Okay, I have a confession to make. This version of the story will not be the explicit version, that will be posted on my Archive of Our Own account. Up until now the two postings have been exactly the same, but that changes with this chapter. On this posting there will be censored content. If you want the complete, explicit version, just visit the link to my Archive of Our Own account in my profile. This warning/notification will appear in every chapter with explicit content from now on, as a reminder.
Thank you very much jenpix, 8of9, JGHB, ninjafrogofHNM, The Lord Writer, oatniel, reflectiveless, KaKiJo, TakingItOutOnTheWall, Nimirie Eryn Lasgaleneo, dana-san, SakuraBlossom58, Agar Loki, Drunken Strawberries, and all those who have favorited/followed this story for your support and encouragement. You guys are awesome and I hope this story continues to live up to your praise. ^_^
Also many thank to my Beta, Helena Chauby for her patient editing.
Many thanks also go to my BritPicker, Lady of Clunn.
And, naturally, I offer thanks to my flatmate, sounding board, and own personal Sherlock, Geoff.
To all of those who have helped me; this story started as an idea, you helped give it life and depth.
Chapter 16: Waiting
GAY COUPLE FOUND MURDERED BY THE HUDSON
A brief scan of the article revealed that the couple, Dylan and Kyle, who had recently returned from their honeymoon in London, were found dead on the riverbank a few days previously. The search had started when Kyle's flower shop remained closed, worrying friends and family. Sherlock read:
The couple were pinned to the riverbank by an old railroad spike, driven through their chests, piercing both hearts. The hands of both men were bound together with a single set of prayer beads. Authorities reported that the following bible verse was found clasped between their hands, held there by the prayer beads:
If by turning the cities of Sodom and Gomorrah to ashes he condemned them to extinction, making them an example of what is going to happen to the ungodly. -2 Peter 2:6-9
Sherlock folded the paper under one arm, using his other to pull John close. John leaned into the embrace, his face grim. Not only had the killer struck again, unexpectedly, but he'd chosen a couple they had met. Had he been following them? For how long? What did he know?
...Were they really a step ahead of him?
Slowly, John pushed his arms against the plush mattress in their hotel room, angling his head to look at the clock on the nightstand. With a groan John fell forward onto his pillow, he'd slept on his stomach again, and he cursed jet lag. It was 11:15am. Almost noon. Given his old army discipline, this was becoming a disturbing pattern. He hadn't got up much earlier the morning after his wedding either. He was going soft, sleeping in so often... Then again, with the odd hours Sherlock and he usually kept, John wondered if it counted as 'sleeping in' when you'd still only got eight hours.
John ran his fingers over the sheets underneath him, trying to pull together his memories of last night. His fingers clenched reflexively when he remember the paper...Dylan and Kyle...that hit close to home. He forced himself to take a deep breath, and keep his breathing even. Grieving for people he'd only met once, no matter how nice they seemed, couldn't help them now.
John rolled onto his back and pulled the blankets up to his chin, blinking in the dim light which snuck around the drapes. The cab ride to their hotel last night had been tense and silent for a long time. Then...Sherlock had said something oddly comforting.
"They died together, John. Most couples don't get that luxury." It seemed cold...but it was romantic too, in a gothic way. John didn't want to agree with Sherlock, especially because Dylan and Kyle had been so young; but then he only had to think of Sherlock's famous fall to know that the consulting detective had a point.
Sherlock must have deduced John's thoughts, or John had given himself away when he'd pressed further into Sherlock's side, because the arm that was still around John had tightened, holding him in place. John had been tired when they left the plane, now he felt drained as well. John had leaned his head on Sherlock's shoulder then, closed his eyes, and concentrated on the other man's scent. After a long while, John murmured, "You have an unusual way of looking at love."
Sherlock grasped John's hand with his free one and interlaced their fingers. "I have a realistic way of looking at love. Unless they are the victims of some accident or tragedy, all couples face the reality that one of them will have to watch the other die."
John gave Sherlock's hand a squeeze.
