If he were going to be inconvenienced, best to do so in to do so in comfort, Sherlock considered.
They were travelling by private jet from Heathrow to Edinburgh, and it came as no surprise to Sherlock that his brother had access to or owned a private aeroplane; certainly he could have afford it himself easily enough, but Sherlock suspected strongly that it was the British taxpayers who had purchased this one. He thanked them in the privacy of his own mind, and thanked them again when they were provided with expensive wine and fine food. Although the flight was only eighty minutes, Sherlock was determined to avail himself of everything his brother had to offer, considering the circumstances.
He had no qualms about this, but John was steadfastly ignoring everything offered to him, and was refusing to so much as speak to Mycroft. He'd answer Sherlock in monosyllables if necessary, and was wearing an expression that Sherlock had always catalogued as Very Angry John.
At least it was better than the nearly murderous rage that had flared in his eyes when Sherlock had returned to the flat with Mycroft. Not at Sherlock himself; John had immediately suspected that his brother-in-law had forced Sherlock into something. Although this wasn't far from the truth. Sherlock had seen fear lying beneath that fury, though, born of a need to protect Sherlock from his brother and from old anger at Mycroft's involvement with the threat to Tricia. Sherlock had been most impressed that John had managed to control his temper and not deck Mycroft right then and there, although he would admit that he'd have paid quite a lot to see that. He amused himself during the trip to Heathrow with the image of Mycroft with a black eye, and wondered if he could talk John round to an impromptu fistfight. Being in the army had certainly taught him a thing or two. Or many.
When Sherlock had explained the situation, John had relented somewhat, enough to let Mycroft into the entryway at least, but not into the flat. He had drawn a firm line there and was not willing to budge, and Sherlock supported him fully in that. Letting Mycroft into their flat was too much like letting him back into their lives, into their personal space from which both of them wanted him excluded.
John had listened with banked fire in his eyes to Mycroft's brief explanation and his assurances that they had to give him no more than twenty-four hours and nothing would befall them if they left, even if they left early. A missing child was enough to rattle John, to tug at his sense of responsibility, even if he didn't know the child. Particularly since there had been no leads during the three days he'd been missing. Sherlock could see him considering how he'd have felt if it were Josephine and wanted to tell John not to think about that, because it was not the case, but he was loath to make any mention of his niece in front of Mycroft. Not because he suspected Mycroft didn't know – of course he knew about her – but because it meant there was one more personal thing he could deny his brother.
Reluctantly, John had agreed to go and had taken Sherlock upstairs to pack an overnight bag. Sherlock thought this would be quite useless, because he intended to be working the entire time they were there, and drug stores and whatnot sold things like toothbrushes and deodorant if they needed them, but he recognized that part of this was to get Sherlock away from Mycroft.
John locked their flat door behind him, turning to Sherlock, fixing him with a dark gaze.
"Are you sure about this?" he asked in a low tone.
"I am," Sherlock replied. "Although I'll not go without you. If you say no, I will stay. I'm not having him divide us."
John wavered then; Sherlock could see it clearly. So easy to just deny Mycroft, to ask him to leave. But it wasn't him who needed them, as he'd pointed out. It was a ten-year-old boy. Sherlock was under no illusions that a ten year old could not have enemies; he'd had his fair share when he'd been ten. But they tended to be other children or vindictive adults of only mediocre intelligence whom he could outsmart – teachers and coaches – not people who could abduct the son of a former secret agent. Small enemies only, and not particularly dangerous ones.
"All right," John said finally. "But only twenty-four hours."
"Those were my conditions," Sherlock agreed.
John stayed near the door, breathing deeply, the muscles in his jaw jumping. He turned his gaze from Sherlock and stared at nothing for a moment, then nodded once, a brief and tense movement.
"Right," he said, and went to pack them each a small bag. Sherlock followed him into the bedroom and sat on the bed watching him as he did so, knowing John didn't want his help – they would only get in each other's way and that John needed to move right now, to do something with his hands and focus on an activity. He also knew leaving John alone would be a bad idea.
When they were finished, John sat beside him on the bed a moment, both of them silent, just sitting, then pushed himself up and got his shoes. Sherlock followed him, and John liberated both of their passports from their small lockbox in its hiding area, just in case. He followed Sherlock out, locking the door securely behind him, and got into Mycroft's car reluctantly, looking not at all surprised when Anthea didn't acknowledge them, still glued to her mobile.
Which is how they ended up in the air heading north, England and then Scotland flying past by beneath them.
They had gone to Edinburgh on their much belated honeymoon. Sherlock had settled on it when he'd learned John hadn't been there, and had been utterly appalled. What kind of Englishman was his husband? It wasn't as though Edinburgh was particularly far or inaccessible, and it was a lot like London in many respects – urban, with a long history, utterly British, chock-full of character but somewhat fewer tourists than London. Sherlock actually enjoyed going to Edinburgh on occasion; it was like a smaller version of home, but without people like Anderson (although certainly there were people like Anderson everywhere, he just didn't know them in Edinburgh) and with a much-decreased chance of his brother showing up unannounced.
