Chapter 7: The Grey of the Morning
Mycroft Holmes is awake several minutes before the old-fashioned ticking alarm clock goes off. He lies still, listening to its steady beats that are almost like another person's heartbeat. Though some people might find the sound annoying, he discovered many years ago that sometimes the consistent sound allowed his mind to churn along with each tick, helping him to fine-tune his own process. He kicks his silk-pajama clad legs briefly, checking that all is in working order. With his hands underneath his head he lays back and enjoys the small blessing of being able to wake up slowly, because once his day begins sometimes he may not see the end of it for one day, two days; once, six years ago, he was awake for almost five days before he lost control and fell asleep at his desk. He suppresses a shudder; that is certainly not something he wants to go through ever again, it was mortifying being half-carried out of his office by his minio-no, assistants.
When the buzzer on the clock finally sounds, Mycroft rolls out from under the fine light green duvet without hardly disturbing the rest of it. Only one side of the King-sized bed has been slept in, the other still has neat corners and is without a single wrinkle. Mycroft straightens up the side of the bed that he has just exited; anyone entering the room would never believe a human being had gotten out of it just moments before. He relieves himself, showers and shaves with a military precision that he is sure Sherlock's Captain would be proud of. All told, he is out of bed, dressed immaculately today in a dark blue suit with matching silk tie and pocket square, and on his way to his car in fifteen minutes. It would have been ten but he decided to have a scone this morning instead of just coffee.
He opens the glass-paneled front door and takes a sweeping look around his neat, orderly house. When he is satisfied that everything is in its place, he locks up and heads to the garage. Mycroft taps the security code on the pad nearest the house and the garage door comes to life, its cables and motors whirring steadily as the white-washed door rises. He hums a little under his breath and rocks the brolly on his arm in time with hydraulic pull of the door. The sky above him is a stately blue-grey filled with darker grey clouds. Looks like rain.
Unsurprisingly, the garage is as ridiculously neat and organized as the house. On the incredibly clean cement floor next to the Jaguar sits a pair of motorcycles, both of them looking stately in their custom paint jobs of metallic amethyst, sapphire and chrome with silver and gold flames. He gives them a glance, considers the weather and shakes his head. No way is he taking one of those babies out if there's the slightest chance of rain. Of course, Sherlock would just say it is because he doesn't want to get his leathers wet; in reality, he's been putting off getting on one of them for various reasons for several years. His personal mechanic comes in and keeps them running perfectly, yet Mycroft never rides. Perhaps it is the idea that there are two of them and he can only ride one at a time, at least that's what he tells himself.
Giving the touring bikes one more look, he punches in the security code for his car. He smoothly folds into the drivers' seat, taking care to keep the even the slightest wrinkles out of his suit. The soft, scarlet material that sets off the polished wooden dash is cool under the seat of his trousers. He reaches up and grabs the key from behind the sun visor and slips it into the ignition. The back of his neck grows warm suddenly when a memory of his last female lover swims into his mind unbidden. He wonders if he should have sold the Jag after that. He concentrates and brings himself back under control, shifting the car into reverse and backing down the long driveway flanked by manicured hunter green shrubbery and flowers of every color.
Mycroft drives to the office calmly, enjoying the purr of the engine as the car rides smoothly down on the motorways. He arrives at his normal thirty-minutes early time, easing the car into his personal parking space. The sign in front of the squared off concrete pylon simply says "Holmes" in neat black lettering. He folds down the visor and puts the key into the slot cut into the back of the leather for it. Mycroft then exits the car, but not before resetting his security code for the day. Once he is satisfied, he strides towards the building, his mind already working on the issues of the day and setting his face into the normal I-say-I-have-no-power-but-in-reality-I-have-ALL-of -the-power mask. It settles over his relaxed expression straightening out his mouth like a woman straightens wavy hair. This is his battle-dress: the face of Mycroft Holmes that the majority of his subordinates and other politicians see every day; it is as much a suit of armor as his suits and his little brother's careless, above-it-all attitude. There are very few people who have the courage to see through it: most of the members of his hypothetical pack are not even worth the bother of getting close enough to in order to try. He takes out his phone and flips it open, ready to begin the day.
~o~o~o~
"Sherlock, get off me." John grumbles from underneath his rather heavy lover as the taller man is forcing his face down into the pillow scrunched up beneath his head. He is answered with a pouty teen-age sounding "no." John sighs; every so often he has to pull rank and it looks like this is going to be one of those times. He swiftly kicks himself up onto his knees, forcing Sherlock to roll off of his back and land on the mattress with a little bounce. John settles one knee against Sherlock's torso and grabs both of his wrists in one hand and pulls them upward, effectively pinning him down. Sherlock looks absolutely gobsmacked, the angles on his face muted by the weak light peering around the one drape that they forgot to fully close last night. John rubs his shoulder with his empty hand, thinking of how much it aches when the weather is cold and rainy. He does take a little pride in noticing that he isn't even breathing heavily from the exertion of manhandling his over-thirty-year old adolescent.