"People also seem to be stuck on this ridiculous notion of firsts," Sherlock continued, distain creeping into his voice. John let him talk because he knew, at least in part, Sherlock was shaken and upset by their discovery, just like John. "Anything can happen once. It's commitment over time that makes something truly special."
John's lips twitched with the hint of a smile. "In that case, may I congratulate you on your long and fruitful relationship with science."
Sherlock had smiled into John's hair then, and pressed a small kiss to the top of his head.
When they'd gotten back to the hotel, Sherlock had announced that he would wait until morning to contact Greg and Mycroft, since they wouldn't be able to do much until they settled into their own accommodations in the city. John had agreed and, after only a cursory unpacking, pulled Sherlock into bed with him to ensure he got at least some sleep.
John had settled on his stomach and Sherlock had draped himself partially across John's back. It was surprisingly comfortable, being pressed down into the mattress, having Sherlock's weight on him. Sherlock had woken John only briefly this morning to let John know that he was going for a walk around town to familiarise himself with the layout. John had needed more sleep, but he'd missed the weight on his back.
What he needed now, was a shower. John glanced down. God, and definitely a wank too. It had been a while since he'd touched himself. Between wedding planning, impromptu chases, and being thrown out of BDSM clubs; he'd just been too busy. That, and sharing a bed with Sherlock hadn't helped. Or having Sherlock's hands on him for that matter... John's hand trailed up his neck and pressed into the still visible lovebite. He let out a small groan. Yes, definitely time to release some sexual tension.
A quick glance around the room confirmed that Sherlock was still out. John knew that Sherlock could spend days turning a problem over in his head, or searching for something he knew he could find. Given that Sherlock was out exploring new territory, John doubted his husband would be back any time soon. John leaned back against the bathroom door and sighed. His husband...
Right, focus. If John didn't take the edge off, he was sure to embarrass himself the next time Sherlock touched him. John locked to door, just in case. Kneeling by the tub, John put the plug in place, ran the hot tap, and poured in one of the hotel's mini shampoo bottles to make the water sudsy. John kept one hand in the water as the bath filled to help him adjust the temperature. When the water in the tub was just a few inches deep, John shut the tap off and shed his pajamas.
John let out a slow groan as he sank his back into the warm, lathered water. For just a moment he allowed his mind to drift, thinking of nothing but the heat caressing him. John reached up, digging his fingers into his right neck and shoulder, massaging the tension away. It felt good. John remembered Sherlock's fingers doing the same just last night, on the plane, and felt a familiar warmth form in his abdomen. Slowly, his hand began to trail down the planes of his body.
*CENSORED CONTENT*
Aggravated, numb from rubbing, and still as horny as hell, John let his hand fall into the water, defeated. He lay there for a brief moment, enjoying the lingering warmth of the water. He would just have to try again later. John, being well educated, and a doctor, was well aware that, sometimes, orgasm just didn't happen, and there was nothing wrong with that.
Still, he needed to do something with this...energy. A run. He'd go for a run on a trail near the beach; this would help relax his body, and give him some much needed endorphins. John turned on the tap and finished filling the tub. Scooting forwards, John dunked his head under the water and made quick work of washing his body.
Sherlock stood on a rock which jutted up between several trees, scanning the ocean. After informing Mycroft and Lestrade of the latest developments of the case, it hadn't taken long to secure a map of the area in his mind palace. Albert and Trevor didn't arrive in the Hamptons until tomorrow, and Mycroft's team would compile any important details about the murder of Dylan and Kyle. Now all there was for Sherlock to do, was think. Think about the case, and all the tedious dead ends they'd run into. Think about John...John...
That was another reason Sherlock had decided to get up early. It was bad enough, what he'd done already. He'd pushed past what was strictly necessary for the case to satisfy his own feelings for John. Now that they were on a honeymoon, he would have even more opportunity to push. He wasn't, he refused to be, it was useless to be a very sentimental person but... He ran his thumb over the twining metal of his ring, and closed his eyes for a moment. Being married to John, even if it wasn't technically real, the idea that John was his, held a certain appeal.