It had not surprised Sherlock to learn John had friends in Edinburgh, former army mates. It had surprised John that Sherlock knew people there, and Sherlock had despaired of his husband ever learning to think properly – not all of the people whose cases he'd taken on stayed in London or had been in London in the first place. There was so much one could do with a wireless connection and the ability to hack into police systems. Explaining this to John had earned a weary eye roll and a muttered "of course", however.
When they had gone on vacation, they had travelled by train, since the train took only four and a half hours with the added bonus of seeing the countryside, or at least watching it blur past. John had never been to the moors much either, and Sherlock considered this entire state of affairs to be unreasonable. He himself was not much for the countryside, although he'd grown up there a good part of the year, in his family's manor home, but he considered he needed to take John out there one day, perhaps later in the summer, when the walking was better and the days were warmer.
Flying was shorter, of course, and this flight was made easier by having no airport security with which to contend and no wait times.
He and John were sitting facing one another, both with their legs stretched out, their ankles entangled in a complicated manner. Normally, Sherlock did not like when John did this because he usually did so to pin Sherlock someplace where Sherlock did not want to be. But since there was means of escaping the aeroplane in a non-suicidal manner, he didn't mind. It also alerted him to the fact that John was not Very Angry with him, because he was willing to be in physical contact with Sherlock.
Sherlock also enjoyed the irritation that had flashed for a fraction of a second in Mycroft's eyes when he did this. Once, Sherlock would have taken this as disapproval, not toward John or even Sherlock's orientation, but to the fact that Sherlock was expending energy on someone else instead of whatever it was Mycroft wanted him to do. Now, Sherlock could see that some of that irritation was transmuted from envy and that Mycroft probably didn't even realize it. He had something Mycroft didn't, that Mycroft would not sacrifice his career for. Sherlock hadn't had to sacrifice his career at all for John.
Knowing this made Sherlock feel a stab of triumph, but he kept it to himself. He was not about to get into a row with Mycroft about John. John was off limits.
Mycroft was filling them in more completely on the situation, having been able only to sketch the outlines for Sherlock on the ride to the Baker Street flat. John was stoically ignoring him, reading through his copy of the case file for the second time – Sherlock wondered if John intended to read it repeatedly until they landed. Most likely. It kept him from having to look up and acknowledge Sherlock's brother.
Sherlock was following, nodding along when appropriate, reading the file himself, or at least skimming it. The details from the crime scene were all there, but they were fairly useless; he would need to see the scene himself.
But the information on the mother and the missing boy was important. Angela MacTaggart, forty-five, had retired from service twelve years previous and had returned to her native Edinburgh. She currently lived in a penthouse in a well-appointed area of the already well-appointed New Town. The information pertaining to her had been seriously culled, so that he had only the barest of details.
This would have to be rectified.
Information on her son was more forthcoming. David Ian MacTaggart had been born April third, 2004, in Edinburgh. He was currently attending George Heriot's School in the fifth form, was involved with both sports and music, and excelled in all of his classes, showing a strong aptitude for languages and maths. The photo included in the file showed a smiling ten-year-old with a mop of light brown curls, blue-grey eyes and a pale complexion. Sherlock studied the smile, the eyes, and found no trace of anything hidden behind them – if this was a boy with troubles, he was far too adept at hiding them for his age. Nothing in his file indicated that he had any behavioural issues either – in fact, his teachers praised his performance and his ability to interact with his other students.
When asked, Mycroft relayed that his mother reported that David had a fair number of friends and got on with most of his classmates. He had never been in much trouble at school, nothing serious, reprimands for daydreaming, although given his exam scores, Sherlock was not surprised. Even as one of the youngest members of his class, this boy would have been a step beyond his classmates. Given his mother's former position, this was not at all astonishing. If he'd inherited his intelligence solely from her, then he would do very well in the world. There was enough information about Angela MacTaggart for Sherlock to comfortably draw this conclusion, even without having met her. And the fact that she'd moved in the same professional circles as Mycroft indicated an abnormally high level of intelligence and aptitude.
There was a rather large piece of the puzzle missing, though.
"Who's his father?" Sherlock asked.
Receiving no answer, Sherlock looked up. Mycroft looked distinctly displeased.
"I don't know," he replied.
Sherlock narrowed his grey eyes, but his brother met his gaze evenly with his own pale-eyed gaze.
"I don't, Sherlock," he said, shaking his head once. "She never revealed it, not to me, nor to anyone as far as I know. Look at his birth certificate. There is no name listed there, only 'unknown'. I'm not even aware if it was someone she knew, or if she went the medical route. Whoever he is, I've not been privy to that information."
