With the possible exception of Sandra, the quality of the staff at Princess Grace was far superior than at St. Mary's. The atmosphere here was quieter and calmer and the hospital's employees seemed to accept that if Sherlock were there, he had a right to be.
Of course, there would still be military and civilian police to contend with. His brother would not take these kinds of threats lightly. When it came to Mycroft's life, nor would Sherlock, although he would be damned if he would admit that aloud, even begrudgingly. Mycroft would never stop gloating.
They made their way to the lifts, Sherlock ignoring the twinges and aches in his muscles. Judging by John's stiff gait, he was having a more difficult time doing so and Sherlock hoped his husband's left shoulder wasn't bothering him. At any other time, he would have happily stopped what he was doing to work some of the stiffness out of John's muscles for him, but they were on a case. There was work to be done.
And, in the back of his mind, he knew that offering to do so now came with the risk of rejection. John might not want Sherlock to touch him, for all that Sherlock had awoken that morning sprawled on top of John on the couch. Waking up with John's face half buried in his hair and John's left arm wound round him had made Sherlock forget about the previous day's events for a few precious minutes. It had been tempting to kiss John – their faces had been so close together that it would have required almost no movement – but he'd held back. John had clearly needed the sleep and Sherlock had no idea how the doctor would have reacted.
The idea of John pulling away again, saying no, was too painful to bear. He scarcely wanted to imagine it. So he'd done nothing but get up carefully and go back to work.
He put these thoughts aside firmly as the lift doors opened. Despite the condition in which he was likely to find Mycroft, his brother would still pick up on any discomfort immediately. He hadn't forgiven Mycroft for his comments about John. About Sherlock, really. He knew where Mycroft was laying the blame.
He felt John's fingers curl around his – only lightly, only for a moment – as the lift doors slid open. It was enough to re-centre himself and he gave a curt nod of thanks. They stepped out and made their way down the corridor then Sherlock paused in mid-step. The action made John stop as well, turning back to glance at him curiously, but Sherlock kept his eyes on the young man standing in front of the vending machines.
More of a boy, really, caught in that cumbersome stage where he was no longer a child but not yet an adult, thin but with a hint of wiry strength that was masked in part by his slouching stance and the fatigue around his eyes. He was athletic and would never be bulky, but he would be tall. He hadn't hit his growth spurt yet but he was already above average height for his age. Sherlock remembered very well what that felt like – uncomfortable, awkward, clumsy. Playing sports would help, though – he had the wrong build for rugby but was well designed for football. The physical activity – which Sherlock had always despised as an adolescent – would make his height easier to bear, balance it out somewhat.
He had short, curly light brown hair and when he finally noticed them and turned, grey eyes that matched Sherlock's own met his gaze. Sherlock heard John gasp softly but only raised an eyebrow slightly. It took a minute for the boy to figure out who they were, but Sherlock had recognized his mother in those features instantly.
"Oh," David said. "You're Sherlock, yeah?"
He sounded far different than the last time Sherlock had spoken to him – gone was the terrified little boy and in his place was a tired and edgy young man. His grey eyes raked over Sherlock quickly – far too quickly to absorb anything of significance – then over John. He still spoke with a Scottish accent and his voice was a touch deeper. It hadn't changed yet, but it would soon.
"Hello, David," Sherlock replied, nodding.
The boy gave a dry huff, almost a chuckle.
"I was wondering when you'd get here. Dad thought you'd be waiting when he woke up, ready to ask all sorts of questions."
Sherlock felt John shift slightly in surprise but ignored this.
"Is he awake now?"
"Yeah. Mum's in there with him. I was just getting something to eat. Come on. I'll show you where."
He selected a Mars bar from the machine then turned and walked away, apparently not even considering that Sherlock wouldn't follow. Well, they were there to see Mycroft. It was a reasonable assumption.
"Christ," John whispered beside him, his voice loud enough to reach Sherlock's ears only. "Mycroft is 'Dad' now?"
Sherlock's lips twitched and he swallowed a chuckle of his own.
"God save us," John muttered and Sherlock rolled his eyes. He gestured with his head for John to follow and trailed David toward Mycroft's room and its contingent of military and police guards.
The guards let David pass without comment but Sherlock and John had their identifications checked again, both by the military police and the Met officers. While they were waiting, Angela emerged with her son. She gave Sherlock and John an appraising glance – Sherlock ensured she could read nothing in his expression but John was probably giving away any number of hints.