Feet crunched the sand on the trail at a quick, even pace. An experienced runner was coming up fast on the trail just behind the rock Sherlock was perched on. They had a solid breathing pattern, they were in good health. There was a dedication and routine in their steps, and Sherlock doubted they would even notice him as they passed.
"Sherlock?! What are you doing up there?!"
Sherlock turned, lost his footing, and fell. John reached up to catch him, and they both tumbled to the ground, rolling once, with John ending up on top of his husband.
"Are you okay?" John asked, trying to pull himself up to his knees so that he could look Sherlock over.
Sherlock placed his hands on John's shoulders, stilling him. "I'm fine, John, no injuries. Well, maybe my pride."
John pressed his face into Sherlock's chest, chuckling. "This is becoming a really nasty habit of yours, Sherlock," John muttered into the fabric of Sherlock's button up shirt. It was long-sleeved, but rolled up to the elbows and, in deference to the heat of the day, Sherlock had left his jacket in their rooms.
"What is?" Sherlock asked, arms looping themselves around John's waist, holding him there.
John lifted his head, halfheartedly glaring at Sherlock. "Falling off of stuff."
"I barely fell four feet John, and you broke my fall. Are you hurt?"
John shook his head, "No, just startled."
Sherlock nodded. "Good. You know the human body can fall tremendous distances as long as the impact is handled correctly."
John's look darkened. "I know, Sherlock."
Sherlock quickly shut his mouth, you could hear his teeth click. Right. Not John's favorite subject, falling. "Sorry."
John clenched his jaw for a moment before muttering, "It's okay." Knowing Sherlock he'd probably been trying to make John feel better, discussing the relative unlikelihood of him being hurt by such a short distance...but... the topics of Sherlock and falling in conjunction would never be something John was keen on discussing.
John let out a slow breath before pulling Sherlock to his feet, then stayed close to help him brush off the sand. "What were you doing on that rock anyway?"
"Thinking," Sherlock murmured, reaching out his own hands to help brush sand off of John's shirt.
John smiled. "Just don't make that your new thinking pose, okay?"
The corners of Sherlock's mouth tipped upwards slightly. "That is an easy promise to keep. Now, what about yourself? You're not in the habit of running since you were sent home."
"Yes I am," John insisted, the skin around his eyes crinkling in amusement, "Just, normally it's running after you and some mad criminal. I had some energy to work off, so I decided to get out and do a little exploring myself."
Sherlock stepped close to John's side, and wrapped his arm around the older man's shoulders. "I think you've seen all this jogging trail has to offer. Why don't I show you around town?"
They began walking together, back up the trail, to a place that would lead out onto one of the town's main streets. "Sure," John agreed. "Are there places that could be important for the case?"
Sherlock decided that, if there ever was a world with a hell, he would be going there. Good thing he didn't believe in hell then. Albert and Trevor arrived tomorrow, and the next leg of their casework would begin. This would be his one and only chance to pretend this 'marriage' was real. Was it wrong? Yes. Was it selfish? Yes. But if he had to fly back to England afterwards and content himself with John being forever out of reach, he would take this day for himself, to remember.
Sherlock gave John a little squeeze and leaned down to whisper in his ear, "Not as such, but it is our honeymoon." It wasn't as though John and he would do anything more physical than a kiss or two. Sherlock might be a sociopath, but even he knew some things were very not good.
Besides, if he ever could be with John physically, which he knew he could not, Sherlock would want John's consent. Sherlock had done a fair amount of seducing in the name of his career (not that it ever got as far as exchanging fluids or letting himself be touched intimately), but with John, even though they'd done nothing more than kissed, it was different. With John, it mattered. With John, Sherlock actually felt something.
