A Cold Case
Chapter 14
When they ask how I died tell them this. Still angry.
(Richard K Morgan)
He left the long white Terminal Two building of Nikola Tesla Airport and slid into the back seat of the old grey taxi without asking the driver if he was free or for hire. Without a word of greeting.
The man seated behind the steering wheel – sturdy, mid forties, needing both a shave and a haircut - looked straight ahead and did not speak, or turn to greet his fare. Instead he started the car engine, engaged first gear, and drove away from the airport building. Without even being given a destination. Drove silently through the pools of streetlight and darkness as the car travelled ten miles towards the centre of Belgrade.
After three miles the driver finally broke the silence.
"Muslio sam da si mrtav," he said gravely. "Muslio sam da si mrtav."
'I thought you were dead.' Stark, inflexionless words.
But the reflection in the rear view mirror showed his mouth twisting with something that might have been sorrow. Or anger.
"As good as dead, Branko. My rescue was unexpected, beyond my control. And I was damaged. Out of my senses. I could not get news to you. And afterwards….it seemed best you did not know. What you did not know could not hurt you."
"Kopilo." Bastard.
"I will not apologise. You were paid well to help me at Irski Zamat. I had already chosen not to take you in with me. Pushing you into a river saved your life. So don't sulk at me."
"Kopilo."
"Heard you the first time. And yet here we are again."
"Until you rang last night….." The driver finally spoke in English; brusque, fluent, but heavily accented. "I had thought you dead. I had no news, no contact, no word from Mr Holmes. Then you spoke last night. Even then, I was not sure. Yet now I see you. I see you."
"It was a shock, then? Sorry. I did not think you would miss me."
"You are a man people miss when you are not there. It is your fate."
"Is that a compliment?"
"Complaint." The driver risked a glance through the mirror to the passenger. And suddenly the mood lifted.
"I take you to a hotel. Clean, respectable. And then what?"
"Irski Zamak. Where else?"
"OK."
The modern hotel, a slab of anonymous Modernist concrete, was just as Branko Ilic had described it. More attuned to commercial overnight visitors, it was clean anonymous and uncaring.
He spent ten minutes in his bland fourth floor single room, just enough time to change. Black sweater and windcheater, black cargo pants, supple black leather combat boots. A different body language and posture, a loose limbed confident walk. No longer Padraic Flanagan, but not quite Sherlock Holmes, he slipped out of the room into the quiet corridor, a mere shadow flitting down a fire escape.
The battered old Saab was waiting in the rear alley. On the back seat was a brown paper bag.
"Cold meat. Energy bar. Apple. Water. I know you. You will have not eaten. And you need strength. Yes."
"Thank you."
He opened the bag and ate mechanically as they travelled.
They had done this trip before, and the memory of that shared past seemed to be constricting the throat of them both, shared memories they did not refer to. But there all the same.
Sherlock Holmes, at the end of his mission to destroy Moriarty and his criminal connections and powerbase, had had a tip off; that Moriarty's last puppet master was at Irski Zamak, a country castle forty miles north east of Belgrade.
Branko Ilic was his SIS recommended guide, a former commando who had survived the Serbian Wars, and beyond his part time work as a driver and tourist guide when short of work as a translator, also moonlighted as a right hand for hire. As two professionals with a mission, they had slipped into a taciturn professional camaraderie.
Sherlock Holmes had worked his way into the property but not into the house. Observation proved the tip-off to be correct. And the chain, this final link in Moriarty's world wide chain, needed to be broken and destroyed. But security was tight, and he could get so far and no further. But time was passing. So a quiet break-in to take down the systems under cover of darkness was planned. And Mycroft had insisted that, this time, the cat that walked on his own had support.
But something had gone wrong, and a team of Moriarty backed mercenaries with search dogs had erupted before them, chased them through the forest surrounding the castle. Running blind through dense woodland, instinct took them to a river.
"In," Sherlock Holmes had ordered. "Into the water. Go downstream; the water will disperse your scent, leave no trace for the dogs."
"What about you?"
"It's me they want. So I'll lead them away. You have family to return to. I have no-one. And if they catch me….I will at least be in the heart of the castle and what is going on there; as intended"
"But, sir…..if they catch you, you die."
"Not if I can help it. Don't argue. Go, Branko."
An unexpected mighty shove landed the Serbian in the water. When he came to the surface, looked around and listened, Sherlock Holmes had gone. So Branko Ilic shivered midstream, shoulders below the cold water, and heard the sounds of the chase – men shouting, dogs barking, helicopter blades beating, a searchlight searing – until the sounds changed. Until the shouts became cheers, the barking quietened, the helicopter whirled away.
It was suddenly deathly quiet in the centre of the forest. He knew the English spy had been captured. And he had been able to do nothing to stop it. He remembered that feeling of failure as he trudged away through the water, and eventually, safely, made his way home alone. But the sense of failure had never left him, the sense of unfinished business.
"Good you got home all right."
Sherlock Holmes spoke, finally, and it was as if they had been sharing the same memories. Perhaps they had.
"But I ask… what happened to you?"
