Genre: Drama, angst, friendship
Spoilers: End of series 2, "The Reichenbach Fall"
Warnings: Spoilers, angst, some violence, mentions of drugs, swearing
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Hiding in Sussex
Two days later I find myself in a self-catering holiday cottage in Seaford, Sussex. Mycroft and I agreed that I will be safer in the country than in London while the press still rings with the "Fake genius´ suicide", and as long as I am not in the condition to travel.
I am the only guest, and my landlord believes that I am a brown-haired, green-eyed birdwatcher who has tripped and fallen down a slope during a hike in the cliffs. As the place is still brimming with summer tourists, and I am not fit enough to take long walks, I enjoy sitting in the lawn, watching the sea rushing in and receding.
My ever-busy mind quietens at the stunning sight while I relish the peacefulness of this place, not minding that this peace borders on dullness, for I am aware that these weeks will be the last weeks of quiet I will experience for an indefinite time.
When Mycroft and I agreed to feed Moriarty my life story, we knew we laid out the bait not only for him but for his henchmen. To rid the world of the consulting criminal would weaken his organisation incredibly, and it was only for this price I consented to my brother´s plan to use me as a decoy. Little did we know at that time about Moriarty´s vast influence on the financial business.
At night, I read and re-read the files Mycroft has left for my investigation. I also listen to the recordings of his interrogations of Moriarty, but none of his statements affirm our suspicion that his financial network is led by Didier Morbier, a Belgian proprietor who has been involved in the latest gouvernmental scandal in his country.
Assumptions and calculations are swarming my mind, but nothing so far leads to a solution on how to tackle Morbier and demolish his power.
When I finally try to sleep, exhausted from the whirlwind in my mind, I abruptly wake after a few hours, panting, and shaking with fright.
Dreams of falling haunt me. I see myself tumbling down from St. Bart´s, flailing helplessly, descending into a pool of fire. A giant´s hand grabs me a second before I jump. It squeezes and crashes every single bone in my body until I scream in agony. Moriarty grins at me viciously. His face explodes, and my vision fills with red spidery traces of blood while I cry out in horror. I lie on the concrete, broken, in agony, soaked with blood, when John appears, a gun at his temple, and I shout futile warnings at him, my voice inhumanly high-pitched.
And, worst of all, it is not me who is standing on the rooftop but John, and I am paralysed. I´m forced to watch him jump, my heart raw and burning, for I know my actions have left him no alternative but to sacrifice himself for my sake.
In the mornings I feel wasted and empty. The local doctor has prescribed a sedative, along with painkillers, but I don´t risk to take it. The painkillers alone are effectively floating my system with a remarkably clear reminiscence of a stronger drug. And at present I am only too tempted to blind out my subconscious, clear my mind, dim the pain I am feeling.
These days of waiting are over when my phone chimes. Mycroft has found an identity I can use. The man is in his thirties, grey eyes. His height and weight match, though he is built a bit sturdier than me. Rather was, for Eric Sigerson has died of an overdose of barbiturates. So far, his acquaintances in the criminal world haven´t noticed, though, which proves very convenient since will be able to use his contacts to get through to Morbier.
Even more convenient is that Sigerson, who was born in Oslo, has spent nearly his entire life in England and therefore never learned the Norwegian language properly.
As I study the pictures Mycroft´s men have shot of his body, I notice that a very nasty cut runs over his lower forearm. A knife wound, caused by a sharp blade applied with brutal force. Clearly, it was meant as a warning. The cut ends near the wrist, where it will be exposed openly by any layer of clothing.
Only two knives are stored in the kitchen drawers, but one is sharp enough to deliver a similar, deep cut to my arm. It sears through my flesh easily, at one point grating the bone. The wound is deep and bleeding profusely. But I will be safer with a recognizable scar. And I am dead anyway.
In pain, I let the knife drop and bandage the wound. My arm throbs as I pick up the notebook to read the dossier about Sigerson a third and fourth time. Born in Oslo. Grown up in London, been to Cambridge, left with a Master in Economics. Worked at several well-known banking houses first, went into consulting later. The past six months he travelled continuously, arousing suspicion among my brother´s people, for he contacted members of the net frequently, seemingly moving in closer to Morbier.