John flushed, and allowed a small smile to tug at his lips. Right. Sherlock still wanted to put on a good show then? Okay. John could do that. The run had helped calm him, somewhat. John still felt something akin to arousal simmering beneath the surface, but for now, he was in control. And it did feel good to have Sherlock's hands on him...A relaxing day with Sherlock might be just the thing to put John in a better state of mind the next time he tried to...relive some tension. John turned to look up at Sherlock. They were walking so close together John's mouth nearly brushed the corner of Sherlock's lips. "Okay," he breathed, "Where do you want to take me?"
Sherlock and John were strolling down the sidewalk arm in arm, seemingly oblivious to the other people around them. They looked every bit the 'honeymooning' couple as they wandered in and out of little shops. Mycroft squinted and kept his hands poised over the keyboard, ready to adjust his camera feed at a moment's notice. His brother and John had started out at a little cafe for lunch, which had enabled Mycroft some time to practice maneuvering this new system. But now he needed to concentrate on keeping them in frame as they moved. The Hamptons had frustratingly fewer cameras than his own London.
Gregory, himself, and everyone they had brought with them had arrived early that morning. They had barely set foot into the spacious, multi floor office/suite accommodations Mycroft had procured when Sherlock had called to report another, unexpected murder.
Mycroft had ordered his agents to investigate while Anthea and the rest of his staff unpacked/set up most of the equipment. Mycroft had focused on setting up his surveillance suite in his temporary new office. After two hours of listening to on and off complaints from Gregory that he "could help if only you'd let me," Mycroft had snapped at the Detective Inspector. He'd informed Gregory that he was only a consultant, and should expect a reduced role in the proceedings. Gregory had left the room after that.
Gregory was likely on the first floor with most of the others at this moment. Mycroft was gratified to have found a space that met their needs so well. They were renting three floors high up in a corporate skyscraper that were usually reserved for important international collaborative projects. Because of this, the three floors Mycroft and the others currently occupied where a mix of relaxed/luxurious living quarters and equally luxurious spaces to work in.
The first floor held many bedrooms with a common sitting room and kitchen. This was where most of the team would sleep. The second floor was filled with meeting rooms and enough computer/technology equipment that Mycroft could orchestrate a small war. This is where most of the behind the scenes work that may become necessary would take place. Mycroft was certain, because he trained his people well, that all the equipment they had brought with them was properly installed by now. Then there was the top floor. This contained bedrooms for himself, Anthea, and Gregory, a large sitting area with plush furniture, and a study lined with wood paneling and books. There weren't any windows in the study, but that suited Mycroft's needs perfectly. If there were no windows there were no shades for him to draw. He didn't need to worry about counter operatives spying on his observation setup, because they could certainly never hack it.
At the moment Mycroft was in the study with his computer and a few other instruments laid out on the impressive wooden desk. It wasn't the system he was used to, but it would do. He doubted anything of true importance would happen today, which made it a good time to familiarise himself with any differences in systems/difficulties he may encounter as he tracked Sherlock and John's progress through the Hamptons. If it ever became necessary to track them during a chase, there would be no margin for error between camera switches. Some of the camera feed was a bit to grainy for Mycroft's taste and he fought back a sigh. He missed London.
Gregory's footsteps were muffled by the thick carpeting. Mycroft heard him approaching anyway. He ignored it, focused on keeping an image of John and Sherlock centered on his computer screens, changing camera feeds as needed.
Gregory watched him silently for a few minutes and, because there was nothing confidential that needed to be kept from Gregory on screen, or out in the open, Mycroft was almost able to forget that the Detective Inspector was there. Almost.
"They sure look cozy for two people who aren't really married," Gregory observed with some amount of smugness.
"My brother is a superior actor," Mycroft stated flatly. He knew what Sherlock felt, or thought he felt, for the ex-army doctor. If Mycroft could only convince Sherlock of the foolishness of those emotions...
"And what? That skill just happened to rub off on John?" Gregory scoffed, disbelieving. Mycroft's eyebrow twitched. John's affection for Mycroft's brother had been obvious from his first kidnapping. All the more reason to squelch it. They were both fools. Caring made you lazy, unable to see a waiting trap. It clouded your judgment, that was a highly recognised fact. It was the very reason that doctors were not allowed to treat family. The whole concept was altogether too... messy.