"Exactly what you would expect. Capture. Torture. Certain death. Boring, really."
"But you are here."
"The other Mr Holmes came to my rescue. Because you got news to him that I had been captured. Thank you, Branko."
There was a long, dismissive shrug.
"You paid me first. He paid me after. My job. No?"
"If you say so."
There was a lengthy pause as the miles passed.
"Drop me at the rear gate. Then leave me."
"I should come in with you."
"No. I do this on my own."
"As you say. You should be safe. The castle is closed down. Empty. Is for sale."
"What? An ancient family seat like that? What has happened?"
"The rumour is the old baron died. I do not know for sure. He was an old man, a recluse. For many years."
"I know….."
"Mr Holmes, times change. A younger generation do not always want country estates, to belong in such a remote place. There are seventy castles or more in this region alone. So there is always a castle or two for sale, three or four empty, more in limbo. No-one here gives them special attention any more. You understand?"
They slowed to see better as they passed the main gate to Irski Zamat in the dark; the high and solid wall, the barred metal gates, the standard sales board.
"I still need to go in," said the voice from the rear seat. "Check the castle is really empty. If there are any clues inside as to where he – where everything - has gone. Moriarty's minions. If they left traps, even. Anything. I must know."
"But if it is empty – as it should be," he tried again. "I should still come in with you."
"No. Only me. My past. My fate. My Armageddon."
"I do not understand."
"Doesn't matter."
The further they went, the quieter the road became. And by the time the Saab bumped onto a discreet woodland track, there was just silence around them.
Branko switched off the headlights, and the car moved slowly and softly among the shadows along the narrow drive, into a darker and a narrower world, Stopped in front of more heavy wooden gates. Also locked and chained.
"What now?"
"You leave, turn around and park in the stand of trees opposite the main gate. Become invisible. And if anyone comes, ring me."
"Yes. Wait."
The Serbian rummaged under his seat, came out with an awkward parcel that creaked with the sound of twisted leather. Handed it wordlessly back between the car seats.
"You think I need this?"
"I think you should be sure to be safe. You could never have got this through customs."
Sherlock Holmes unfolded the old leather holster, the strapping. The elderly Beretta .25 pistol.
"The little gun of the professional. On a leg holster."
"Less noticeable. A good gun, fires true. A sprung holster for speed. Wear it for me. Use it if you have to."
After a moment's thought he gave a quick nod, pulled up his right trouser leg and strapped the gun to his shin, settled the material back down. Practised a quick draw two or three times.
"Good. Thank you."
They got out of the car, shutting the doors softly.
"Give me three hours. If I am not out by then, I'm not coming out. Leave it until midday before you inform the other Mr Holmes."
"But….."
"Shut up, Branko." They stood close, side by side, speaking in low voices. "I could pick both these locks on the gate in moments, but don't want to trip any alarms. So be a good chap and make a stirrup to toss me over the top."
With a shrug and a reluctant shake of his head, the Serbian leant his back against the wall, stooped slightly, cupped his hands together in front of him. Sherlock Holmes – a black wraith, and no weight at all – stepped one foot into the linked hands, sprung forward and up, and was gone. Over the top.
Turning his head to put his ear to the wall, Branko Ilic heard the slightest of thuds, then felt the vibration of three quick knocks to indicate a safe landing.
"Srenco," he whispered – good luck – but there was no reply. He realised he had not really expected one. Got back into the Saab, made a quiet three point turn, and drove back into the silent dark.
Leaving Sherlock Holmes to walk alongside the ride, keeping to the shadows at the edge of the treeline, soft footed and alert, as he approached Irski Zamat for the first time in years.
So many Serbian castles were nothing but glorified or fortified country houses, and Irksi Zamat – Irish Castle – was no exception. Small country estates had been gifted to a large number of barons in return for troops, loyalty and service in days gone by. The latest version of this one was pretty, three stories in a classical 'H' shape of eighteenth century red brick that had somehow – remote location, compact size, secure defences, perhaps all three – saved it from destruction in the Yugoslavian wars He remembered it vividly from daylight, from time past.
In pursuit of the last of Moriarty's connections he had come to Irski Zamat in the guise of a Kosovan temporary gardener in the busy springtime. Whatever it's role in crime or simply local life, the estate needed to be maintained as normal, to appear attractive and immaculate. To deter anyone thinking life at the castle may not be mundane; and perish the thought that a criminal network was being run from this remote enclosure: that the comings and goings at strange times of day, foreign cars in and out, an increase in delivery vehicles, was nothing special. Just seasonal activity, regular estate business, family events.
But he knew better. He had picked up on a drug trafficker called Oteng, an outlier of Moriarty's web he had seen before while inside Kazakhstan; lost him in the Crimea, found him again in Moldova; and there was intelligence he had been seen entering Irski Zamat. It was a logical destination that followed the track of both their journeys eastwards.
His chance to breach the walls of the castle came through an employment agency in Belgrade desperate for staff. For even a castle requires humble staff. And none were more humble, invisible or transitory than under gardeners in springtime. So he became an under gardener.