"I appreciate that you're attempting to find this assassin and the man behind him, but be aware that Mycroft is injured," she said, fixing Sherlock with a firm gaze. He nodded coolly and Angela put a hand on David's shoulder.
"If you need me, I'll be at his flat. He has my mobile number in his phone."
"Of course," Sherlock replied. Angela held his gaze for another moment, a silent warning in her eyes, then moved away, David with her. Sherlock glanced over his shoulder to watch them leave, then stepped into the room.
"You," he said to the Redcap inside the well appointed private hospital room. "Out."
The sergeant glowered and stood his ground and Sherlock heard his brother give a faint, rasping chuckle.
"Ever the subtle one, Sherlock," Mycroft commented dryly, his voice soft, weaker than it would normally be. "You can go, Sergeant."
The sergeant held Sherlock's eyes for a moment longer than was comfortable. Sherlock met the man's brown eyes effortlessly, keeping his gaze level and neutral until the other man's expression darkened somewhat. He gave Mycroft a curt nod and strode out. Sherlock closed the door pointedly behind him.
Sherlock's eyes flickered over his brother in rapid assessment. Like McKinney, Mycroft was covered in bruises and cuts. Most of the right side of his body was encased in casts; his entire right arm and shoulder and his lower right leg. He'd have bandages on his ribs and he had two strips of plaster across his nose. This prevented an oxygen mask, so he was wearing a tube that ran beneath his nose. Sherlock scanned the equipment monitoring Mycroft's heart rate and blood pressure, able to evaluate the readings thanks to his own time in the hospital following the crash.
Someone – probably Angela – had changed him from the hospital gown into a pair of pale grey silk pyjamas and he was covered with a crisp white sheet and light yellow blanket. Buried as he was beneath the covers and the equipment, he seemed almost small. It was the second time Sherlock could remember his brother looking reduced. The first had been when David had been abducted. He recalled taking some satisfaction at seeing Mycroft taken down a peg.
He did not enjoy it now.
It came as a shock to realise he had no desire to have Mycroft die on him, despite how much Sherlock enjoyed when his brother wasn't meddling in his life. Nor could he imagine what it would be like if his only immediate biological relative was his father. It would be like having no family left at all.
John picked up the chart and scanned it with quick professional efficiency.
"Looks pretty good," the doctor said and Mycroft actually managed a ghost of a smile. Sherlock thought it must be painful – his brother's face was bruised enough that any movement would smart.
"I'm glad for your reassurance on the matter, John," Mycroft said and sounded sincere. Sherlock wondered darkly what his brother had picked up from John's face, if he could tell they'd slept together on the couch. The first time that they'd genuinely slept with one another in over a week was no one else's business, but knowing Mycroft, it had already been laid bare.
"How do you feel?" John asked and Sherlock realized that he should have been the one to enquire.
"Well enough for someone who survived a bomb blast, I'm sure," he replied. "In your experience, John, how do I look?"
"Bloody amazing for someone who survived a bomb blast," John replied honestly. Mycroft managed to twitch an eyebrow up at that, his grey eyes amused for a moment. Sherlock wondered what painkillers he was being given – his eyes were fairly clear, although they had the same sort of glassiness as McKinney's. No surprise there, given that Mycroft had also suffered a concussion.
"There is a rather unpleasant ringing in my ears," Mycroft said. "They tell me it should fade."
"It probably will, but you should be prepared for the fact that it might not."
"Yes," Mycroft sighed. "They told me that as well."
Sherlock took a deep, silent breath and exhaled it slowly. He had spoken to McKinney. He could interview his own brother.
"What do you remember from yesterday before the blast?" he asked, keeping his voice level and as inflectionless as possible. Mycroft's grey eyes slid to him, ringed with fatigue. John put the chart away and poured some water, taking over the nursing duties this time. Mycroft accepted a few small sips, then nodded.
"Getting a text message from you," he replied. "Telling me to get out."
Sherlock nodded; he'd sent about a dozen of those between frantic voicemails.
"What else?" he pressed. He saw John's eyes flash to him with a doctor's warning but they were not going to get anywhere by coddling the intended victims or by waiting. At the last count Anthea had texted him early that morning, there were twenty people dead and seventeen reported missing. Both numbers would have jumped in the intervening three hours.