"Fine, don't answer me," Gregory continued, "But I know what I'm looking at," Gregory paused then and leaned over Mycroft's shoulder until the elder Holmes brother could feel the detective inspector's breath on his ear, "and I know you do, too."
Mycroft forced himself to draw an even, calm breath before replying. "Why have you come to irritate me Gregory? Run out of useful things to do?"
Gregory, however, did not take the bait. Instead he held his position until Mycroft was sorely tempted to turn and try to glare him away. Finally Gregory said, with no small hint of a smile in his voice, "Why do you always rise to the occasion?" And then Gregory was gone from the room as quickly as he had come.
Brilliant surf crashed over John's head as Sherlock pulled him underneath the surface of the ocean. John struggled and squirmed before managing to break free and lift his head out of the water. He gasped for breath while jerking his head back and forth, scanning for Sherlock's next attack.
They had spent a good portion of the day exploring the town, seeing the sights, and just being themselves...with a little more touching involved than usual given the circumstances. John had thoroughly enjoyed himself. He'd surrendered himself to the day. Instead of over thinking every look and touch he'd simply done what felt natural and left it at that. Grasping Sherlock's hand as they walked along the street, brushing an errant curl away from Sherlock's face after a brief kiss, listening to an outdoor concert they'd stumbled across with his head on Sherlock's shoulder.
Now they had returned to their hotel, changed into their swim trunks, and were playing around into the surf. John wasn't quite sure how this game had materialised, but Sherlock was currently trying to dunk him under the water as often as possible, and John was trying to retaliate in kind. Sherlock, naturally, was winning.
John jumped when he felt a light touch at his back, ready to squirm away, but Sherlock's arm tightened around his waist, pulling John's back against Sherlock's chest. "Truce, truce, I'm not trying to pull you under this time." John glanced at Sherlock disbelieving, until Sherlock's fingers came up to run over John's lips. "Your lips are blue," Sherlock observed, "We should get out for a while."
John leaned back against Sherlock's chest for a moment, feeling the cold now that his own chest was no longer beneath the water. "I think you're right," John murmured, starting to shiver lightly in the late afternoon breeze. They separated, and scrambled towards the shore.
By the time they stepped up onto the beach, John was really beginning to shiver, and he could see a light blue tinge the edges of Sherlock's lips as well. "I think we stayed in too long," John mused, handing Sherlock one of the towels from the small pack they'd stashed on the beach earlier.
They quickly dried themselves, leaving their towels around their shoulders for warmth. John glanced at their hotel thinking of a warm shower and, possibly, a cup of tea. He had just turned to suggest said plan to Sherlock when he spotted what appeared to be a uniformed local police officer heading for them.
Naturally, the authorities in New York City and in the Hamptons had been notified, at least in part, of the efforts currently taking place to capture and subdue the serial killer they had been chasing. Although John was a little sketchy about the details, he knew the American police force in both districts were cooperating with the New Scotland Yard and, whatever Mycroft's team was called. Perhaps this lone officer meant there was news from Mycroft? Although Mycroft usually called or sent a car to 'collect' then if there was any kind of news about a case. John suspected this practice was largely to annoy Sherlock.
"Can we help you, officer?" John asked politely, still not sure if this particular officer was aware of or working on their current case.
The officer, who's badge proclaimed him to be 'Andy' stood with his hands on his hips and looked genuinely displeased. "I'm going to have to ask you two to move along," Andy said sternly.
John glanced around for a moment, confused, then looked back to the officer. "Why?" John asked. "Is the beach closing?"
'Andy' took a menacing step closer. "Don't play dumb. We have families come to this beach. The last thing they want is for their kids to see that," Andy gestured to Sherlock and John's joined hands.
