Sorry you've had to wait so long for this – I couldn't untangle the story, I'm still not sure it's right. Please review and tell me what you think – good or bad, but if it's bad please be gentle…
Disclaimer: Still don't own Sherlock, John et al – only my original character and the story line.
The silence in the Whitehall office was almost deafening, and for once Mycroft Holmes was not finding comfort in familiar surroundings.
He had left his brother seething in his hospital bed, still trying to convince everyone that he was fit enough to travel by car, but Mycroft had read in Doctor Watson's face the absolute certainty that no good would come of allowing Sherlock to get his own way over this.
His initial actions on his return to his office had been to arrange for Mrs Hudson to be taken out to the safe house in Hertfordshire, presuming that she would prefer to have something useful to do; he thought she might as well help keep an eye on his brother's health. Not once did Mycroft consider that this wasn't exactly what John had planned for their landlady. Mrs Hudson, on the other hand, once she had recovered from the shock of finding out that John had kept Sherlock's injuries from her, and promising herself all kinds of retribution once this was over, was more than willing to fall in with whatever plans had been made for her.
Anthea came into the office, and deposited two new and unadulterated mobile phones on the desk in front of her boss. Accepting his nod as both thanks and dismissal, she exited as quietly as she came, having barely disturbed the all-encompassing silence.
Picking up first one phone, and then the other, Mycroft sent texts to the number John had given him, identifying each number and assigning it either to himself or Sherlock. He then checked the contacts to make sure Anthea had listed the new numbers on them, and allowed himself a small smile as he noted that on each phone the number of the other was listed simply as 'Holmes'.
This was possibly the first time in his adult life that Mycroft was at a loss as to what his next move should be. As he sat staring into space, both phones pinged with incoming text messages.
'Hi Sherlock, sorry you can't play yet, but your time will come – JW'
'Mycroft, I have a request. I need you to disable your surveillance equipment in 221B - JW'
Marking the text on his brother's phone as unread he closed it down, then sat for a moment considering John's request. A slight frown dinted his forehead, then picking up his new phone he replied
'Is this wise? – MH'
The response was immediate and quite definite.
'Absolutely imperative, trust me – JW'
Pressing a button on the intercom on his desk Mycroft instructed Anthea to get Latimer on the line.
Latimer was a tall, gawky thirty year old, a member of Mycroft's surveillance team since leaving university. He reminded the government man of his younger brother, the only difference being the degree of deference and politeness Latimer gave to a man of Mycroft's standing – so refreshingly different from his brother's blatant rudeness.
The ringing of his desk phone broke into his reverie, and he reached across and picked up the receiver.
"Yes"
"I have Latimer on the line, Sir" Anthea's voice was crisp and business-like.
"Thank you. Put him through." Mycroft listened as the line clicked and the connection was made.
"Mr Holmes? You wished to speak to me?"
"Latimer, yes. Who is on surveillance duty with you tonight?"
"Collymore, sir. He's on a break at the moment, due back soon."
"Good. Now, listen carefully. I want you to rig the system link in my brothers flat so that it gives the appearance of being live, when actually the connection is dead – can you do that?"
There was a brief silence at the other end of the phone, then
"Yes Sir, it can be done, but it may take a few hours. I would need to find some of the old surveillance recordings to give the appearance of normality… sorry; can you hold please, Sir?"
Mycroft heard the sound of the control room door opening, and a hushed, slightly muffled conversation. He smiled, knowing his trust in this man had not been misplaced as he heard the young operative explain to Collymore that he was in the middle of a call to his new girlfriend, asking that the other man give him ten minutes or so, suggesting he might go and get them both a coffee. Collymore's response was a dirty chuckle, and a warning not to get caught flirting on company time as he left the room again.
"Sorry about that, Sir" Latimer's voice was once more clear but quiet "I assumed you want as few people to know about this as possible."
"Quite so"
"I'm due a break soon, I could use that time to search the archives and get things set up in the background" he paused as if considering for a moment, then continued "Once that's in place, it will only take five minutes or so to switch over to the recording and disable the live feed."
"Excellent!" Mycroft's approval was clear in his tone "I wish to know the minute you have completed your task. I am sure I don't need to tell you that this must remain undisclosed to anyone else – you speak to no-one but me, understood?"
"Yes, Sir"
Cutting the connection Mycroft sat back in his chair, and reaching for his mobile opened a new message. He was interrupted by his desk phone ringing once more, and with a sigh he picked it up.
"Sir, the reception staff called to say that a parcel for you was delivered by courier to the front desk, the label says from Dr John Watson. I've asked them to bring it up."
Thanking her somewhat distractedly, he frowned and started to type his message.