Mycroft sighed weakly. Doubtless he'd already been through this with the military and civilian police officers – and probably with Angela as well.
"There was something above the doors – one of his symbols. The ring of roses. That's how I knew."
Sherlock opened his mouth to say something, then shut it abruptly. He pulled out his phone and called up the text message he'd received from the killer the day before and held the phone out for Mycroft to see. Anthea had run the number for him already and had come back with the same result as last time: a prepaid mobile, although a different one this time.
Mycroft read the unfamiliar version of the rhyme slowly, then gave his head a slight shake.
"I'm not familiar with that one," he said.
"Nor am I," Sherlock replied. "But the message is clear nonetheless. We all fall down, Mycroft? He knows who you are. This is someone on the inside."
Mycroft managed a nod.
"I've considered that," he replied.
"What else do you remember? What about William McKinney?"
"He was standing by the doors, on his phone, I think."
"What else? Anything, anything at all? Unfamiliar people, anything out of place, an odd smell or sound?"
Mycroft closed his eyes with a faint sigh and Sherlock smoothed over the mild shock at seeing his brother look so weary. It took him back to the morning their mother had died when the grief and lack of sleep shown around the edges of Mycroft's expression. Sherlock put that aside with some difficulty. He waited a moment, wondering if Mycroft was going to fall asleep.
"No," his brother said then, opening his eyes. "No, Sherlock, nothing else."
John gave him some more water and Mycroft sipped it carefully.
"Give it time," John advised. "These things tend to come back."
"And in the meantime a professional killer is loose and our identities have been compromised," Mycroft said. His voice was weaker now and Sherlock could tell he was struggling. This time, however, he was not going to bow to John's wishes and wrap things up early. This was his brother. For all the grief Mycroft had given him in the past, he could take some of his own now, particularly since it might help catch the man who had tried to murder him.
"McKinney said he was recruited for the committee through official channels. Was it at your suggestion?"
Mycroft looked surprised behind the fatigue and the bruises.
"You've seen him?"
"We were just there. He's being transferred here later today."
"How is he?" Mycroft asked.
"Better than you," Sherlock replied. "Although he remembers no more than you do."
"Better than me," Mycroft mused. "Yet I was transferred first."
"Yes," Sherlock said simply. Mycroft managed to arch an eyebrow again, a knowing look in his glassy eyes but Sherlock kept his expression blank. He had far more pull with medical decisions concerning his brother than he did with a stranger, and he knew Anthea had exerted her influence as well.
"No, Sherlock, I didn't recruit him. This is quite a bit higher than me, as much as I know you won't believe that. My name was submitted to the Speaker of the House as were the others on the committee. It was his decision as to the final participants."
"Did you know the committee was being formed in advance?"
"I did, but the others didn't," Mycroft replied. Sherlock didn't need to ask why – that was Mycroft's job.
"Are you certain about that?"
"I was," Mycroft murmured.
"I'll need to talk to the Speaker of the House, Mycroft. I have to know who else was being considered and how many people were involved in the planning for this committee. It's no longer enough to simply have the information on the committee members themselves."
Mycroft looked amused.
"I do appreciate your faith in my ability to arrange this from a hospital bed, Sherlock," he said with a hint of wry humour in his voice.
Sherlock shrugged one shoulder.
"Given that you and McKinney were intended targets and he's already murdered two other committee members, this shouldn't be difficult. You're a resourceful man, Mycroft. You overrode the entire command structure of the Lothian and Borders Police to get us evidence, weapons, and Inspector Anderson in less than twenty-four hours."
Mycroft frowned, his lips twitching downward, then he hissed gently and tried to smooth his expression to avoid the pain from his cuts and bruises. John gave him more water and gave Sherlock a meaningful look, which the detective ignored.
"What do you mean?" he asked.
"Surely your painkillers are not that potent," Sherlock commented. "You do remember asking me to take the Murray case in Edinburgh."
"Of course," Mycroft said with only the barest hint of annoyance. "But what do you mean I obtained permissions for weapons for you?"
Sherlock hesitated suddenly, meeting John's eyes again. The doctor's dark gaze was puzzled and Sherlock felt a flash of suspicion course through him.