John looked down and was slightly surprised; he hadn't even realised he'd taken Sherlock's hand in his. John glanced up at the cop, and then the anger started to set in. Never one to be intimidated, John took his own step forward, invading the officer's personal space. "Holding hands is not against the law," John said evenly, his eyes narrowed. He'd defended Harry before against close minded people like this. It was a bit of a shock to feel that hatred directed at Sherlock and himself. John's jaw clenched. Especially since Sherlock's fall, he'd be damned if anyone tried to slander his best friend's name.
"I'm asking you nicely," Andy said in a low voice, sounding anything but nice, "Take a walk."
"That's what we were about to do, before you came over and started handing out orders," John replied. "This beach is open to the public."
Andy sneered, laying a hand on his nightstick. "Yeah, decent folks, not-"
John leaned forward slightly, when he saw Andy's hand land on his weapon. At the same moment he felt Sherlock tug him backwards slightly. The consulting detective stepped forward, in front of John, and cut Andy off. "You have been impotent for six months now, something you'd like to blame on biology or illness when it is, in fact, a matter of psychology. However, you ego is so childish and mired in stereotypical delusions that you feel to admit this would make you, somehow, less of a man. Not that beating your wife is helping either-"
"I never touched Laura!" Andy broke in, his face turning red.
Sherlock took another step forward as he spoke, in full deduction mode. Andy, took a step back, but Sherlock pressed on, inching forwards as he spoke, "No, not beaten her to the point of unconsciousness, you learned not to do that from your father. Those types of injuries might lead to an arrest one day. A little slap here, a bruise there, pushing her down into the mattress until she can hardly breathe just to recapture some of your own misbegotten beliefs about what it is to be a man, well that's all fine then, in your eyes."
"Shut up!" Andy shouted, but Sherlock wasn't near done.
Sherlock spoke in a low, almost hissing tone and Andy flinched at though his words physically stung. "Because you refuse to admit the obvious, that your impotence is psychological and thus, entirely your own fault, your body has taken to asserting it's built up sexual impulses when you are most relaxed and least likely to get in its way. This has lead to several state of arousal around your partner, probably on stake outs or while filling out paperwork. All leading to this, a misguided attempt to reassert your perceived heterosexuality; foolish really, most humans are at least somewhat bisexual, even if only in passing, and that is normal. Is suggest you return to your car and patrol elsewhere before I reveal any more of your secrets. Threaten my husband again and I will personally see to it that you are not only removed from the force, but driven out of town by the people you once thought were your friends."
Sherlock loomed over Andy once he'd finished, the officer was red with embarrassment and slightly hunched against Sherlock's penetrating stare. Andy clenched his jaw, then his fists before spitting out, "Fuck you!" and walking, somewhat shakily, up towards the road. Sherlock held his position, watching intently until the prejudiced officer was no longer in sight. Only then did he turn back to face John, surprised to find him smiling.
"That was a bit not good in the best way, Sherlock," John murmured. Then he added, "Thank you."
Sherlock stepped over to John and laid his hands gently on his husband's shoulders. "It seemed like the quickest way to dissolve the situation without risk to you."
John's mouth quirked up then in an almost smirk. "I could've taken him, but yeah, it's better to keep a low profile. That and I think your blows left more scars than mine ever could."
Sherlock smiled, leaned down, and kissed John, almost chastely, for a long minute, keeping his arms tight around his blogger. When he pulled back he ran a hand lightly through John's hair he said, "Let's get back to the hotel. You can take that shower you were thinking of and I'll order room service for us."
John arched a distrustful eyebrow. "You'll eat?"
Sherlock shrugged. "I may be persuaded to finish an appetiser."
John nudged him good-naturedly and said, "You'll eat a full meal and like it. I saw you picking at your brunch the morning after the wedding. And your lunch today is not enough food for the entire day."
All Sherlock would admit to, even if he knew he'd let John win this argument for John's own peace of mind, was, "We'll see." John smiled as though he saw right through Sherlock, and Sherlock wasn't surprised. John was one of the few people who usually could.
