The Missing Scenes
PART 2
It started with a phone call.
The bloodied dark stranger made his way into the telephone box, taking comfort in the sudden shelter it provided. He pulled the damp coat closer around his bony shoulders. Did it ever stop raining in this godforsaken country?
It was almost midnight and the small village streets lay deserted as if in homage to the job well done. A shaky hand with bruised knuckles picked up the receiver and slowly punched in the number from memory, misdialling twice as the cold finally hit bone. That, and adrenaline he supposed- the owner of a pair of hands that not 30 minutes ago had taken a man to a bloody death with machine-like accuracy. His gun had been lost in the final furlong and he had been forced to use a concrete brick to finish the job. Necessary. Merely a logical premise- a final step that cleared it all and allowed him home. To Baker street. To him.
"C'est fait." said the voice, almost unrecognisable to its owner. "It's done. " A..A..Apportez-moi la maison mon frere. Bring me…. Home." Why couldn't he stop shaking? Oh yes. The struggle. There had been a knife apparently.
"English please brother. Compose yourself. Are you hurt?" says the steady voice.
"I.. just get me home."
"Where are you?"
"Ariège-Pyrenees. Small village. Southern corner of France."
"Ah yes. Moriarty had connections there. Good. Good. Well then, get yourself to Paris Sherlock. It will give me till to bring you 'back' and ensure you're not being followed. I don't want you traced back to the government. That is my priority. I'll send a man. He'll be in contact. Goodbye."
The phone went dead.
The dark stranger slowly replaced the receiver then laughed quietly to himself, flinching at the pain in his side. "Manners brother." Taking a second to compose himself, he pulled the sodden coat further around his neck then ducked out of the phone box into the cold night in search of a car to hotwire.
John Watson got up that morning. He got dressed, had a cup of tea and stared at the empty spot on the sofa. He had done this every morning since an injured Sherlock had disappeared from the hospital under Mycroft's steam nearly eight months ago to complete the final task without him. And John Watson was angry.
"John, your empty slot has been filled. Shall I show him straight in?"
"Yes. Fine. Thanks." He rubbed the palms of his hands into his eye sockets. He was tired. He had been since Sherlock had been gone. He was done with the worrying, the wondering at whether he was lying somewhere shot and bleeding with no one to call an ambulance. Was he wondering about John? Despite Sherlock coming straight out with it and telling John, it was all for him, he still felt the the paradox of Sherlock's words and his way around what had happened. How could this man eat up John's life, even when he wasn't in close proximity?
John looked up to see a sharp suit and hear the clicking of the large umbrella.
"Tell me it's a serious health issue on your part or get out."
"Come now John. I have news. Don' t you wish to hear it?"-says the man as he takes a seat.
"I wish you would leave me be. I'm done, I told you that last time you came to pick about in the rubble."
"He's been in contact John."
The Doctor stills for a second then tries agonisingly hard not to look up, choosing instead to take a file out of his top draw and start to peruse it with poorly masked intent.
The sharp suit waited patiently for his bate to be taken.
"Is he….is alright at least?"
The other man smiles with content. "There you see. That wasn't hard was it?"
"Oh Just get the hell out will you Mycroft."
"I have a proposition for you John. He's coming home. I'm sending a man to Paris to collect him. I believe it maybe pertinent to my brother's health if you were that man."
"Not interested."
"You're a bad actor Doctor."
John stands, his chair screaming at the floor as it slides out from under him. The noise makes Mycroft wince.
"I'm done with any Holmes that shows his presence. I have better self-preservation skills than you give me credit for. I can't. I just can't do that anymore. Now please get out."
Mycroft's surprise briefly makes it across his features before frosting over once more. He takes his time getting up, revelling in John's discomfort and pain laid bare in front of him, adding it to the catalogue of many he has stored away in his files.
John shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his thin jacket as he walked purposefully back down Baker Street. He's not thinking about it. He's thinking about anything but that man. And failing miserably. He's probably thousands of miles away and he still has this effect on him, an invisible thread pulling at him at all times, no matter how long he's been away or what he's done. Nothing erases it. John has a horrible feeling it never will. Where the hell does that leave him?
He stopped dead at the turning into Baker Street then changed direction, then switched again finally kicking the wall in frustration. He headed out back on to the main road and takes out his phone and texts the one person who would understand his position.
-Greg. The Allsop Arms on the Marylebone Road. I need you to talk me out of something-
John nursed his whiskey with fidgety hands.
"Did he tell you anything else?" asked the Inspector.
"No."
"What is wrong with the Holmes', seriously?" He stops his mocking as soon as he sees John's worried preoccupied expression. "Ok, let's not beat around the bush here. You either decide you're out and finish this for good- and God Knows John, no one would blame you- Sherlock isn't built to be around…. real people.
John flinches at the last comment.
"Or?" he whispers.
"Or you jump in again. And probably get clobbered. Again."
John looks up at his choice of words. That is exactly what it was, it was jumping head first. Again.
"He has the social skills of a worm, and that whole being dead thing! That was not cool. I nearly lost my whole livelihood over that. And the guilt…I had to watch you suffer the way that you did. That was the worst time in my life, I can say that for sure."
John grimaced.
"But let's face it John. You're not a git. He hurt you yes, but if anyone is equipped to deal with that man, you are. I don't think you can leave him to it any more than I could all those years ago when he was a drug addled spark of light. I know you, and so does Mycroft Holmes apparently. But really mate, you did a good job trying to convince yourself you weren't going to run after him. But no one is ever going to be able to talk you out of Sherlock Holmes- I saw it all those years ago when you first stepped on to my crime scene. He had you good."
John looks embarrassed at his apparent transparency.
Greg pated him jovially on the back with force, knocking John forward, then downed his own pint in one swift move. "So shall I call you a cab or what?"
Mycroft Holmes stepped out of the back seat of the Rolls Royce onto the Mayfair pavement. He stopped short when he reached the glossy black front door and smiles. He did enjoy being right.
John Watson stood in the Shelter of the doorway, soaking wet from the night's rain.
"Don't look at me like that. I'm not here because of you."
"Oh no. Of course not."
John looked at his shoes. "Tell me. Is he alright?"
"Oh, you care now?"
"Don't fuck with me Mycroft."
"The job he took on is done. That is all I know."
"What. That's it. Nothing else?"
"I don't concern myself with the petty details John. Only the important ones."
"God. No wonder you came looking for me. Don't hide your inabilities behind a curtain of 'not caring' Mycroft. It makes you look stupid. Tell me where I'm going."
"Lestrade was right. You can't say no." He smiles to himself and slides past John. "My driver will take you to the ferry. Here, take this credit card, you'll need it. I've seen your bank account statements."
John looks at the credit card in Mycroft's hand in disgust. "I don't need your help. Just the address."
"Very well. If you feel like you have something to prove, so be it. Here is the name of the hotel in Paris." And with that he shut the door.
John bangs on the door to the plush offices with his fists. "Is that it? He's your brother Mycroft. He went where you led him. This is your fault." He steps back into the rain, knowing it to be useless and folds the hotel address into his pocket.