Now the flat was his again, the silence transformed from oppressive to productive. This was familiar and easily broken by the sound of his violin or the sound of his own voice as he spoke to the skull, chasing down ideas in his own mind, muttering to himself as he leaned over files or narrowed his eyes at information pinned to the wall.
Mycroft had made good on his word; in this respect his brother was trustworthy. Sherlock had been given files on the other six committee members, their families and their close associates, including their assistants. For the first time, he had a file on Anthea – Karen Johnson – that was legitimately obtained – although the information contained therein was no more than he'd acquired for her when she'd first begun working for Mycroft.
He'd moved his laptop and John's to the coffee table and spread out the files on the desk before deciding there wasn't enough room and clearing some space on the kitchen table as well. He'd taken the basic facts sheet for each committee member and fixed them on and around the doors between the kitchen and the living room so he did not have to move back and forth between the rooms on a regular basis. He'd also spread out a map of London on the floor and circled the residences they maintained when they were in the city. Not all of them represented constituencies in London, of course. One of them wasn't an MP but sat in the House of Lords, and Sherlock was unsurprised to learn that his primary residence was in Buckinghamshire, not far from where Sherlock himself had grown up. Another was from Wales, representing part of Cardiff. The other four were MPs for various areas in England. He'd dug out his map of Britain as well and circled their permanent homes for completeness' sake, although he strongly suspected that there would be no connection to places this time. The link lay in their participation on the committee that was investigating the threat against James Murray.
John had left for work at his usual time and Sherlock had refocused himself long enough to bid him a proper farewell rather than a distracted good-bye, sensing this would be inappropriate. He had also cooked breakfast as he normally did, making a particularly strong pot of coffee to go along with it. John's truncated sleeping time had left him looking bleary eyed even though he'd managed to sleep another hour or so after they'd returned home.
Sherlock paced the length of the flat then stopped and tilted his head back, tugging his fingers through his hair, exhaling a sharp sigh. He returned to the table and bent over the last letter again, eyes tracing the circumference of the ring of roses, taping a finger irately on the parchment-coloured paper.
He'd had Mycroft trace the number from which the text had been sent. It was no surprise to learn that it had been sent from a prepaid mobile that was most likely at the bottom of the Thames by now, or scattered about the city in pieces. The man was a professional killer; he'd not leave himself open to being traced.
But what had he meant? What words was Sherlock getting wrong? Which version of the rhyme was he supposed to be looking at? Where was it leading them? There were too many variables, both in terms of individuals and adaptations of the rhyme. It seemed the rhyme could vary not only from country to country but from person to person, depending on what one remembered learning as a child.
It was logical to assume the killer would strike at another committee member next because that had been his pattern so far. But he'd deviated from the pattern previously by kidnapping and murdering Kelsi Murray rather than going directly after her father. Each of the committee members had family – including Mycroft. Sherlock realised with some shock that he and John were probably back under surveillance and that Angela and David were most likely under guard in Edinburgh as well.
It could be anyone, anywhere, any time. There was no reason to assume he'd move quickly now, even though the first two murders had been less than twenty-four hours apart. He had them where he wanted them – they'd recognized the pattern and were trying to break it. He may be disinclined to provide more information now. Or he may keep up his current pace. Sherlock had no illusions that a man who could gain entry to the homes of two MPs in the space of a day without being detected at all could get past any security Mycroft could assign. He already had. He'd confounded Mycroft for ten years. He was not about to expose himself now.
He wanted their attention and he had it. And they were at his mercy.
Sherlock sat back with a growl. He had told John in Edinburgh that they would be at the whims of a professional assassin and his employer. He felt a flash of regret that he had not known then how true this would be months later. They had played his little game and ended up precisely where he'd wanted them: standing over Kelsi Murray's gave, not a single step closer to knowing who had killed her.
The craving for a cigarette was so sudden and sharp that it made him gasp, his eyes widening. Sherlock bit down on his lower lip and pushed himself to his feet, striding into the bathroom. He grabbed a package of nicotine patches and tore into it, pressing two onto the skin of his right forearm. There was no instant relief, no rush of relaxation that would have come with inhaling cigarette smoke, but he forced himself to stay crouched down and focus on his breathing for several minutes. The craving abated to the point where it was tolerable, and Sherlock put the box on the counter before going back into the dining room.
The light on his phone was blinking, indicating he had a text message. Sherlock scooped it up with a sigh – he had no desire to speak to his brother and Mycroft probably knew that and was resorting to texting him. He doubted it was John; they had fallen out of the habit of texting one another, although Sherlock sorely missed it. He realised suddenly he'd been waiting for permission to resume their regular communication again, but maybe John was waiting for him. He'd text his husband as soon as he'd dealt with his brother.
He unlocked the phone and opened the message, then took a step back from the table as if distancing himself would somehow help.
Still haven't got it? Not the British version. Ring around the rosey, A pocket full of posies, A-hush-ya, a-hush-ya, We all fall down.
Sherlock reread the text message again, then started to reach for his laptop before stopping, frozen.
A-hush-ya, a-hush-ya? he thought. I hush you? We all fall down?
He sucked in a sharp breath, feeling the silence of the flat pressing in on him, suddenly aware that he was alone, aware of the guards Mycroft must have posted. Acutely aware that the killer and his employer had been leading them every step of the way and that they both knew about the committee.
Which, according to Mycroft, was meeting to discuss the situation and how to best approach it.