Greg's bare feet swept over the sitting room on the third floor of their 'accommodations' as Mycroft had called them. It was late and he should be sleeping, not milling around in his pajamas, but this case was unsettling. He wanted it wrapped up. He wanted it over with.
Greg ran a hand over his face and let out a long breath. He loved his job, he loved helping people, but it also brought him to some very dark places sometimes...
He stilled when he heard the jerky clack of fingers typing on keys. Greg narrowed his eyes and turned his head, listening. He thought everyone had gone to bed hours ago. He closed his eyes and listened again...yes, it was still there.
Given that the typing was coming from the study Mycroft had secured as a temporary personal office, and the fact that Greg knew enough about Mycroft that he had absolute faith in Mycroft's security, it had to be the great annoyance himself, working late. Greg rolled his eyes. And the git had the gall to lecture him on working too hard.
Moving again, Gregory quickly rounded the door into Mycroft's study. "You should be sleeping," Mycroft murmured, without breaking stride in his typing.
"I could say the same for you," Greg replied, leaning against the door frame in his pajamas and robe. Of course, Mycroft was still fully dressed in that damn suit of his. "Are you still spying on your brother?"
Mycroft glanced up briefly, looking anything but amused, "I am familiarizing myself with the camera systems in the Hamptons," Mycroft said flatly.
Greg pushed off the door and began walking towards Mycroft's desk. "So, you're practising for when you will actually be spying on your brother."
Mycroft didn't bother to glance up this time, he just continued typing. "Go to bed, Gregory," Mycroft muttered.
Greg, ignored Mycroft's command, leaning on the edge of his large desk instead. "Did our agents find out anything more about the murders of Dylan and Kyle?"
Mycroft arched his eyebrows as he typed. His face still did not leave the screen, but he let out a long-suffering sigh. "My agents were unable to find anything that would be particularly helpful in this case, yet."
Greg frowned. "What did they find? When? Why didn't anyone tell me?"
"Don't be difficult, Gregory," Mycroft muttered, "I didn't give you a report on their findings, because it was unnecessary. We are not near an arrest yet. When we are, you will be notified."
Greg felt himself flushing red with anger. "Excuse me?" Greg asked in a low, dark tone. "Is that the only reason you brought me here, Mycroft? To swoop in and arrest whoever you point at, no questions asked?"
"Don't' be ridiculous Gregory," again Mycroft refused to look up, "You'll receive a briefing at least thirty minutes beforehand, time permitting."
Greg sucked in an angry breath through his nose, jerked his arm forward and slammed Mycroft's laptop shut so quickly that the elder Holmes brother barely had time to get his fingers out of the way. Mycroft's face was carefully impassive, but his eyes betrayed his surprise.
"I did not fly across an ocean to twiddle my thumbs while other people do the dirty work of bringing down this killer!" Gregory hissed. Gregory leaned forward, his palm pressing down on the laptop. He might have broken it, and he didn't care. "I might not be a genius like you and your brother, but damnit, Mycroft I am more than useless!"
Mycroft rested his hands lightly on the edge of his desk, and studied Gregory for a moment. "I did not mean to imply that you were. It is simply the most constructive use of resources to keep people where they can be most effective."
Greg gave the laptop a shove and it crashed forwards into Mycroft's knuckles; Mycroft didn't even blink. "And we're back to me being your overgrown lapdog!"
"Yourself, the New Scotland Yard, and the local police will receive the credit for the arrest," Mycroft said, slowly, evenly.
Greg slammed a fist down onto Mycroft's fancy wooden desk. "It's not about the damn credit, Mycroft!" He was truly shouting now.
Mycroft stood now, but made no move to close the distance between them. "Gregory, I need you to calm down."
Gregory chuckled mirthlessly, running a hand over his mouth. "That's rich. You want me to calm down when you get off ruling the bloody world!"
"Gregory..."
"Oh, right, not the whole world, just whatever part of it you've set your sights on. Are people just pawns to you? Do you care at all? Or are any means justified to get the famous Mycroft Holmes whatever he bleeding wants?!" Greg shook his head in disgust. "You're a real piece of work!"