With luck, Sigerson will be my gate into Moriarty´s financial organisation.
The minutes are stretching to hours as I sit in the dark, waiting, thinking, until late at night I recognize the sound of whees grating on gravel.
Dizzy from lack of sleep and the loss of blood, I rise to open the door for Mycroft. His gaze travels to the bandage on my right arm and my pale features, and is eyebrows twitch.
"You could have used anaesthetics," he says.
"I won´t dim my mind with drugs. And it will be more convincing if it hurts," I answer wearily. "The people I am going to meet are very particular about details concerning the identity of those whom they trust."
He nods. "I guess," he says. He follows me to the kitchen and leans against the table, legs crossed. "Morbier has moved his headquarters to Brussels. He has been sighted with several directors of establishes bank houses and with politics, mainly of the finance sector. He has always kept an intricate network, but I get the impression he is on to something."
"High time I get through to him. I guess you have come to say your good-byes," I reply.
Mycroft cocks his head in agreement. "Yes. And to see you to the harbor. The coast guard is waiting to take a Norwegian criminal out of the country. Go to Paris first, find Andre Lelord. He is Morbier´s right hand. As far as I am informed he knows that Sigerson was one of Moriarty´s men but he has never met him. If you convince him of your talents, he might invite you to the inner circle."
"The talent of persuading and bribing," I remark, contemplating the darkness outside. "I would think this is something I do not share with that Sigerson character."
Mycroft draws closer. "Oh, don´t try to convince me that you are not the manipulative type," he replies lightly. "In fact, I am quite glad to not be the object of your manoevres for a change."
I continue to avoid his gaze. "The past months it has been me who has been choreographed." I turn to face him. "Both by you and by Moriarty. When this is over, I tread my own path again. I will not continue to work for you."
He has clearly noticed the threat in my voice, but he just smirks. "We will see. I wonder if Scotland Yard will let you on a case ever again after all this uproar. Let´s see how far you get without any."
His self-satisfied half-smile is unbearable, and I feel tempted to bite back. But I know it will infuriate him even more if I stay calm, so I just retort: "I will walk alone again, Mycroft. As soon as this is over."
"As you like it," he answers. "The sooner we leave, the better for you, then." With this, he turns and I follow him outside to the black limousine.
It is very early morning already, the sun just about to set. We drive away from the cottage and I feel strangely detached from myself as I watch the rolling hills of the Sussex Downs pass by. Mycroft steers onto the main road, and soon we have left Seaford in the direction of the harbor.
The humming of the engine makes me drowsy and I yawn, my arm still throbbing.
"Mycroft?" I ask.
"Yes?"
"If all this works out, I could retire," I say. "I would like to live in those hills, actually."
He chuckles. "You are a freelancer, you won´t retire. I am the one with a pension."
"No, you are basically running the country," I quip back." You are not allowed to. I, on the other hand, just need to disappear. Should have enough practice already..."
He passes me a glance. "True. But you only started practicing. Rather late to explore a talent, don´t you think?"
I smile, huddling closer into the comfortable seat. "I am serious. A traditional cottage would be nice."
The humming of the engine is finally lulling me to sleep, for I realize with a start that the first morning light is setting sparks of silver onto the grey surface of the sea. We have reached the harbor.
"There is your carriage, your Majesty," Mycroft says and points out a boat in the distance. "It will take you to Dieppe. Let them see to your arm. No use bleeding out onto them. They are already in trouble in taking a wanted criminal out of the country." He faces me, his expression serious, brows folded in concern.
"Good luck, brother," he says.
I grab the bag I retrieved from the boot and nod. My constantly worrying elder brother is visibly irked to let me slip from his radar. As much as I am glad to get away, I would like to deliver some consolation, but the words fail me.
Thus, I take a first step into the opposite direction.
I´m alone now, protected.
Seaford actually exists and it has a guest house with a Sherlock Holmes theme throughout.