All of them in one place.
All of them needing to be silenced.
His breath caught as his lungs constricted, a shock of cold coursing through him. The first two had been– what? A warning? A clue? A taunt?
Manipulation to get them all to the same place at the same time, to let them know they were being hunted, to get to them while they planned to keep themselves safe.
He rang his brother's number without hesitation, pressing the phone hard to his ear, cursing when the call went through to voicemail.
"Mycroft, it's Sherlock. Get out of the building. Wherever you are, get out. He wants all of you. For god's sake, call me back!"
He hung up and sent a text message then a second one, then rang Anthea.
"My brother, where's my brother?" he demanded before she could even greet him. There was a hesitation on the other end of the line and Sherlock snarled. "Karen, my brother! You need to tell me where he is now and you need to get him out of there immediately. Right now!"
He wondered what the public would think if they knew how much of their tax money was allocated to the purchase of tea and biscuits for committee meetings. Mycroft was certain they'd gone through half of their annual expenditure in this meeting alone – which had not been productive by any stretch of the imagination. Tempers that were stretched by Laurence's murder had snapped under the realization that it wasn't his friendship with Murray that had put him in the crosshairs, but his participation on the committee itself. Anger was being used to stifle panic, but not productively. It was astonishing how people could talk over one another and still understand themselves. It was less surprising that they'd accomplished very little and that two of the members now wanted to leave.
Yes, he thought, We should give in, shouldn't we? Bow to what is essentially terrorism, albeit a very focussed and specialized form of terrorism, directed only at us.
Directed ultimately at the British government, too. He was not going to stand for this threat to the oldest Parliament in the world, not while there was any fight left in him whatsoever. He'd assured Angela and David's security in Edinburgh and knew that Angela could call in her own favours as well. He didn't worry about them more than necessary – after David's abduction, both Mycroft and Angela had invested a significant sum in increased protection.
He'd also put guards on Sherlock and John – his brother would figure this out in short order and probably identify all of them. Mycroft would count it as a victory if Sherlock didn't out them and start haranguing them in public about their job and his privacy. He was particularly concerned now with his younger brother's inability to be reasonable. This row with John was affecting Sherlock's judgment, whether he wanted to admit it or not. Mycroft knew less about this than he'd like but far more than Sherlock would want. Taking up smoking again and doing so without telling John… Mycroft was not unfamiliar with the need to keep secrets – and nor was Angela, which made everything between them much easier to navigate. John, on the other hand, had overcome trust issues after being sent home from Afghanistan and was one of those men who firmly believed in open communication with his partner.
Well, so be it. It kept Sherlock honest.
Except, of course, when Sherlock got it in his head to lie.
Mycroft sighed, shaking his head, dismissing these thoughts. Worrying about his younger brother was a full-time job – two, really – but he had more pressing matters on his mind at the moment. He pulled his mobile from his jacket pocket and turned it back on as he left the conference room. They had all agreed to cut off all communication during the meeting, because this made it more difficult to trace their whereabouts. But he needed to contact Anthea immediately to see if anything had come up during the course of the meeting. Thankfully, none of them had been murdered – that would have been fairly obvious – but there was still a risk to their families.
His phone chirped at him, indicating waiting texts and voicemail messages. Mycroft frowned. He called up the text messages and found a deluge from both Sherlock and Anthea. Alarmed, he opened the first one from his brother, certain something had happened to John Watson, then stopped short.
Mycroft, get out. He knows where you all are.
Mycroft raised his eyes from the phone, evaluating his location. He was in the atrium of the building in which they'd met, one of the many that served to house offices for MPs or various government functionaries as well as meeting rooms and storage for forgotten records. A non-descript government building filled with non-descript government employees.
He was alone, he realized. Not alone in the atrium, but alone without any of his aides, without Anthea, without even a driver. The others had gone, all of them scrambling to get back to their families. He was isolated.
Mycroft looked around slowly, trying to identify anyone out of place. Various aides, assistants, and officials were crossing the tiled floor; hard soled shoes and high heels clicking loudly, voices rising and falling as they moved closer to him, then away. Some in pairs, laughing and chatting. Others on their own, looks of concentration on their faces, files in their arms or phones glued to their ears.
Not alone, he realized.
One of the others – McKinney – was standing off to one side of the doors, on his phone, half turned away from Mycroft, a concerned look on his face. He was nodding to someone on the other end of the line, someone who could not see him.
Two of us, Mycroft thought, suddenly cold.
And on the other side of the entryway, drawn into the corner of the doorframe, was a small ring of roses done in red permanent marker.
"OUT!" Mycroft roared. "Everyone out! Now!"
McKinney looked up at him quickly, stunned into immobility for a moment, then dropped his phone without question, breaking into a run as soon as he'd cleared the doors. Mycroft heard shouts and panic behind him but ignored them, racing through the doors and out onto the pavement, slowing for a precious moment and squinting into the dull sunlight that filtered through the blanket of clouds.
Where, cover, where? he asked himself incoherently. Trees and benches: not good enough. There were several vehicles on the road parked just outside the loading zone in front of the building. He veered toward them with barely a thought, running faster than he had since he'd been a boy, dodging onto the road, ignoring the oncoming traffic. He dropped to his stomach and rolled under one of the cars, pressing his face against the asphalt, wrapping hands over the back of his head and closing his eyes.
There was white light, there was deafening sound and then there was nothing.