Genre: Drama, angst, friendship
Spoilers: End of series 2, "The Reichenbach Fall"
Warnings: Spoilers, angst, some violence, mentions of drugs, swearing
Dear, faithful readers, this chapter is slightly longer due to a very inspiring train trip and as a treat it contains references to: Shakespeare, Benedict and another actor who impersonated Holmes in various movies, three Sherlock Holmes stories and one novel by Arthur Conan Doyle as well as classic Greek drama.
Reviews could get you a striped jumper :-)
A Visit to the Grave
Days pass by and I hardly notice the weather changing from crisp, rainy periods to spells of sunshine and finally pleasurable warmth. The fever has left me unsteady and exhausted and I spend most of the day indoors, again reading files and memory sticks Mycroft left me, occasionally texting him questions about details the reports don´t mention.
Lonelier than I have been for years and with no companion to fuel my theories with questions and remarks, I start to loathe my present state of existence. Thankfully, the evidence on the web´s activities is vast, so I can busy myself with scrutinizing every single possible lead on who the new leader of the web is.
It is during these desolate hours that I realize that warring with Moriarty was a small task compared to warring with his organization. And I discover Mycroft has taken more steps than I was aware of to diminish the web of its members ever since he held Moriarty hostage.
Mycroft returns late at the twelfth night. He finds me perched on the kitchen window, staring outside, itching for a cigarette, for a distraction.
"You took your time," I shoot at him. "Do you have the papers? I need to get out of here."
He steps nearer, his scrutinizing gaze meeting my dark glare and creased eyebrows. "I had work to do, brother mine. The parliament, the Prime Minister and especially Her Majesty are not amused if they are kept waiting."
"Work," I spit. "Exchanging hollow phrases with the offspring of the most spoiled families of our nation." I turn to face the window again. "I wonder how you can stay confined to meeting rooms and the Palace all day and call what you do work when you never actually go anywhere."
He cocks an eyebrow and crosses his arms, telling me with this gesture that he purposefully fails to comprehend why I round on him.
I start to pace. "Dear god, Mycroft, how can you, how can anyone just look at paper and files and try to find a lead, find evidence? I certainly can´t. I need to get out and observe, for god´s sake! My brain is rotting with looking at all these boring files. If this is how I am supposed to work from now on, I will soon need to find something more - intriguing to keep myself sane."
His advance is sudden and unexpected, proof of the fact that he is not to be underestimated when it comes to quick action, and he grips my arms tightly, rooting me to the spot. "Sherlock. Snap out of it. I can´t involve you in our investigations." Sorely tempted to bite back sarcastically, I tremble with rage. He doesn´t let go, regarding me with the look I have come to decipher as pity in the past days. I finally relax, and he lets go and runs a hand through his ginger hair.
"I never expected it to be so hard," I say flatly, deliberately not looking at him.
"I desperately hope it will not wear you down in the end," he replies and we consider each other for a moment. He is drawn and exhausted, his worry lines deeper than ever and I nearly regret my outburst. Of course he notices the change in my expression instantly, and nods. "There´s evidence that the web is planning on assassinating certain illustrious guests to Her Majesty during the Diamond Jubilee celebrations. We believe these plans to be connected to the recent developments in the Morbier case."
"Revenge?"
"Probably. Morbier will appear in court shortly. It is a shame, really, that crown witness Sigerson has disappeared without a trace." He smirks. "Still, there are several individuals left who held contact with the web and might know more about their plans than its members deem convenient."
My brows furrow. "They have signed their death sentence."
"It looks like it. We have doubled certain security measures and are getting prepared to search for snipers during the events. It would be most convenient to know who is in command."
Striding towards the table, I push several notes and photographs towards my brother.
"The organization entertains three branches. The financial is the most important, followed by the blackmailing and bribing business and some drug-dealing. The members of the web span Europe and Asia, their main base being London. This is where we should look. Regarding the material you gave me, there are three probable heirs. "
I push one of the photographs nearer. It shows a man of about fifty, with a round, plump, heavy face, a frozen smile and keen gray eyes behind golden designer glasses.
"Charles Augustus Milverton. Runs the Milverton plants in London and Manchester, machine building industry. Two years ago he was arrested for blackmail to the Health Secretary, but was cleared. It was unfortunate that the Health Secretary was found dead at his home shortly after, assumedly by suicide. Milverton was mentioned in Morbier´s circle several times, I have heard Morbier speak of him as a close friend who has a special talent to persuade people."
A second photograph, another man, tall, broad, wearing a Barbour coat and wellingtons, his face tanned and creased with wrinkles, his deep-set eyes and fleshless nose giving him the resemblance of a bird of prey.
"The second is Grimsby Roylott, a brute and a connoisseur of exotic arts and animals. He has been sent to court for clubbing members of PETA with a spade when they confronted him on the question whether he has been responsible for the transport of ten Siberian tiger furs to the Arabian Emirates through Heathrow. He denied any connection to the smuggling business, and appeared very surprised that suspicion had fallen on him. He keeps a cheetah and a baboon on his premises, though, and reptiles, presumably, and he is dangerously short-tempered. His nieces are currently running a charge against him, they claim he has abused them physically when they were children ever since they moved in with him after their parents died in a car crash."
The third photograph shows a soldier, a colonel. He is in his forties, blue eyes, blond hair cropped short, streamed with grey. Muscular and fit, he is displaying a smile of confidence.
"Colonel Sebastian Moran, released from action in Afghanistan by charge of dishonor. Obviously he has had a hand in the distribution and smuggling of opium in the military forces."