Greg took a step forward and sucked in a breath to continue when another voice cut him off. "Stop it!" Greg whipped around to find Anthea standing in the doorway. She too, was still dressed. As she walked closer, Greg could see that she was shaking. It wasn't until she spoke that he realized she was shaking with anger. "You don't know anything!" She hissed.
"Anthea," Mycroft said, more softly than he had said Gregory's name. It may have been meant to silence his personal assistant, but it didn't work.
"You think you've seen the dark side of people? The depths of depravity with your precious New Scotland Yard? You. have. seen. nothing." Anthea stood face to face with Greg now, staring up at him. Her anger was so unexpected, Greg was left speechless. "When you've seen what he does," she said pointing to Mycroft, "Who he helps, make your useless judgments then!" She was speaking in a strangled whisper and Greg was no longer sure if it was discretion, or because of the tears brimming over her eyes.
"I've got some news for you detective inspector. You're precious New Scotland Yard is every bit as useless as Sherlock has always said it was. It hasn't stopped people from being wrongly accused, from their lives being ruined by those false accusations. New Scotland Yard did nothing to help Luke fight charges of abuse that were not true. Do you even care about the truth, or are you just after a certain amount of arrests so you can look good?"
She was advancing on Gregory now, and Greg gave ground, backing into the books which lined the walls. "We could barely afford to keep each other alive, and his undeserved record didn't make it any easier." Anthea's eyes were shining with rage and, perhaps, a touch of madness in the dim light, "When I became pregnant, we thought it could be a new start, even though it was hard." She pulled for air and swallowed hard. "But my family wouldn't give up. They were convinced I was trapped in a violent relationship, and I nothing I said could change their minds."
Anthea's head jerked to the side slightly, as if tilting under the weight of her memories. "When I got sick," her voice was low and dark, "I went to the hospital." A humorless chuckle. She shook her head. "I actually thought that losing the baby was the worst thing that could've happened." Her hand pressed to her lower abdomen and her eyes shifted slightly, no longer looking at Greg. "When I woke up I was told three things that ruined everything. The baby was gone. It was unlikely I could ever have another. And Luke," her voice caught and her hands clenched into fists, "because of his reputation, and his desperate attempts to reach me, and whatever else they wouldn't tell me..." Her face grew pinched and her mouth drew into a grim line. Her eyes shifted again, fixing Greg in his place as the bore into him. "The New Scotland Yard had 'taken care of him' for me."
Greg sucked in a breath, ashamed and appalled. Anthea pressed on, her voice grim. "You may think you bring people to justice, but he (she was pointing at Mycroft again) is someone who actually tries to make things right!"
They stood silently for a moment, each frozen by the unexpected weight of the argument. Mycroft was the first to move. He stepped quietly behind Anthea and placed a hand gently against her back. "Anthea," he murmured, his voice soft and reassuring.
Anthea turned and brought her hand up to cover her mouth. "Mycroft...I'm-I'm sorry." She sounded so small... Mycroft gave her arm a squeeze and gently but firmly began to guide her out of the room.
"Shhhh, Come with me," Mycroft murmured, one hand beginning to rub small circles against Anthea's back. Anthea went, leaning against him slightly.
Greg could hear Mycroft continuing to murmur to his assistant in a calm, reassuring way, but he couldn't bring himself to listen anymore. He felt too sick with himself. Yes, Mycroft could be an arse sometimes, but Greg had over reacted. Greg thought he must have really sounded out of control for Anthea to spit her tragic story out at him... Mycroft and he were probably the only ones who knew, and Greg felt guilty that he'd upset her that much.
Greg clenched his fists for a moment and stared down at the carpet. Hadn't he just been thinking how difficult it could be to face the dark sides of people? He shook his head at himself. Maybe he really did have no idea...but he definitely owed Anthea and Mycroft an apology. With a small, tired sigh, Gregory trod off to his room.