As the lowest form of outside staff on a large estate he slept alone, as was traditional, in the brick boiler room that housed the old fashioned stove that heated the greenhouses; small and spartan, but always warm, as it was part of his job to maintain it's care overnight. And he relished the refuge and the privacy of that lowly but important role.
Keeping a quiet, low profile he came to know the rhythm of the castle and estate, the habits of the staff, a little of the Baron himself; but was never allowed beyond the kitchen door when delivering vegetables or flowers. Into the porch but no further. It was frustrating yet also revealing. Numbers of people at the castle, (too many) Interactions with the machinery running the castle (too few.)
Security was endemic, privacy was all; suspiciously so. The sky could have fallen in before he would be allowed inside, to see what was there, to investigate properly and then to act, especially as Mycroft had forbidden him to act alone.
But time had been pressing; he was all too aware that he was tiring, it put his instinct for evil on even higher alert that normal. His impetus and instinct was to act, and quickly. The mission to destroy Moriarty's web – all those separate cells around the world - had already gone on for too long, been too involved, too exhausting. He had started off with single minded purpose, which had carried him through the first year, slashing and burning Moriarty's links and support systems as he went.
But even a professional would have been relieved of such a herculean task by the end of the first year. Sherlock Holmes, the amateur, sustained only be determination, and a sense of justice, worked on. Success was only relative. One part of the machine, one web of the spider Moriarty, broken down and taken down at a time. Moving around the world like a ghost – Libya, Sudan, China, Malawi, Mexico and more, but at no time was he ever recognisable as Sherlock Holmes.
Just a phantom scorpion, a hawk or cobra, striking and biting and getting under the skin of the monster, devouring the lesser spiders subservient to the master spider. Moriarty.
But this was a mission. Nothing gallant or inspired or quixotic. Nothing heroic or acclaimed. A slog, a chore a trudge, with no break or relaxation, under a deathly pressure that never eased.
As time went on and burned holes in his soul, he began to miss London; miss drizzle when in the heat of Saudi Arabia, spring blossom in Regent's Park when in the ice of Novgorod. More dangerously and persistently and insidiously, he began to miss Mrs Hudson's cheese scones, Molly's builder's tea, John Watson's plates of beans on toast, slammed down before him with the terse command to "eat something."
After a week when tension had ramped, when some plot was clearly in progress, with the house locked down tight and yet full of visitors, he knew he had to act regardless. So he and Branko had planned a midnight sortie.
But they got no further than the kitchen corridor before all hell had broken loose, and they had to run, had been lucky just to escape the high walls and the security light.
They had never known who or what had betrayed them. Branko was an unknown element from the distant city, a stranger from Belgrade. His own cover, and his behaviour, had been foot perfect, he knew. It was always foot perfect. And even though he was exhausted from his two year long mission, that very weakness and his awareness of it made him more careful, not less.
The only thing he could think of was that he had been recognised by Moriarty himself. Seen and identified by an invisible dead man. But to voice that conclusion was enough to be doubted and considered an idiot yet again. Because everyone knew – Moriarty was dead.
Baron Morpertuis was elderly, shrunken and frail, condemned to life in a wheelchair. Minor nobility, a former army commander. But behind the pale blue eyes in the crumbling body there remained a sharp mind, and tongue.
He had spotted the new temporary gardener, across courtyards and gravel paths.
At first the attention was subtle, wordless. But Sherlock Holmes, watching for the master of the castle, was aware of being observed across courtyards and gravel paths, knew it was not his place to speak first. The hum of the electric wheelchair, the tyres scrunching on the garden paths, always alerted him to the baron being nearby.
But one morning when he was in a dark corner of the walled garden trimmings ferns to allow the new croziers to emerge, he was finally spoken to. A voice aged, yet firm.
"You're no gardener. What are you doing here?"
He swallowed the panic, kept his hands steady. This was not the opening gambit he had expected; was the Baron especially astute – or had he been recognised as himself? But he held on to his assumed persona; the humble servant, the rehabilitated transgressor.
"Good morning, Bojar Maupertuis. You are right. I have no qualifications, but am competent enough to be your undergardener, sir. "
"Hmn. You don't look like a gardener. Those are not gardener's hands. They are artist's hands."
The words were sharply spoken, the pale eyes sharp, observant.
"Thank you, kefaljar" – he used the formal, old fashioned Serbian word for 'master,' knowing it's use would reassure – an indication of his self effacing gratitude for a second chance in life, his artfully rolled shirtsleeves wordlessly telling his story through the scarred wrists and old needle marks he normally kept hidden, telling of former addiction, of delinquency, of past suffering that could not be faked. "You are correct. I was not born to be a gardener, but here I am. Grateful to be in your employ, with a roof over my head. Hvaljen Bog." God be praised.
And he nodded. Deferential, contrite; hopefully not playing his role too heavily.
"I see you have already lived a life, young man."
This time he could shrug honestly, and smile, and look away, and reply: "That life is over. God willing. I am sure you understand."