Mycroft studies the pictures intensely. "Good work, brother. Moran is on our list, too. He´s a crack shot both with handguns and long-range firearms. And he has a history of violence, both against minors and captives." Clearly, I comment inwardly. Rarely have I seen a fellow human with a similar expression of combined cruelty and cunning in his eyes. The last one was Moriarty.
"He and Moriarty attended Eton. They knew each other closely enough," I say.
"Still, you don´t know who is in charge."
"I need more facts."
Mycroft pushes the photographs aside, considering my notes and the open folders. He straightens and looks me in the eye. "There´s no time left. My people will deal with this. You´ll be leaving the country on Saturday."
Raking one hand through my hair, I sigh. "The name?"
"Timothy Cushing. And the backup is Arthur Challenger."
The first time since my brother´s arrival this evening, I find myself smiling. "Challenger. How appropriate."
"Remember, it´s only the backup," he says. "You will go to India first and then proceed to Nepal. In your own time."
"Well, I have six months left, after all." It sounds nothing at all like travel, rather like a prison sentence.
Mycroft has picked up the slight change in my voice. "Well, as you consider going away as a capital punishment, you might as well voice a last wish."
"The last time you sent me away I wasn´t allowed anything," I can´t help to remark.
Had he his umbrella with him, he would twirl it in annoyance. "At this instance, you were not able to make a decision." He knew so very well then and I have tried so hard to hate him for sending me into a rehabilitation facility. Now, I hate him only for meddling with my life and for his constant aloofness. The past months, though, have seen us drawing closer together again, for which, as much as I would never admit to him, I am rather grateful. Once I told John that Mycroft is my archenemy, but in fact he now is my greatest and most reliable ally against the web.
Puzzled, he regards my sudden smile. "I have always wanted to see my own grave," I say.
"As you wish. We will stop there on our way to the airport," he answers and proceeds to the kitchen, opening one of the cabinets.
Together we prepare our meal and the evening passes quickly with eating and talking about observations we share on the organisation of the web and several questions of security he is currently debating with officials. When he goes up and takes his coat, I call him back. "One more thing, Mycroft. I´ll be Tim at the airport, but I will not go to the cemetery as my alias." Even before he can state that it is insanity for me to walk on London ground without a cover, he notices the desperation in my eyes. I don´t need to tell him how much I loathe giving up my own identity, he just knows.
"Granted, brother mine. But be careful." He leaves, and I listen to the sound of tires on gravel, before I return to studying the files.
The day of departure comes soon enough. Mycroft drives his private Jaguar this time, and I wear my coat. My hair has grown a bit and instead of re-dying it I have cropped it short. My contacts hide the piercing blue of my eyes, though, dimming it to dark brown.
During our drive, I drink in the sights of the outskirts of London, even the motorway, very much like a convict who indulges in the last rays of sunlight before he is sent to the dungeon. Mycroft sends me glances every now and again, but stays silent.
It is a brilliant day, the sun high in the sky, a light wind rustling the trees, as we cautiously walk up to my gravesite. The sleek stone is discernible from a distance and very fitting to my earthly appearance. We had talked about the gravestone and agreed on black granite. It was Mycroft´s idea to not display the date of my presumed death, probably because he harbored the superstition this would be a bad omen.
After a few moments, I am about to turn and walk away, when I spot a man and a woman approaching my grave. My heart lurches and I catch a breath. Mrs. Hudson, in tears. John, using his cane again.
Mesmerized and helpless, I watch Mrs. Hudson leave and John taking a step nearer towards the stone. He attempts to speak, turns, goes back again and finally touches the mass gingerly, as if it were a living thing, as if it consisted of flesh and blood.
Since I am standing at a safe distance, I can´t hear what he is telling my gravestone – telling, for he is actually speaking to the dead material. No, I realize with sudden pain, it is not the granite he is talking to, it is me. His unsteady hand and his every move indicate how grief-stricken he is. His hand finally slips limply from the stone, lingering as if the cold, black material could come to life with a second touch.
The wind changes and carries several words towards my hiding-spot. "One more miracle, Sherlock, for me", he pleads, stumbling on his words, his voice rasping. "Don´t be… dead." He hitches a breath and swallows hard, but doesn´t break. Shoulders hunched, he finally retreats from my grave, stiffens into a military pose and greets me with a formal nod.
To see the energetic comrade, the competent army doctor who unhesitatingly shot a man to save my life so desperate, so utterly broken, cuts right through my non-existing heart, and I feel much less alive than mere minutes ago. Involuntarily, I take a step forward, only to be stopped by the tight grip of Mycroft´s hand on my shoulder. It would be so easy to step out of the shadows and reveal myself to John, but it is out of the question. It simply cannot be. The irreversibility of the situation tears my heart open and rips it into pieces, just as if it was being dissected by a scalpel and left bleeding on a cool slab in the morgue.
We turn and leave. John, how could I leave you in so much pain, I ask silently. Not for any second longer I will be able to fool myself into assuming that I will be lightly forgiven should I ever get back to my friend. The gentle spring wind wipes away the tears that have stolen their way into the corners of my eyes, and I store the memory of John´s grief-stricken face and his retreating, limping back deep in my memory.
When I get into the car, stripping off my coat, my brother doesn´t break the silence. My eyes are fixed on a blank spot ahead, seeing nothing but the image of John. For a reason that I can´t clarify – or rather don´t want to, since in this case I would admit to feelings - this second goodbye is far worse, far more definite than the one at St. Bart´s was.
At the airport, the next farewell is unevitable. Mycroft accompanies me into departures, but not to the gate. He just nods at me inconspicuously and I leave, hand luggage on a lorry, blending in with the crowd.
Unlike Eurydike, I will not turn into stone if I look back, but I don´t give in to this sentimental impulse anyway.
