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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Ice Man


Brussels airport, actually any airport, does not invite for a prolonged stay. Nevertheless, airports are usually equipped with prison cells which are used to detain refugees as well as criminals for a certain timespan. But while the authorities are often at a loss about the final destination for refugees, criminals will be detained in these cells during transit to a final destination - the country where their offences will be dealt with.

Prison cells at airports are far duller than those in prison, I observe. The white walls, concrete floor and tiny space of this particular one are driving me crazy, as they deliver nothing to occupy my mind. I am tired of the charade I played the past eight months, craving nothing more than to board the plane which brings me back to London.

It is ironic, actually, that I have finally ended up in custody myself while hunting down Moriarty´s financial organisation. After the evening at Morbier´s estate I woke up in a prison hospital, my arm in a sling, my knee bandaged. The bullet had grazed the flesh deep, leaving a rather nasty, painful trail. The nurses, worried about the blood loss and my general condition, stayed adamant in refusing any attempt of questioning by the police officers.

After two days, though, the interrogations started. It was made clear to me that I was considered as one of the main offenders in the planned attack on Europe´s financial centres. The secret services of Belgium, France and England by were already aware of the graveness of the situation. If Rieger´s simulation software had been installed, England and the continent would have been led to believe that the most important financial centres had been destroyed by terrorist attacks. Stocks would have dived, chaos ensued. And Morbier would have been enabled to buy enough shares for a low price, gaining enough capital to at least triple the web´s assets, enlarging its power immensely.

The press still rings with the news of the scandal, the finance ministers of France, Italy, Germany and Britain have resigned. And I will be transferred back to England, since the Belgian authorities are at a loss how to deal with me as a key witness, since they am aware that I have been assigned by the British Secret Service.

When I at last board the plane for its half-hour jump over the canal, I am relieved to finally leave the continent. Nevertheless, I am far from comfortable, as I am still posing as Sigerson. Handcuffs link me to a bulky, grumpy British police officer who has made it very clear from the minute we met that he does not approve of arrogant, neatly dressed types who are prone to deliver snide remarks.

Still, I try my best to entangle him in a conversation about the foolishness of a single currency for all European countries. At first, he snorts at me, ordering me to shut up. As a result, the memory of John folding his arms, glowering at me and telling me to stop playing rude, that this is "not good," appears in my mind. I can´t suppress a smile which the police officer takes as an insult. As a result, he yanks at the handcuffs as the stewardess hands me a cup of coffee.

It spills, and his smirk is one of triumph as I jump in my seat while the stewardess starts apologizing, handing me several tissues. Satisfied with himself, he settles down on reading some crap newspaper – probably the "Daily Mail", I do not bother to take further notice – and I huddle back in my seat, and close my eyes.

I have tried very hard to store away memories of John for the past eight months, as posing as Eric Sigerson has consumed all my energy. Now that I am fairly done with this particular job, I feel my composure disintegrating. Immediately, I pay for my laxness, for my mind decides to rewind my friend´s desperate cries that day at St. Bart´s, triggering feelings of guilt and remorse. John never once wavered in his trust and I have lied to him, deliberately. In all probability, he will not be able to forgive me.

The announcement of the captain and the sight of London spreading out beneath in a rare blaze of golden evening sunlight distract me from my inner turmoil. The city is displayed in all its vastness and beauty, beckoning me to return home.

Our plane, bound for Heathrow, is caught in a waiting loop, and we fly over Buckingham Palace which from this height looks like a intricately sculpted doll´s house. The memory of my visit to this place merely wearing a sheet to annoy Mycroft makes me chuckle, and I am immediately rewarded with a furious stare from the police officer.

John had placed the crystal ashtray I had picked during our visit on the mantelpiece where it crammed up with "weirdo´s fanmail," as my friend termed the letters from desperate admirers of my art who asked me to find their lost wedding rings or wrote to ask if I possessed magical powers. Considering John´s hands-on-approach on practical things, he has most probably removed my belongings from the flat. Then again, he is more prone to sentiment than I am. I fail to fathom whether he is still shattered by my deed or has learned to cope. All I know is that I am relieved to return to London after a much shorter period than I expected, and to probably end this game.

When the plane has landed, the officer wakes me from my reverie by a sharp tug on the handcuffs. He steers me toward a side entrance in the security section of the arrivals terminal. Two guards equipped with machine guns accompany us to a small, windowless compartment, all white walls and concrete floor again.

A man awaits us. He is impeccably dressed, radiating authority. His cold, ice blue stare lingers on the bandage on my arm and the bruises on my face, while the officer removes the handcuffs and steps back.

"Welcome to London, Mr. Sigerson," he greets me politely, head cocked.

"I´m honoured that the government has sent someone important to receive me," I reply.

He appears unaffected. "Not this important. I occupy only a minor position in the British Government. I´d rather appreciate if you gave us credit for the comforts of your cell," he replies drily. He gestures toward the door, where a slim, tall man has been waiting for orders. "Please follow my driver. After you."

We exit the airport through an unknown access, avoiding the throng of passengers. A sleek black limousine is parked outside, and our driver steers it swiftly away from the airport and onto the M40. Eventually, he turns into a small Oxfordshire byroad. After a two-hour drive we stop near a river.

"You stay, Powers. I will deal with this on my own," the Ice Man orders, then directs me out of the car and into the moonless night. We reach the river bank after a short walk, hidden deep in the shadows.

"I meet you at the manor tomorrow evening," Mycroft says while he passes me a small object. "It´s about a three mile walk from here. South. You still know you way around, I guess."

I smile, fingering the key. "I do, brother dear. As it is pretty uncomfortable to take a walk in wet clothes, I hope you´ve switched the water heater on."

He cocks his head. "You know I´d do anything for your wellbeing, Sherlock," he answers, retrieving a small handgun. "As long as you jump when I pull the trigger."

"Why is it that everybody wants to see me jump?" I sigh, twitching a brow.

"Because you are a nuisance of a highly-functioning sociopath," Mycroft replies, aiming the gun towards the water.

The instance the shot roars, I am already diving deep.