The Baron was clearly no fool, recognised what he saw for what it was, presumed more. Nodded sharply, as if he had struck some sort of chord. And Sherlock Holmes, not being himself but Teo Petrovic, let him.
"You would be surprised," the Baron replied with a laugh. "But that would be telling."
Their eyes met, and for a moment they shared a communion across the years and cultures and their respective secrets.
"It is said: 'Those who work their land will have abundant food, but those who chase fantasies will have their fill of poverty,'" he replied.
"You are a strange young man. To quote Proverbs, at me."
"It just came to mind."
"So work my land, young man," The wheelchair shifted. "You'll do."
He drew a slow breath, and relaxed, felt weak. He had passed the exam. And proved, even to himself, that a curious boy brought up on a country estate held more practical knowledge than even he had realised. So he could talk knowledgably, if unexpectedly, about pleaching and planting, auriculas and hybrids, the breeding of bulbs.
That afternoon he was pruning roses, repairing the wires that held the ramblers against the wall. The wheelchair hummed into range.
"What is your name?"
"Teo Petrovic, sir."
"Do you have family still alive, Teo Petrovic?"
"I have an elder brother." He paused, and for a moment was not acting his role. "We do no get on."
The Baron nodded. "Families are rarely happy. Siblings, parents, their children. It makes life hard."
"Indeed, sir. You are very wise."
"You may think so." He sighed, was lost for a moment in the past.
Sherlock Holmes, apparently absorbed in his work, spoke with more delicacy than anyone who knew him as himself would expect.
"I am sorry. For the burden you bear."
Baron Maupertuis gave a small nod in acknowledgement.
"Thank you. But one does not reach my great age without a share of tragedy. It is just that…." He hesitated, but then continued: "You remind me of him. My son. Your hands. Your height. Your build, even. Your focus."
"I am sorry, then. That my presence pains you."
The sympathy expressed was a risk, he knew. But he needed to push; to discover what he did not know.
"No, no. Not pain. Just regret. That he did not have your resilience. To recover himself."
"I am sorry. I do not know what to say."
"You have no need to say anything. Your sympathy itself is appreciated." The elderly head bent in something like sadness.
Normally Sherlock Holmes had no interest in another's sadness. But now he needed facts.
"Your son? He is dead?"
The briefest of nods,
"Dead. Dead to me before that. So died twice. " A shrug. "Such is life."
"You must have good memories, if only from childhood. Family connections."
"Some might call a grandchild a good family connection. I…"He stopped abruptly, bit his lip. "I am rambling. Boring you. It is the weakness of an old man with life behind him and time on his hands. My apologies, Teo Petrovic. I am keeping you from your work."
And he was gone. Sherlock Holmes watched the wheelchair spin away, leaving him with more questions than answers.
For now, remembering those times past, he sat on the corner of the knot garden wall, and contemplated his memories.
Too much pain in Serbia had stopped him revisiting those tumultuous, terrifying last days of his mission, he realised. The physical pain had marred his concentration, and the drugs he had been given to keep him going to destroy the Second Gunpowder Plot had taken priority.
For by then he had been brought home for a more important task: to save Parliament and everyone in it. Home. Where life was no longer as he had left it. Where John Watson had found himself a woman who proved to be more trouble than she was worth, where Lestrade was reinstated, where Molly Hooper had a new confidence and spring in her step, and where Mrs Hudson still nudged and nagged and made the best carrot cake in the world. And life carried on.
So what had happened in Serbia had never been reviewed or processed properly, but had remained a lingering and mostly avoided pain. He tried to delete Serbia. He was good at that, normally. But the mission had ended in that single, singular failure. And echoes of the physical pain remained, with the marks on his skin, and behind his eyes, there as a reminder every time he looked at himself in a mirror, every time he looked down at his Serbia scarred body.
And now those eidetic memories, their pain and repercussions, rushed back in as if they had happened yesterday. And events and conversations from that time took on a new meaning.
When – if – he got back to Baker Street again in something resembling one piece, he would take to the sofa and the Mind Palace and work out the pieces that Baron Maupertuis had given him to create a proper picture relative to what had happened since. Simple conversation that had meant nothing special at the time.
It had not been a friendship as such, but certainly some sort of connection, the old man and the young under gardener.
Dusan Markovic would have still been the head gardener to the castle if he had more than Sherlock Holmes in his employ. As it was the older man was close to retirement age, kept his head down, affected to know nothing about anything that was happening at the castle, and preferred to leave the heavy work and the outdoor work to the undergardener while he busied himself in the warmth of the glass houses, tending vines, pineapples and melons, figs and salad stuffs.
Sherlock Holmes did not blame him, but appreciated the freedom to work and watch, to observe the movement and appearance of the men he never directly met, and were unmistakably Moriarty's men: silent, focussed, forceful. What he could not be sure of was the Baron's role in the operation; whether he was mastermind or figurehead, accomplice or stooge.
After that first day the baron sought him out. Sat in his electric wheelchair and watched him undertake other tasks with economic efficiency as if fascinated by the process; paunch a hare, dress a brace of pheasants, strip down and service a chainsaw and discuss such tasks with him quietly, almost as equals.
