won't see a thing," Lestrade's grin curled on his lips as he watched the meaning of his words sink into the agent's head.
Graham smirked, nodding, "I'm also quite sure Mr. Holmes will be requiring my statement about the time Sherlock sets eyes on Mr. Moriarty…"
Lestrade grinned, feeling a sort of comradery beginning to form between himself and the agent, "Convenient how things usually seem to work out with the Holmes boys, yeah?"
Graham chuckled, nodding, "Odd how that works. Since Sherlock decided to skip off without me, mind coming along to my office? There are a few files I wanted to dig up and go through as well as do some more digging on Mr. Moriarty. I want to see if I can't find anything everyone else has missed…Sherlock included."
Lestrade finished the last dregs of his tea before placing it back in the saucer on the table. He whipped his palms against his thighs before rising to his feet, "Sounds good to me. The more we can find and learn on the evil bastard, the better. Give Sherlock a bit of time to gallivant on his own. He'll come back sooner or later. It takes him a while to accept help…he'll come around, may even like you a little bit," Lestrade chuckled as he pulled his jacket on again and followed the agent down the stairs.
"Well it can't hurt the matter if I manage to dig up something the great Sherlock Holmes might have missed," he added with a cheeky wink as he led Lestrade around the corner to where his car was parked.
"We'll be lucky to find anything he's missed, but there's no use in sitting around and waiting for something to smack you in the face," he replied, lowering himself into the passenger's seat.
"Here's to hope," Graham smirked as he hit the gas and sped into the London traffic surrounding Baker Street. The sun was just beginning to sink on the horizon. Another day had come to an end with no new clues as to the whereabouts of John Watson.