"What? You didn't think this old man could still move you? You aren't a boulder, Sherlock." John snorts as he heads into the bathroom considering that sometimes his lover is as stubborn as a piece of old granite. Sure, he's no featherweight but John is no stranger to protecting himself, either. When he peers into the bedroom before turning on the shower, Sherlock lies there on his back and continues to look amazed. Ha! Thinks John, that's what you get for keeping your skills with a blade secret from me.
By the time John has showered and dressed, Sherlock is sitting in the kitchen in a skin-tight black T-shirt with his face buried deep into the pile of old arson cases that he managed to sweet-talk from the records lady at the Yard. As much as John loves to watch Sherlock "in action," he feels that it's wrong for him to enable the charade. It does get results much faster than going through "official" channels. For a split second he is torn.
Oh hell. Who is he kidding? He chose sides a long time ago and his bet has always been played on Sherlock to win, place or show. Always. He hefts a bit of a winsome sigh and notes the lights burning on the ceiling. He can hear the rain sloshing against the windows. So much for that superb view from the balcony; at least they have something to occupy their minds for the time being.
"What have we got?" He asks as he pulls out the heavy wooden chair next to Sherlock at the same time reaching over the table to pop his small round reading glasses onto his face. Sherlock yanks a couple of pages out of one of the files and spreads them out for John to see. In this way, Sherlock is viewing them upside down so that John can see them correctly. It is a small gesture that would be meaningless to most people; to John, though, it is yet another example of the person Sherlock really is.
One is a photograph of a very tiny burned out fire in the back room of what seems to be a grocery store. It would actually be difficult to tell that there was any fire at all, save for the scorch marks on the cracked tile floor. The other is a close-up of the gray metal trash bin that the fire was started in; there appears to be no smoke damage of any kind around the object at all, or on the shelves of supplies behind the bin. The third and fourth pages are copies of a witness statement and the original report made by the store owners. Once Sherlock sees that John has scanned them, he adds a copy of a report filed by the store owners' insurance agency: the agency had concluded that the fire was an attempt at insurance fraud.
"That's ridiculous."John states as he looks up into Sherlock's face. The green gaze is quartz crystal today; John knows that look: Sherlock is on to something big. He shifts a little on his chair, as eager to hear Sherlock praise him as is usual the other way around between them.
"Yes, and…" He says to John, gesturing with one hand in an attempt for John to go on.
"If it was insurance fraud, wouldn't there have been you know, actual damage to the goods in the store?" He scratches an annoying itch on his thigh through the rather stiff pair of new jeans he is wearing.
"Spot on, John. Spot on." Sherlock points at the photographs. "See here, here and here? It is clear that this fire was started by a novice, someone who was experimenting, trying to choose which way it would start faster; the fire maker was also seeing how much of the fire he could control." Sherlock narrows his eyes down as he taps at the photograph with a long finger. His voice is quiet but tight: "They are ALL like this." John takes note that the end of the nail is ragged as if its been chewed. He pulls back a little to really study Sherlock's face, wondering if his partner is now regretting all of those arson cases he turned down while Lestrade was still DI. Of course, those cases would have only involved alleged homicides, so perhaps he never would have come across any of these in the first place.
"Sherlock, you did not actually sleep last night, did you?" John asks, point blank. Such a familiar question surrounded by such unfamiliar trappings. He tries to remember the feeling of the other man's warmth; in reality, he had fallen asleep almost before his head had hit the pillow last night.
Sherlock busies himself by stacking the papers and photographs into a neat pile. Yeah, right, John thinks: he certainly knows better now. The staccato beats of the raindrops on the ceiling grow in volume, though it is still quieter than it would have been at Baker Street. John can't decide if he hates or not.
"Why?" There is no point in nagging the man about his sleeping habits, even though they have seemed to improve even when he is working a case over the last few years. "It's been so long, Sherlock…"
Sherlock settles down heavily into his chair, causing the floor and by default, the table, to vibrate. The neat stack of paperwork threatens to topple. He stares unseeingly at the cold evidence all around them and runs a hand through his hair, tugging at the curls on the back of his scalp in irritation. "I want to bring him down, John."His deep voice carries over the sound of the rain and the quiet hum of the appliances that surround them.
John doesn't need to ask, he knows to whom Sherlock refers. He clears his throat and takes off his glasses, holding them in one hand and resting his elbows on the table, a movement that makes him look even older and wiser as he sits across the table in a brand new mustard-yellow cable-knit jumper that matches the gold strands that still remain in his hair. "I know I shouldn't ask this, but are you absolutely certain to within a reasonable doubt that Wickersham is the person who is responsible?"
For a second, Sherlock considers changing the subject and telling John how sexy he looks when he holds his spectacles in his hand that way. He reins it in though and states simply: "John, you know my methods. Would I even suggest it? I want this man. I want to make him pay for taking away our home."
John cannot agree more. In that moment, Sherlock looks every bit the mature, world-wide traveler that he has grown to be and not the grumpy adolescent shocked by his lover's ability to flip him around bodily that he was this morning. He just smiles and turns back to the files, casually watching Sherlock's eyelids grow heavier and heavier with each turn of a page.