'Will advise when surveillance is disabled. What is in the parcel you have sent over? – MH
The response was swift, and chilling
'Nothing sent. Be careful – JW'
The speed at which Mycroft moved belied his usual indolence. He crossed the room and flung open the office door in time to see the young receptionist enter through the door on the far side of the outer office. As he opened his mouth to utter a warning, there was a loud crack, and a flash of flame, as the incendiary device in the parcel detonated. Screams and smoke filled the room as quick thinking Anthea hit the panic button.
O*O*O
On the corner of Whitehall and Richmond Terrace a tourist looked up from his perusal of his newly acquired London A-Z, his ears having caught the sound of an explosion. Joining the mass of onlookers that crowded forward, his eyes went immediately to the second floor window, where smoke and flame could be seen licking at the frame around the bomb-proof glass.
As unobtrusively as he could, he pulled a camera phone from his pocket and took a quick succession of photographs – the window, the arriving emergency services, and more importantly the staff evacuating the building. He was watching for one particular face, and was rewarded with a glimpse of it just as the police came forward to move the crowd away. Slipping his phone back into his pocket he followed his quarry until they were a safe distance from the scene of the incident, then he picked up his pace, closing the gap between them, and finally brushing roughly past and almost knocking the woman off her feet.
"I'm so sorry!" he drawled in a mid-west American accent, his hands grasping her arms as if to steady her.
"No, that's okay" she responded, her mind on other things.
He looked closely at her, then with a nod and a smile moved off again. Watching his retreating back, the woman frowned – there was something familiar about him…she just couldn't place what it was.
O*O*O
John stared down at the mobile in his hand, a sinking feeling in his gut as he realised the implications of the arrival of the parcel, and the lack of response to his text. It was obvious that their opponent's second move had been made.
The figure sitting next to him waited patiently, quietly surveying the people passing by the café, and the staff clearing tables. A third person came over carrying a tray with fresh drinks, which he deposited on the table in front of the two men.
"What's happened?" he asked, seeing the look on the Captain's face.
"A parcel has been delivered to Target One, using my name."
"Device?"
John looked at both his companions
"I have to assume so, I'm getting no response"
"Where?" the first of his companions pulled his eyes away from his examination of their surroundings, and now looked keenly at the man next to him.
"Whitehall" John stared back at his mobile, and then came to a decision. "I need to get over to the hospital, to make sure the transfer still goes ahead. I also need to find out if Target One is still viable." He looked at his companions. "Pat, I want you to continue to put feelers out for that ghost; Danny, can you see who else is able to play, get them prepared? I'll let you know as soon as I have a safe meeting place – it may not be the Baker Street flat though, that depends on Target One."
Patrick Donoghue nodded briskly, swallowed down a mouthful of his coffee and left the table, his grin and wave purely for the benefit of onlookers.
Danny Morgan took a little more time to slowly sip at his drink, his eyes taking in the man sitting opposite him, the man who only this morning had miraculously returned from the frozen wastes of his self-imposed exile.
"It's good to have you back, John" he said finally, as the ex-army doctor rose and pocketed his phone. "We thought we'd lost you."
John glanced down, noting the slightly care-worn features, lightened by a boyishly enthusiastic grin.
"I think for a while there, you did" he replied softly, then moved away from the table, gently squeezing his old comrade's shoulder as he passed by. "I'll be in touch"
Danny sat for a while longer finishing his coffee, then got to his feet and pulled his mobile from his pocket. Punching in a number he held it to his ear. The call was answered within a couple of rings, and a broad smile split his face.
"Jim! Any chance your missus will give you a pass to come out and play?"
O*O*O
It took John a moment or so to recognise the fact that his mobile was ringing – the ringtone was bland and unfamiliar. He pulled it from his pocket, a mild bolt of relief shooting through him as he saw the caller ID. As he pushed the button to answer the call, he caught sight of the cabbie watching him in the rear-view mirror.
"Hello mate! How's it going?"
If Mycroft was surprised by John's words or tone, he didn't let on, replying with his usual air of calm
"Where are you now? I assume you cannot talk, so let me tell you I am making my way back to see the family."
"Great! I'm just on my way to the party, so I'll see you there, okay? Cheers mate!" with a smirk he closed off the call, grinning as he pictured Mycroft's face at being called 'mate' twice in the space of a minute – not a normal occurrence John guessed.
As a precaution he had asked to be dropped off outside an old converted house in Norfolk Place. If the cabbie had taken the time to look as he pulled away, he would have seen John fumbling as if to put a key into the lock, but as soon as the vehicle disappeared from view he ran lightly back down the steps and marched briskly in the direction of Praed Street and St Mary's Hospital.