And so he passed tests he should not have known he was taking, but not what they qualified him for. Gardening autonomy, or potential gang member? Substitute son or an outdoor companion, someone to talk to in what felt like the loneliness of being separated by age and character from the younger, intent, purposeful people who inhabited his castle ? As if he wasn't there. But was that an act – or a reality?
Was the Baron a part of the plot, a part of Moriarty's network? Or a legitimate front to an illicit power play? Try as he might, he could not tell. And that vexed him. Despite their regular conversations, subjects of their mutual interest, and an ease of communication, the Baron was astute at parrying all and any questions. Yet in that reserve there was also a sadness, and a contained anger about him, that did not seem, to Sherlock Holmes, the mode or the mindset of a master villain.
Rather the regret of an old man all too aware his time, his power and his authority had been superseded. So the question really was: who by? And who was now in charge? Because there was no-one to be seen; no evidence of anyone else in charge.
So the holder of the power was secret and hidden and invisible. It felt like it had to be Moriarty -no-one gets to me, and no-one ever will – because no-on else fit the bill. And the hackle that rose, unbidden, on the back of Sherlock Holmes' neck said so.
Whatever the answer, however frustrating the puzzle, he had earned something like acceptance from the old man; always a wave and a nod, even from a distance, when spotted working in the grounds.
But despite this growing familiarity between them, it still did not gain him entrance to the castle itself, which was frustrating. Any chance to probe and discover what there was to learn about the criminality therein remained blocked. And no chance to destroy what he had yet to find.
Looking back on his time in Serbia now he had returned to Irski Zamat, he did wonder, as he had at the time, if – just sometimes - the Baron had really been Moriarty in disguise. Those times the wheelchair remained distant, too far away for conversation or close observation; just a wheelchair, a plaid blanket, a wide brimmed hat. It was a fanciful, fevered theory, now as then. But it fitted the facts. And by the time he was taken captive, it was too late to have ever found out for sure.
The jailers, interrogators and torturers were neither Baron Morpertuis nor Moriarty. Just war veterans, the sort of thugs that were thugs the world over. In the weeks of his imprisonment he got to know them too well. To know that they were well briefed, determined, thorough. But he told them nothing. Not when he was conscious and aware. Not drugged.
He knew there were times he was being drugged. In the water he needed to drink to survive, the sparse meals he had to eat to combat starvation. On those days the knowledge of what was coming was bad, the effects worse. The hallucinations were terrible; vivid dreams and scenes of dizziness and death, sexual assault and screaming, hatred and horror and the torturous crucifixion pose that allowed neither rest nor comfort nor the luxury of a deep breath, just constant screaming muscles and relentless pain.
Mycroft had arrived in disguise to free him at the point when his endurance was reaching it's end. When the scars he would carry forever from Serbia had become more than physical.
Now he pushed back the memories that were trying to crowd his consciousness, the anger, the fear and the sense of betrayal he felt when he thought of his brother. Keeping secrets from him, kowtowing to Moriarty, telling secrets about him. And he knew that Mycroft would not be coming to his rescue this time. Not that he cared any longer.
He pushed himself back to his feet. Halted, with an effort, the memories flooding in that he had been keeping at bay for so many years, that he thought he had deleted. Shook his head, dug his nails into his palms, muttered harsh commands to himself. There was no more time or energy to waste indulging in emotion or delayed reaction or post traumatic stress disorder.
He took time to make a circuit of the castle in the silent darkness, and decided to pick the lock of the kitchen door. There was no sign of electronic devices protecting the building. It seemed an unusual absence, but had the look and the instinctive caution of faux innocence; low level defences to be seen to indicate there was nothing to see, nothing incriminating within to be concerned about, to be looking for.
But he knew better. Had almost expected no less. And proceeded with caution.
This time the castle was indeed cold and empty. And this time there would be no reason for rescue, no mission to save Parliament that would take priority and make him worth the effort of extracting and bringing home. No official backup. Because this was personal. Only personal
The lockpicks he used with the skill taught by the Grimaldi's years ago back in London opened the heavy wooden door, and he stepped inside swiftly and closed and relocked it behind him.
He was surprised to see that all furniture and fittings remained in place, only the ghostly white dustsheets indicating that the castle was deserted. In suspended animation and awaiting it's fate.
Just like me, he thought; and caught the bitterness in his throat before it took control of his brain. Despair had never been far away for far too long; ever since the day in St Caedwalla's Hospital mortuary when John Watson had expressed his own despair by trying to kick him to death and turn the loss of self control into a nemesis for them both.
Now, the house looked dead. Had that been the Baron's fate, and why the castle was now for sale? He would check. Later.
But first the castle had to be searched. From top to bottom. For traces of the people who had lived there, what had been planned and taken place within those secretive walls. To give clues so he could finally complete the task he had never been able to finish.
Soft footed, with only flashes of light from a tiny high powered torch as his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he stayed in the shadows, weaving around the edges, gliding up stairs to the attics, working from top to bottom.
