A/N: Hi, readers. This is chapter 3, from Sherlock's point of view and written by Merdealors.
Please enjoy, R&R
3. Family affairs
Sherlock woke in stages.
Oddly enough, the first strange thing he noticed was the feeling of the pyjama against his skin. Ever since he'd finally succeeded in persuading Mycroft to let him buy his own clothes – must have been around his 19th or 20th birthday – the younger Holmes had not worn silk pyjamas. At least not voluntarily. And espe cially not black-gold ones.
Only after this realization it came to him that he had no idea where he was. He jumped out of the bed – black-golden too, Christ Almighty – resolved to make a dash to the door and out of here. Wherever 'here' was.
Unfortunately he had a formidable goose egg on the back of his head and the damn thing had other plans. The quick movement made his head spin, his stomach heaved up and he sat down faster than he had got up. The headache told him all he had forgotten about (last?) night.
Trap-hunt-killer-knocked-out-nothing-since-then. That was about it.
Just a vague memory of the murderer talking about some 'special treatment' for a petty – and doubtlessly not very pretty – personal vendetta.
Sherlock was no coward but his mouth went dry. Circumstances suggested that he had ended up in the killer's den. Alone and without an obvious chance to contact anyone. Spontaneously he heard his own and John's voice in his mind. "Not good?" and the imagined Watson shook his had ruefully "a bit not good."
"Helpful as ever" Sherlock muttered. He sighed angrily. Imagined or real, John wouldn't help him in this. He was on his own. Again!
Well, there was nothing for it then. He rose – cautiously this time – and made his way to the door. No luck here, the darn thing didn't have a handle on the inside. A quick survey confirmed that the room, luxurious as it was, was meant not as a shelter but as a prison cell. Large windows, not barred, but locked and paned with armoured glass. Emphasis most definitely on 'armoured', not on 'glass'. They overlooked a garden scene in which absolutely nothing stirred. All right, message understood. Scream at the glass walls as much as you like, no one will hear you.
No phone, no computer, nothing. Chairs and most of the other furniture too heavy to be lifted or fastened to the floor. Nothing that could work as a weapon.
Some detail-obsessed maniac's paradise with a soft spot for fine woodwork. Holmes concluded he could consider himself lucky that he wasn't restrained, just for triple security.
And yet there was something fishy about the surroundings. The killer had struck Sherlock as a bit primitive, barely educated. Most definitely not refined. But the furnishings were expensive, to say the very least. And, at least in some elderly, stuffy British gentlemen's opinion, they spoke of taste. Of a man who chose carefully. A man who was particular, who had a big purse, a will to show it and an ego to pamper in the process.
Nothing of this applied to the murderer Holmes had pursued in the waste water system.
But if it wasn't him...
Sherlock looked at his surroundings again and swallowed hard. Damn, he'd known he'd overdone it this time. Quite obviously he'd overstepped the final mark for good. Or, rather, for worse.
This room, especially the fact that he couldn't leave it, spoke loudly of somebody else. Of a very familiar face. Someone he'd given one verbal and emotional thrashing too many during the last few months. Sooner or later his misbehaviour had been bound to have consequences.
The captive exhaled sharply and let his head fall forward. When would he finally learn to treat the man constructively?
But on the other hand – black-golden silk pyjamas, for crying out loud!
Alas, complaining wouldn't help. Once the madman had made up his mind to bring his foot down, complaining never helped.
Sherlock put both fists on his hips, raised his head defiantly and yelled at the ceiling. "What the hell is this about?" As if he didn't know! "Mycroft! Show yourself."
The ceiling didn't answer.
"Damn it brother. You can't expect me to accept a checked cap and coat for a birthday present! And six weeks after the event!"
The room kept silent.
"C'me on, Mycroft. Even you must understand – what on earth am I to do with a pipe? It's impossible to keep up a smoking habit in London these days."
Nothing.
"Brother, I know you meant well. I'm sorry I ridiculed you in front of John and Lestrade. I didn't mean to. Now let me out!"
Silence on all fronts.
"John is sick in case you haven't noticed. He's alone at home. He needs me."
Obviously the perspective of Sherlock Holmes being a sympathetic nurse for an unfortunate flue patient wasn't very convincing for the man at the other end of the surveillance line.
Frustrated and more than a little bit enraged, Holmes decided to rise the escalation level. What had their mother always called her eldest son when she wished to see him go nuts? Oh, yes. "This is unlawful detainment, stuffy bunny. Doesn't look good on your record!"
This time Sherlock definitely heard something. Like a camera moving and a loudspeaker or microphone clicking.
But nobody talked.
At least not yet.
"I mean it, sweet shanks. You don't have a drug addiction for an excuse this time." Sherlock hoped desperately that the secret larder for recreational stuff he had built in under the floorboards of 221B Baker Street hadn't been found. "You can't lock me up, I'm clean!"
No, that didn't do the trick either.
"To hell with you, Mycroft. It isn't a criminal offence to dislike your birthday gifts! Let me out, now!"
The equipment clicked again but that was as far as it went.
Sherlock gave it up for the moment. If the almighty secret agent wanted to have it the tough way, so be it. But this time the younger brother would teach him a lesson when the time came. A lesson big brother would never forget.
For now the younger Holmes turned his intention to the bundle of clothes he'd spotted earlier on a sofa near the corner window. He sneered when he examined them closer. Brown shirt, jeans, socks and sneakers, mustard coloured cord jacket (yugh!) a pullover and (God help me) a brown, knitted wool tie! As for the underwear – Sherlock refused to have a closer look at it. Abominable. Clean, in fact still in the package but... brrh.
"Mycroft, not even you can be serious about these things!"
After one or two more fruitless minutes Sherlock gathered the clothes and headed for the bathroom that was attached to the bedchamber. The flowery smell that came from the ajar door was a dead give-away.
He took a hot shower – let Mycroft curse the fog it brought to his camera lenses – slipped into the underwear with his eyes closed and put on the jeans, shirt, socks and shoes. The rest of the stuff he threw to the wet floor in a bundle to rot. Hopefully rot fast.
He was half way in the pants when he heard the surveillance equipment rustle and click again.
All of a sudden anger and humiliation overwhelmed him. Too much was too much. "For God's sake Mycroft, leave my naked arse alone!" he yelled at the top of his voice.
This time an answer did come from the loudspeakers, it just wasn't the voice he'd expected to hear.
But even so, Sherlock recognized this voice instantly, would've recognized it anywhere and any time. However, recognition did nothing to calm his nerves, it just turned his anger into apprehension.
"Sweet shanks?" Moriarty's voice asked laughingly. "You call your brother sweet shanks?"
The one moment changed Sherlock's attitude completely. Especially as he remembered only now that nobody, not even John, was private to information about his hunt for the serial killer. Sherlock himself had sworn Anderson to utter secrecy. Surely The Yard's most stupid idiot would keep all information to himself, using Sherlock's own words as an excuse for letting him down.
Holmes' flinched a bit when he heard a key turn in the outer door's invisible locking mechanism. Hastily he pulled the shirt over his head.
His face was hard, withdrawn. All muscles tensed. He looked calm, in control.
Inwardly, he was anything but. "Mycroft, where are you?" he thought. "Big brother, I need you!" From some hidden department for absurd humour and insensitive remarks inside his soul, the department that always brought him into hot water with other people, another thought came "and before this is over I'll sure need a doctor, too!"
The door opened slowly.