The security outside Sherlock's door scrutinised John as he walked towards them, but made no move to detain him. Mycroft was already there, sitting relaxed in a comfortable chair next to Sherlock's bed, listening to Sherlock complaining that he could do more good in London than in Hertfordshire. Running a practiced eye over the monitors and then over the man in the bed, John was satisfied that all was as it should be, given the circumstances, but he was less pleased at what he saw in Mycroft. There were a host of little red burn marks on his face, and one hand was carefully wrapped in cotton dressings.
"What was it?"
"An incendiary device" the Government man looked down at his hand "One of our receptionists has lost a hand and probably the sight in both eyes"
"Shit"
"He misjudged his timing" Sherlock looked from his brother to his flatmate "or…"
"No" John shook his head adamantly "This guy's a professional." Running a weary hand over his face he hitched one hip onto the side of the bed. "I would say this was a warning. If Marc Banks wants you two dead, he'll want to do it himself. You" he pointed at Sherlock "got off lucky this time round – he wasn't prepared for you running at him the way you did, and he didn't have a clear shot to finish you off because I was shooting back at him"
He blew out a gusty breath as he looked at the older Holmes brother.
"And you've been equally as lucky. I assume those burns were treated by paramedics?"
"Yes John," a genuine smile flitted onto his face "I had to promise that I would get myself to a hospital to get checked out – as you see, I am here"
"Yeah, and who checked you over?"
"My doctor" Sherlock sulked "I had to watch while he was stripped half naked and his chest and lung functions measured" he threw a glaring look at his flatmate. "And your text wasn't funny, John, this isn't a game!"
The ex-soldier's expression hardened.
"Not to us – never to us, but to Banks? Yeah, and right now he's holding all the aces"
"How so?"
"We have yet to discover his whereabouts, or even if he looks the same as he did when he was released from prison" John pinched the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger, as if the action would help to slow his racing thoughts. "He, on the other hand, knows where to find you Mycroft, and I'd be very surprised if he hasn't got both your address and ours"
"Yet you have asked me to take down all surveillance in your flat"
"What?" Sherlock's interest sharpened immediately.
"Yep. Have my reasons for that Mycroft, but at the moment you're just going to have to take my word for it – I need the flat clear of your…" he groped for the least offensive word
"Violation?" his flatmate suggested, smirking at his brother.
"Well I was thinking more along the lines of interference" John said, making eye contact with the man in the chair. "And the less you know, the safer we all will be."
"All" Mycroft cocked an eyebrow at the man perched on the edge of the hospital bed.
"All" he never flinched under that piercing blue gaze.
Sherlock cleared his throat, breaking the tension in the room.
"You said you needed me to have internet access"
"I want you to put your hacking skills to good use. Once you're set up I want as much information as you can find about Banks – anything, Google, Facebook profile, hack directly into his system if you can find him," he looked away from his flatmate "Mycroft, the minute Sherlock finds a way in to Bank's accounts he will be exposed if your IT systems are not ultra-secure"
"I'll ensure they are safe
John nodded and looked at his watch.
"When do you leave for the safe house?"
"Within the hour. The nursing staff are ready; we are just waiting for the transport"
"Okay. I assume the surveillance blackout isn't going to happen for a while now"
"The bomb damaged my assistant's office, and we had smoke ingress into both my office and the corridor outside. Before I left I made sure the work would still be done, so once Sherlock is on his way I'll follow that up."
"What will you do now?" Sherlock's fingers picked absent-mindedly at his blanket.
"Have some things of my own to chase up, I need to speak to Lestrade, then home. When you get set up in the safe house, text me"
Sherlock nodded glumly.
"I'll e-mail…"
"No." John was adamant "Not until I give you the all clear"
Both Holmes brothers frowned slightly at that.
"I need to protect my own system – and that's something you can't do for me."
O*O*O
At the nurse's station, shift change attracted the usual clutch of incoming and outgoing staff, all standing around, talking.
"Who's the VIP patient in the private room down there?" the questioner, a male nurse, pointed down the corridor to where two men stood guarding the door. It appeared he was only making small talk, as he half listened to the answer, but beneath lazily hooded lids dark intelligent eyes scanned the faces around him.
"Dunno," said one young nurse "he's got his own nurses, and no-one's allowed in without the say-so of some other bloke – his brother I think."
"What's wrong with him?"
Another nurse, hearing the question, frowned.
"Can't say for sure, how about you Annabel?" she appealed to her colleague.
"He came in yesterday, that's all I know" Annabel shrugged and picked up the ward papers, sorting them into order by ward and bed number.
"I heard he had some sort of emergency surgery" added the first nurse.
"So," he pushed a bit harder "we're not looking after him?"
Whatever the response, he wasn't listening as his attention was caught by the opening of the door. He watched, his face hidden by a computer screen, as a short but solidly built blond man walked out, moving purposefully past the desk and out towards the exit. He followed his movements until he was out of sight, realising that Annabel was speaking once more.
"Sorry?"