It took time. He opened doors and cupboards and wardrobes, probed drawers and desks, lifted dustcloths, probed down the sides of chairs and settees, reached into the back of desks checking for hidden doors, secret drawers.
But there was nothing. Except for a handful of ash and paper edges in a small plain fireplace in what would have been staff quarters. In the deep dark, the crumbs of paper looked nothing. But back home, with his chemical tests and forensic kit….any truth, however small, might set a trail to follow. He scraped the pieces into a tiny envelope and sealed it, folded it carefully into a squeeze pocket on a trouser leg.
Continued downwards, room by room, chair by desk by cupboard, for almost two hours. But despite all the furniture still being in place, the cleansing had been thorough. And finally he stood back in the atrium, his hand on an arched doorway under the sweeping staircase. And there he hesitated.
This was the place he did not want to return to. A part of the castle where he knew every inch and dingy corner in frightening Technicolour.
The oldest part of the current castle, a relic from the mediaeval original, it had once been the castle's chapel. But many years before had been stripped of it's pews and altar and pipe organ, to leave a bare shell of a room with only the vaulted arched ceiling and the Gothic East window to tell it's history.
More recent additions that felt like desecration were the shackles set into the walls, the three bare man cages in one corner. The cold water tap with stone sink and ancient open lavatory next to an open drain where the Easter sepulchre used to be, a plain metal table and two chairs, a heavy lock to the door.
He entered slowly and reluctantly, creeping close to the wall as if there was someone in there to approach cautiously. Even if it was only himself.
Even in the dark, illuminated only by the torch, it looked exactly as he remembered it. Eyes to all the details he had learnt too well Scratches on the walls, stains on the floor (Blood. Body fluids. His blood? His fluids?) Scratchy paillasses, old and with a distinctive lingering animal smell, despite the years. Sweat and fear.
He had not expected such a visceral reaction. Sweat, laboured breathing. Muscle deep tension. His stomach rolled in revulsion, and nausea was forced back with an effort. Yet he still stepped through the doorway, into the cell that had been a chapel and a torture chamber, turning automatically left, towards the window. Left. Sinister indeed. He almost smiled at the irony of it.
Turned slowly towards the position where he had hung in chains, on and off, for weeks of torture. Torture for information, torture for practise, torture for fun.
Alone and unseen now, finally free to remember, and react to his memories, react as he had not been able to at the time – or since - he found he had doubled over without any awareness he was doing so, hands on knees, fighting down the revulsion and the pain assailing every sense, the sudden sweat and the overwhelming panic and the taste of bile in his throat.
Time stopped. Felt as if it had gone into reverse.
Swamped by emotions and reactions he had never expected just by being back within those walls, he slumped down to his knees on the cold stone floor. Pressed his forehead to the ground, noticed, as if it belonged to someone else, the right hand on the ground grasping the little torch so hard it was spasming. A panic attack was struggling to gain control: which was ridiculous, he told himself. Focussing on the rational part of his mind, making his intellect dominate his actions, as always.
He was alone, he told himself. He was not in danger. He was not being tortured, nor was he hanging in chains. His wrists, his face, his back….nothing was bleeding. He could not smell his own sweat and blood, his fluids and fear, could not taste the scum on his teeth, feel the tension in his throat, scratch the filth on his skin. Today he was Sherlock Holmes and Padraic Flanagan and the world's only consulting detective. And he was NOT – most definitely not – Teo Petrovic. Not any longer.
He knew all about Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome, he did. He had refused to acknowledge it in himself after suffering Sri Lanka when he was thirteen, and he refused to acknowledge it now. He had put everything about that child to one side, had deleted the boy William and his experiences to become Sherlock instead.
The damage of Sri Lanka had demonstrated the worst of humanity and what it could do, made him grow too far, too fast. Made him see who and what he was, then with ruthless deliberation become something other. Something isolated from that childish vulnerability; remote, alone, untouchable. Immune to sex and relationships, except having learnt how to manipulate both.
No-one made me; I made me.
How many times had he said that? Said it because he had always believed it? Had refused to give in to the abasement and the trauma. Had used the horror of that time, a horror he revealed to no-one, not even the two soldiers who had tracked and raided and rescued him, as both spur and goad to be better, do better, bring some justice to an unjust world, in whatever small or insignificant way he could. To level the scales.
So gone without trace or regret were the normal childish ambitions to delight himself or his parents; the plan to become a concert violinist, or a diplomat or a world class chemist, another prodigal son high achiever like his untouchable, incomparable older brother.
But he had saved the life of his parents in Sri Lanka, even though his father had been shot in the head and almost died. They had witnessed his courage and his skill in battling for survival. And from then on there was nothing more he could do – needed to do - to impress his parents. For nothing else could even compare.
They had impressed that upon him from the start; gave him freedom to do and be whatever he chose from then on. Their knowledge and appreciation lay deep, proven and intense, and they now understood his unique character and ability. And kept tacit agreement with him to never speak of what had happened, never take their experience out and examine it with him.
Which was the English way. The old fashioned way. The stiff upper lip of the upper classes way. Least said, soonest mended. Lie back and think of England. Not before the memsahibs. Saying nothing sometimes says the most. Silence is golden….
