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Housebreaking
Sherlock gritted his teeth and brutally stifled another coughing fit.
There was not a moment to lose: Moriarty was bound to gate-crash the conference as soon as everyone arrived; he certainly intended to leave the building quickly, probably just bundling up his captives – the heads of security, and of course, Mycroft – to drag them off to his dungeons, or wherever he chose to dwell at the moment.
He just hoped their trip down the Shard had not delayed them too much; Moriarty never took long to capture people. Lots of practice.
He and Miranda arrived at the Shangri-La reception geared up for work, demanding to know in which room they were supposed to fix the panes, causing a flurry of confusion. Within a minute, Sherlock had figured out were Moriarty held Mycroft: one look at their computer system was enough, and he had ample time to study it since the pretty receptionist – young, blonde and flustered – was thoroughly distracted by a loud-mouthed Miranda (God, no wonder even Greenpeace had sacked her).
Sherlock now not only knew where to look for Mycroft, but also where the meeting of the heads of security was taking place – conference room, of course; not that he was interested in them. For all he cared, Moriarty could roast them on a spit, and if Mycroft made a fuss over him abandoning them to their fate, even better. If the illustrious heads of security were too dense to realise they were sitting on a bomb, they were not worth the taxpayers' money. Good riddance.
A faked written confirmation from the manager, surprisingly stashed away behind the counter hitherto unnoticed, convinced the receptionist of the Shangri-La's urgent need for glaziers, and soon Sherlock found himself walking down a corridor in one of the world's most expensive hotels.
For that, it looked rather cheap. Too much grey and brown and sixties' style carpets and curtains. Not much of a paradise.
He just hoped Moriarty wasn't with Mycroft right now; if he barged in on the Consulting Criminal, he stood no chance of getting out alive. His dumb underlings were a different matter, though. A bit of distraction should do the trick. Ah, there they were.
How cliché: two black-suited bullies standing guard at the room's door.
They pretended to pass them. One had his eyes on Miranda spitting on his shoes, the other was about to take out his phone; they crumpled to the floor before either of them became properly suspicious, Miranda relying on a taser and a shockingly efficient blow to the chin.
Sherlock looked at Miranda askance. She just grinned. "Security guards on oil rigs are tougher," she hissed.
He raised his brows, bent down and took the gun from one of the guards, checking it. Holding up his hand, he silently ordered her to stand back. Knocking out a man was one thing; killing was another.
Bracing himself, he strained to listen: timing was everything – yet again.
There: he moved, kicking in the door almost before he really heard the crash caused by his glazier-friends smashing the windows from the outside – or trying to. Security glass didn't break easily, even with special tools.
He took in everything within the fraction of a second: three men; all heads had turned towards the window, the source of the noise. His brother was sitting on a chair close to the glass panes, tied up, one man behind him, gun in hand; second man in front of the sofa, third in the door frame of the bathroom. Two were dead before they noticed the intruder – clean shot to the head, blood splattering the brownish sofa, more blood on the turquoise carpet. A spray of red on the window, the glass thankfully breaking now, shards falling down hundreds of meters. The third pulled a gun on him: he moved just in time to dodge the bullet, hearing it whistle past his face a hair's breadth away, slamming into the wall of the corridor. His aim was flawless; blood on the white tiles now, too. He rushed forward, checking the bathroom – no one in there.
Miranda had slipped into the room, dumping the gear, her face white as a sheet. She didn't question what he had done, but she looked shaken to the core. He turned to her, reminding himself to be kind, to appear human, to reassure her – he needed her. "Miranda," he grabbed her shoulders and forced her to look into his eyes. "Are you alright?"
"Yes," she muttered.
"Can you do what I asked?"
"Sure. Just get going."
He gave her an intense stare. "Once we're down, get out of here immediately. Get away as far as you can. Swear it to me."
She nodded.
"I mean it!" he urged and realized to his surprise that it was true. He did care about her.
"I'm not an idiot," she snarled, "I figured that something's going on in the building. Bomb, I guess."
He stared at her, then nodded. "You might want to apply for a job with my brother," he smiled lopsidedly. "He desperately needs people with a brain." And she would drive him insane with her attitude, he thought with no small amount of glee.
"Speaking of whom …" He turned to Mycroft, who was looking up at him, his blue eyes wide. Duct tape covered his mouth, he was handcuffed, his arms twisted back painfully over the back of the chair, and his legs were also secured with tape. A swollen cheek bore testimony to a resounding slap, but no serious injury.
Sherlock tucked the gun away and tilted his head to the side. "Untie him," he ordered his two companions, who were just scrambling in from the outside, scattering shards and pulling in ropes and hooks. "Leave the tape over his mouth as long as possible. And when you rip it off, make sure it hurts."
They cackled and did as told. In the meantime, he changed back into his suit and coat, and this time he remembered to put on the gloves. The unsuitable clothing would make the descent even more difficult, but he needed to be ready to run as soon as he hit solid ground, and the glazier trick wouldn't work any longer.
Actually, he just wanted to wear his familiar clothes. It was something of an armour.
He put on the climbing gear as quickly as possible, but fastening it around the coat proved to be difficult. Nevertheless, he managed. Miranda checked all the hooks and knots and looked him up and down. "This wasn't planned," she said, her voice thick with worry. "Piggyback takes practice. I could do it for you?"
"Thank you, no," he smiled wryly. "All my life I've tried to get my brother off my back – this time it will simply be a bit more literal."
He almost felt Mycroft wince when they finally ripped away the duct tape covering his mouth.
"What are you doing?" he rasped, eyeing Sherlock's preparations suspiciously.
"What does it look like?" Sherlock snapped.
"Foolish," Mycroft spat.
"Too bad," Sherlock sighed in mock exasperation, "for you're going to join me."
"I am certainly not."
"Yes, you will," Sherlock snarled and nodded at his companions. They grabbed Mycroft and hoisted him unceremoniously towards Sherlock, hitching him to his back.
"Stop that! Sherlock!" Mycroft yelled, an uncharacteristic note of panic in his voice. "I'm not-"
"Shut up!" Sherlock hissed. "We're going down, whether you like it or not."
"Why can't we use the elevator like civilised people?"
He definitely sounded nervous, Sherlock thought. Interesting. "Because, Mycroft, someone's bound to have heard the shootout here and Moriarty's people are all over the place. Now, they may be brainless morons, but they do know our faces. The quickest way out is down." He pointed at the shattered window, where the wind was blowing in icy raindrops, ruining the designer furniture.
"Ready?" He looked at his companions, charged with the task of securing them.
They gave their thumbs up.
"Sherlock!" Mycroft protested at the top of his voice, "I will not tolerate this!" He started to struggle in earnest. "We will call help-"
"Moriarty's blocked all communication," Sherlock informed him calmly. "And if you do not keep your mouth hut, I will have them tape it."
"How dare you-"
One nod, and a gleeful Miranda slapped the sticky tape back over Mycroft's mouth.
"There. Afraid of heights, brother?" Sherlock sneered. "Or do you just not trust me? Kindly stop wriggling, will you? You're far too close to me, in every sense of the word. And please try not to hang around my neck like an overfed sloth." He received a vicious kick for the insult, but it was worth it.
Sherlock smirked and made sure that he jumped out very far over the ledge into the rain-beaten night.