Sherlock kept his glare on his brother for a moment, and Mycroft shook his head.
"She assures me that his father has nothing to do with this."
"That's lovely," Sherlock replied. "I'm so glad she's been able to determine that – how does she know?"
"I don't know," Mycroft said. "I didn't pry."
Sherlock made a disgusted noise.
"Her son is missing and you didn't 'pry'?" he snapped. "How am I supposed to make any progress on this when you don't follow the proper leads?"
"Angela may be retired but she certainly hasn't lost or given up any of her contacts or influence. She has just has much reach as I do, perhaps more, particularly given the circumstances. If she says David's father is uninvolved, then I trust her on this. No one would know better than she, particularly because no one else knows who he is."
Sherlock rolled his eyes.
"Not an appropriate way to run the investigation," he said. "You said I'd be given everything I need and could take this wherever it lead me. I need this information."
"You will have to talk to her about this," Mycroft replied. "I'm willing to do everything I can, but I cannot give you this information, because I don't have it."
"This slows me down," Sherlock replied.
"I know. I don't like it much, either."
"She retired twelve years ago. David is ten years old. She was likely planning on having a child at that point then, and chose to leave in order to do so."
Mycroft raised a hand slightly in a gesture indicating he agreed, or couldn't comment.
"It's likely," he said. "But she never gave me that as a reason. She was mum about David until there was no hiding the fact that she was pregnant and even then, she wouldn't talk about details much."
"No possibility she was forced?"
"Not Angela," Mycroft said. "She is better versed in how to kill a man barehanded than even I am. Anyone foolish to attack her would find it was the last decision he ever made. No, David was her choice. As was her decision to keep his father's identity to herself."
Sherlock scowled and returned his attention to the file. He read through the rest of the fairly extensive information on David, then looked at his photograph again.
He reminded Sherlock of Nicholas Merkley, the last missing child on whose case Sherlock had worked. Of course, the resemblance was fairly superficial; both had curly hair and blue eyes, but Nicholas's hair had been two shades lighter and his eyes more blue, without any hint of grey.
And the possibility that they shared the same father was an astronomically small one. To be sure, Daniel Goodnow had been a sperm donor, so his genetic children could be almost anywhere in the UK, but Sherlock was not at all inclined to trust a coincidence so staggering. He looked again at Angela MacTaggart's photo – she had hair the same colour as her son's, although hers was laced with grey, but her eyes were hazel. She had the same curls as well, but her hair was much longer, so the curls were not as tight, drawn down by the weight. Sherlock could clearly see her stamp in her son's features, but there were other things there as well, contributions from his unknown father.
If it had been Daniel Goodnow, Sherlock considered, then it would very quickly clear up any paternal involvement in this case, since Goodnow had been dead over two years now.
If this were a parental issue, it would be fairly complex. First, how had David's father found out about him – presuming he hadn't known the whole time, of course – and second, how had he gotten past Angela's defences to kidnap David in his own home? Sherlock reluctantly decided to hold off on consideration of the father until he spoke to MacTaggart and got some information from her.
And he was more convinced that his original assessment; this had something to do with the people for whom Mycroft and MacTaggart worked, and enemies she had made along the way. This meant David was in great deal of danger, unless these people were willing to hold off on hurting him badly in exchange for information. Sherlock didn't delude himself that they wouldn't hurt the boy at all – it would be too much leverage to show his distressed mother an image of her son with injuries. He was not worried about abuse or sexual assault, however. If they wanted something from MacTaggart, any injury to her son would be calculated to get the maximum reaction with the minimum outrage. One could not plan for the response of a parent toward assault. It was cold comfort, and not a thought he enjoyed thinking, but he knew it was true.
Particularly if he'd been kidnapped by a rival agency. They would not want vigilante justice as the response. They would want to control the situation.
He looked at the picture of David again. The background to the photo, a stock school picture, was blue, bringing out the blue in his eyes. But there were several more photos included for context, one of David outside somewhere on an overcast day. Although his features were less close up in that picture, the grey clouds were highlighting the similar colour in his eyes. In neither picture did Sherlock see any hint of fear or uncertainty. Despite his mother's former career, this was not a child who felt threatened by the world.
Sherlock doubted David felt such security now.
The aeroplane began its descent and Sherlock saw John look up from his file and out the window. It was the first time, Sherlock recalled, that John had flown in Edinburgh. Still, he was silent, not even meeting Sherlock's eyes, watching the city grow closer, larger, until they were surrounded by runway and touching down.
"Hotel or crime scene first?" Mycroft asked.
"Unless there's something I should see at the hotel that's pertinent to this case, there is no reason to go. Crime scene. You have twenty-four hours with me, after all. Best not to waste my time."
At this, John did meet Sherlock's eyes. He looked resigned to the coming day, snapping his copy of the file closed and unbuckling his seat belt before the aeroplane had fully stopped, as if doing so might get this over with more quickly.