Stop it! His whole body bucked in spasm, Post. Trauma. Distress. Not if he could help it! He lifted his head and banged it on the ground. Stop it! But the self inflicted blow did not seem to hurt, or break the downward spiral of reaction.
Everything in my head has been said before, he told himself firmly, fighting for control. I know all this. Thought it all before. Suffered it all before. Yes, of course I have! Control. Control.
This weakness was not him, he insisted to himself. This weakness was what other people did. For Christ's sake! Grow up! Get a grip!
This was stupid. He had always blotted out his own trauma, but had studied PTSD after John Watson came into his life; had recognised it for what it was, tried to help his flat mate through it, made allowances for the nightmares and the swift anger in a way he would for no-one else. Never directly voiced his empathy towards someone suffering as he had suffered, or shared his experiences with someone standing always by his side who was oddly, reassuringly, another side of the behavioural effects of trauma and stress.
A man who was more visceral, more reactive, more openly angry about his experiences and damage. And how reassuring and calming was that to a more repressed fellow sufferer? And in ways Sherlock Holmes wished he had the courage to be.
But he was a man who hid his damage and his danger behind a wall of otherness, of eccentricity and harsh speech. In those early days, John Watson had seemed to understand that without a word being spoken. And that was how they had become a team, and then friends.
Mycroft had never understood that. Nor their bond or their partnership. Or any of the rest of it. But then, Mycroft had not endured fighting on the edge in Afghanistan. Nor fighting for life and sanity and survival in Sri Lanka. For Mycroft had never known more than the basic facts; had never dared ask, would never be told, so had never known and understood what united his younger brother and their parents, what made him the unwitting outsider. Sherlock Holmes had never wanted to confide in his brother, nor in anyone else, and their parents understood how Sherlock saw his pain as weakness, and empathised.
Mycroft, naturally impassive and self contained, seemed neither repelled nor distressed by being the outsider, but became over protective of his little brother instead; as if to make up for lost time and opportunity, their mother always said. The attitude persisted into adulthood. Which had always annoyed Sherlock, and it annoyed him now.
Things could have been different…and Moriarty, and Serbia could have been nothing but a bad dream. Instead of a living nightmare. He could not fight his memories any longer, and they rushed by in vivid flashback.
So everything that had made him and brought him here now, at this moment, rushed through his brain as he knelt on the floor and shuddered his way through flashback and panic attack. Lost in past pain. Lost in his head.
The skin on a man's back is the thickest skin on the body. And has been a target for punishment throughout time. He knew this. And identified the Russian whip used on him by Istvan Banduka and Vlad Divjac as a nagaika, a short leather braided Cossack whip with metal tips on the ends of the flails; traditional and efficient, and even more effective on people than animals. Standard issue to some form of life called Russian peacekeepers
The look and feel of it came back with such immediacy he heard himself whimper, arch upwards to meet pain that was all too vivid, even when just in his head. Remembered the nights he would be allowed some slight physical relief and to sleep, exactly where he lay now, joints and muscles locked after a day in chains in the standing crucifix position. To slowly recover only to let him be fit enough for it all to start again the next day.
Cold, bleeding, in exquisite pain as blood returned to strained muscles and nerves, and unable to move. Drugged enough to be aware, but not enough for action or oblivion.
And now…..darker memories tumbling in beyond the daytime memory of it all. Memories or drug crazed dreams? Even then, even now, deep and back in the middle of it all again, he could not tell.
Quiet dark solitude in the old chapel in the depth of night had brought some relief and recovery time to face the daytime onslaught; a mixed blessing because he knew that was intentional and finely calculated, but was the only blessing and relief he could find; keeping him sane and alive to endure more torture. However, this new flashback was so vivid it overtook him.
Was that his mind just playing tricks? Remembering darkness when in darkness? From an older time – or a more recent one? From then - or now? It mattered little, it was what it was. Either way he was alone, drifting in and out of consciousness, unable to fight back, to do anything other than endure. To endure hour by hour, day by day; until he got the chance he needed to make an end to it all…..
In pained remembered stupor he had not heard footsteps approaching along the corridor, nor the creak of the heavy door on it's ancient hinges. The first thing that brought awareness was the jolt of shock, of feeling a hand on his back he had not even been aware was approaching. And face down on the cold stone floor, in the deepest darkness, he could not see…
A small, soft hand. Not a jailer or torturer, then. Not unless they were trying a new technique to break him. The gentle approach? He didn't think so…
The fingers played lightly over the broken skin, a little tapping rhythm in reaction to the shock and sudden recoil from the touch.
A physical presence moved closer. Looming over his back, warm breath in his right ear.
"Hmmn. How lovely." It was barely a whisper. "Of course, you want your skin fresh. Warm and fresh. Preferably, unmarked and unbroken. But that's never been the case with you, has it?" A tiny ripple of laughter. Something small and warm and wet slid slowly across his raw shoulder blades. A tongue. He shuddered.
"Ooh, that was nice. Do it again." A deliberate breath of cooling air across the tender skin. "You taste…..special. Blood and sweat and filth and fresh skin. Yum."