"When CI Kipling received the paperwork from you, it contained instructions that I should have access to the evidence, that Inspector Anderson should work with us, and that we be given handguns. We had to do quite a lot of paperwork for those. I remember it rather well."
"Sherlock, I arranged for Anderson to work with you and for the evidence, but not weapons."
"What? Mycroft, are you absolutely sure?"
"I took care of that personally, Sherlock. I would have obtained weapons permission for you if you'd asked, but I was content to leave it until you did so. I was somewhat surprised you didn't demand them but I was quite happy to let it go."
Sherlock stared at Mycroft then raised his gaze to John, who was meeting his eyes with a stunned expression.
"Someone got us weapons," he said. Mycroft was watching him carefully, some of the fatigue forgotten now. Sherlock narrowed his eyes and ran through the memories, analyzing them carefully. He could picture Kipling, Anderson, and John, their facial expressions, their stances – nothing out of the ordinary there. Irritation from Kipling, resigned confusion from Anderson, surprise from John. He tried to recall precisely what had been said, then snapped his gaze up to John who was watching him with confusion and concern.
"Kipling said the guns weren't standard for the L&B and you said they were SIGs but not the type used by the British military."
John nodded.
"Yeah, we use 226s and 229s. Those were 225s."
"But you also said they were used by some allied forces. Which ones?"
John frowned and shook his head.
"I don't know," he replied.
"Think, John, think! It's important!"
"I don't know!" John snapped again. "I've seen them before not often! I'm sorry, Sherlock, but I'm not an arms expert, especially not for other armies."
"Mycroft?" Sherlock asked, looking down at his brother.
"Not especially my area of expertise," his brother replied.
Sherlock growled and withdrew his phone from his jacket pocket and searched for the model number and its use by military forces. He felt John and Mycroft's gazes on him. The doctor's was far more concerned, Mycroft's was far less sharp than it should have been. Whoever had done this might not have succeeded in killing Mycroft but had levelled the playing field somewhat by putting his keen intellect out of commission.
But he still had to contend with Sherlock.
"Oh," the detective hissed and grinned a brief, brittle grin.
"What?" John snapped, but Sherlock shook his head. He couldn't be sure, not yet. He opened the text that contained the unfamiliar version of the nursery rhyme and copied it into the search engine. It was less than a minute's work to find where it came from.
"Oh, well done," Sherlock said, grinning again, looking up. "You may accuse me of not being subtle, Mycroft, but he is. And he's clever, isn't he?"
"What? Why is he clever?" John snapped.
"He's been telling us where he's from," Sherlock explained, feeling a sudden rush of adrenaline. He laughed, ignoring John's glare, ignoring Mycroft's cutting look.
"What? Why would he do that? And where is he from?"
"He's doing it because he can, because he knows it's not enough information. Oh, very clever, indeed. The nursery rhyme, John. It's only the slightest variation on the version typically used in Canada – enough of a deviation to be what he thought he was hearing as a child when he learned it. And the guns – SIG 225s, oh yes. Used by the Canadian Military Police. Mycroft, this explains everything – the boot prints on the floor in Kenton's house, the confidence and skill with which he murders his victims, his ability to move undetected – he's ex-Canadian Special Forces."
"I thought you said it was the Military Police," John protested.
"Yes, but they also use SIG 226s. Had he arranged for us to have that type of handgun, it wouldn't point us in the right direction. It's a hint, a signal. Oh, brilliant, absolutely brilliant! This whole time, he's been telling us where he's from."
"And I thought you said he doesn't want to get caught!"
"He doesn't. He's taunting us. He's clever but– oh, he's not me." Sherlock grinned brightly, feeling a flood of triumph. This, he loved this – the small mistakes that people made in the name of vanity or boredom, thinking they were safe, that they were untouchable. Thinking they were devious and more intelligent than everyone else.
But this one was more cunning than most. Sherlock met John's eyes and saw worry reflected in them now, but it didn't matter. They could find this man because even a professional had his pride and wanted his work to be noticed. He thought he was clever, and he was. He thought he was more clever than Sherlock Holmes, and he was wrong.
"Mycroft, try and remember as much as you can regarding the explosion and have Anthea arrange for us to meet with the Speaker if you can't do it from here. Come on, John, we have work to do."
He pocketed his phone and turned to stroll out, grinning to himself, nearly humming with energy and excitement.
Got you, he thought brightly.