"I said that's a friend of his, other than the brother he's the only person to visit our mystery man" the nurse grinned "You'll need to wake up a bit mate if you're going to last the shift!"
Grinning back at her, he nodded.
"Yeah, better get my mind on my job" he picked up the patient notes and walked in the direction of the main ward – half an hour later the notes were found on a trolley in the corridor, and the male nurse was no-where to be seen.
O*O*O
Sitting in his car, parked unobtrusively in Norfolk Place opposite the ornate metal gates of St Mary's Hospital, Marc Banks watched as the sleek black car pulled out and turned towards Edgware Road. Letting a couple of cars pass in front of him, he pulled out and followed the government vehicle as it made its way back to the Whitehall office, always keeping at least one car between them. In the early evening traffic it was easy to keep the distinctive car in sight.
Five minutes after the departure of the black car, an ambulance, with Patient Transport printed on the side, pulled out of the hospital and headed north to the M1. As it approached Swiss Cottage underground station the vehicle slowed to a halt, and a side door opened. Stepping out, Mycroft straightened his suit jacket, hung his umbrella over his arm, and with a nod to the remaining occupants he slid the door shut and stepped away, watching as it pulled back into the flow of traffic. Once it was out of sight hailed a cab, directing the driver to take him to his house in Knightsbridge.
O*O*O
At a corner table in The Albert pub, just around the corner from New Scotland Yard, John and Greg sat, each with a pint of beer in front of him.
"What trouble has he got himself into this time then?" Greg sounded tired, half expecting to be asked to bail the consulting genius out from yet another situation that his runaway mouth had got him into.
John took a healthy swig of his beer, his eyes crinkling with good humour.
"Seriously Greg? None or at least, nothing you need worry about"
The Detective Inspector almost spat his beer at that. Wiping his mouth on the back of his hand he stared at his companion.
"So why is the flat a no-go area?"
"Ah," Looking around at the clientele, he spotted several other police officers. Lowering his voice he continued "Mycroft has asked me to help track down the shooter from the shopping centre…"
"What? Why is he getting involved?"
"I'm not sure that you really want to know, Greg, really. This guy is known to both of them, I can't tell you how, all I can say is it would appear the shooting the other day was designed to get their attention"
Greg stared, dumbstruck.
"Listen mate, all I can tell you is the flat may or may not become a target area. I would feel happier if you didn't call socially, because if we are being watched, I would rather this guy didn't try to use you as leverage"
"And if we get a report of a disturbance?" Greg wasn't sure he wanted to hear the answer as he watched John's eyes go slightly out of focus, as if picturing the various likely scenarios.
"Then come armed, and come carefully. No police in the area without body armour and helmets." He pulled his new mobile from his pocket. "And you probably want my temporary number" he flicked through the screens until he came to the 'My Number' listing, showing it to his friend.
Lestrade opened a new contact on his phone and swiftly added John's new details.
"I'll send you a text" the police officer matched words with deed, and the phone chimed. "Save me to your contacts"
John nodded, and was about to when two more texts arrived in quick succession. Flashing an apologetic smile at his companion, he opened them both.
'Cameras and listening devices are off – MH'
'Invite sent for reunion – no response as yet – PD'
"And that's my cue to go" Swallowing the remains of his beer, John shoved his phone back in his pocket. "I'll try to keep you in the loop, Greg, but I meant what I said – I don't want you getting hurt because of us"
Hazel eyes gave him a searching look, then he nodded and offered his hand.
"Be careful, John"
They shook hands, and John slipped quietly out of the door. Greg watched through the window until the other man disappeared from sight.
O*O*O
Letting himself in the front door of the Baker Street property, John knew instantly that he wasn't alone. Reaching behind him, to the gun ever present in the waistband of his jeans, he closed the door and moved silently forward. Staying in the shadow, he reached the bottom of the stairs, and leading with his gun, placed his foot on the first step when a sound – suspiciously like a giggle – stopped him.
"If I show my face, will you try to shoot it off?"
John let out a gusty breath.
"Well, if it isn't the Ghost of times past" he laughed softly, putting away his weapon.
"Absolutely!"
O*O*O
On the other side of London, in the penthouse of a converted warehouse complex, Julia Steers, senior HR officer for the Cabinet Office threw herself onto the leather Chesterfield couch and kicked off her shoes. The excitement of the explosion at the office this afternoon had worn off, and now she was just feeling tired and shaky. Reaching into her handbag for her smartphone, she pulled out with it an envelope, her name printed in bold black letters on the front.
Frowning, she opened it, and removed a single sheet of paper and unfolded it. The printed message was unmistakably a threat, and a warning.
'Julia. If you want your brother's misdemeanours to remain hidden from your employer, you will help me. If you know what's good for you, you will help me anyway – for old time's sake'