Words were hard to locate, harder to articulate.
"Piss off."
"Tut tut. In your position every breath you take is precious. So you waste one on blasphemy? Where's the intimacy in that? Let's stop playing, Sherlock Holmes. We are Fate. We belong together."
""How….." the words stuttered out of him. "How can you be alive? It doesn't make sense. It's not real."
A high pitched trill of delighted laughter.
"You didn't know? Dead is the new sexy. But of course this is all in your mind. You are dreaming. You're in deep, Sherlock. Way too deep. Buried in your mind palace. "
The was a silence. A susurrus of clothing moving closely behind him against his naked torso, warm breath across the delicate skin of his neck. Hands inching around his waist. Moving lower.
"No. Not that. Not….me."
"But acushla mine, who else?"
The light touch of both hands moved to envelope his groin.
"Stop! You're dead."
"Am I? Not in your mind, mo animi cara. Gothic enough? Mad enough? Or is this just too deep for you, Sherlock? Way too deep, the raving of a tortured mind? I'll take that as a compliment, shall I? Still, who cares but us? And truth's boring."
"This…you….figment of my imagination….."
"That is no way to refer to your soulmate. Naughty boy." The hands clenched and squeezed sharp around his scrotum. The pain was…..just something more. The sob in his throat was involuntary, a gasp of shock and physical invasion.
"Don't be naughty. Or that's the least – the very least – you will get. Which of course should be a turn on. I am your weakness, you see. I keep you down. So lie there and lose. We have to be together, Sherlock. You know that. Because in the end it's always just you. And just me."
The hands began to move, a firm, gentle caress. He was losing the battle not to let his transport respond to the stimulation.
"Here we are again, my dark star," the relentless voice hummed in his ear. "Shame we are not in your room. I like your room. It smells so manly. And you have a surprisingly comfortable bed…"
"….hands off me. Stop…"
He screamed then. Screamed and screamed again, in his weakness and his shock. Screams beyond physical invasion or fear or anticipation. Beyond time or memory.
For a moment – or a split second, or an hour, he never knew, thinking about it afterwards – his brain closed down and everything went white. The scream inside his head was so shrill and high pitched it blocked out everything. In his head? Or outside it? And for a fraction of time he fell into darkness and nothingness. Where all pain and panic, and even time itself, became a blank void. Blackout.
That brilliant logical brain had always dominated mastery over the weak transport.
Blackout, the brain provided information automatically, apparently trying to be helpful. A state of unconsciousness. Drug related amnesia. Psychogenic amnesia. Dissociative identity disorder. Fainting. Cerebral hypoxia. Transient global amnesia.
It did not help. His screams echoed and echoed in and around his head.
o0o0o
For a split second, when he heard the voice, he was lost so deep in his memory, he thought he was just imagining it. As he imagined he was imagining everything else. Delusion, illusion, hallucination.
Get a grip! Control! Control!
Thought he had imagined the familiar sounds of the booted footsteps approaching along the corridor, the harsh breathing. Imagining the shadow that fell as a deeper darkness into the dark night as someone halted in the doorway.
But then words. Words he could not have imagined even in nightmares. A voice he could never have mistaken for anyone else's. A voice heard only in nightmares. He wanted to vomit.
"Hello!" The word sounded wrong; ominous, and spoken with relish. High pitched, victorious, the stress oddly on the first syllable. The shock of it emptied his lungs of air.
"He thought you might come back," said the amused and ominous voice. "But I – I knew you would come. Teo Petrovic. Or whoever you are."
He stepped into the room. Istvan Banduka. The man with the length of pipe as weapon and instrument of torture. The man with the adulterous wife. The man whose anger and sudden absence had given him the opportunity to escape.
"So," continued the voice; remorseless, amused. Victorious. "The trespasser who screams in the night gives his presence away to me - the caretaker. What do I do with you now I have found you?"
And that familiar voice laughed. It was not a pleasant laugh.
The figure stepped forward into the lighter darkness shining through the east window. Clutching – just as before - a length of gas pipe topped with an elbow joint.
Sherlock Holmes, prone, down on all fours upon the stained floor, looked up in horror and despair. As the past collided with the present.
TO BE CONTINUED….
Author' Notes:
An unpaved track through woodland, usually a rear access road, often along a deliberate gap made between rows of trees to act as a fire break or other division, is known as a ride.
Bojar is Serbian for Baron.
Revisiting the torture scene in The Empty Hearse, there is little detail to be seen. Except the small Gothic arched window behind Sherlock as he hangs from his chains in the crucifix position. Therefore the chamber appears to be an abandoned church or chapel rather than a military blockhouse or similar. The passage (where the young soldier is listening to music) leading directly to the chamber, indicates an internal room, and is therefore more likely to be a chapel of the type seen in castles or stately homes.
Sherlock's experiences in Sri Lanka are told in The Magnussen Legacy.
Acushla (darling) and mo animi cara (my soulmate) are Irish terms of affection.
The reader may recognise many words and speech from The Abominable Bride.