I suggest you may need tissues. That said?
Trust me. I mean it. Trust me. No worries. Just keep breathing.
Greg?
L8R, John.
Is this real or R U gaming Sherlock? [No response from Lestrade] I'm just going to keep on texting till you answer.
Piss off. I'm snogging.
LOL. Ne'mind. Kiss her once for me, you old hound….
"And what does our good DI have to say?" Sherlock asked, as John grinned at the little glowing screen.
"Having a good date."
"Send our best to Molly, then." Sherlock's voice was crisp to the point of crackling.
John struggled to hold back an even bigger grin. "I think he's probably turned off his mobile, now."
At least, he thought, if Lestrade had any common sense he would have—and pitched it, along with Molly's, out the nearest window. After all, Sherlock liked texting, too. And unless John was flunking his advanced Holmesology, Sherlock would be terribly tempted to sabotage Molly's date with DI Lestrade at least as completely as he'd ever sabotaged any of John's dates. "Impulse control" was not reliable in the H.O.L.M.E.S deduction machine model 2.0. When it worked it worked. When it didn't, Sherlock was likely to give in to temptation three hours before temptation even bothered to present itself for inspection. Molly and Greg both deserved better.
Sherlock didn't comment. John could see his pale profile as he stared out the cab window at the misty streets. After awhile the younger man sighed, and said, "Shall I have the cab drop you at your flat before I go on to Baker Street, then?"
"No. Found out this morning that some criminal-minded bastard stole my key and copied it. I won't feel safe until the locks are changed," John said, letting the snark serve in place of a sharp smack. "Thought I'd stay with you until the changeover's done."
"Then I shall have you dropped at 221B. Let Mrs. Hudson know I won't be back until late tonight—and possibly not for longer."
"Tell her yourself when you're grabbing your laptop. I'm going to ride shotgun with you, for now. Been a long time since we really did much of this."
The truth was more complex, and nothing Sherlock should ever be told. Not only would he be insufferable if he knew John was worried about him, he'd be furious if he knew why. But Sherlock did emotional entanglement with all the natural grace and skill of a walrus attempting ballet. Given the mess of his return, plus Mycroft's condition, plus whatever the hell his relationship with Molly Hooper was evolving into? And now this thing with Lestrade?
Yeah, John thought, I'm worried. Life's asking him to manage Swan Lake in little pink toe shoes when he's lucky to do face-plant-with-banana-peel successfully. Someone's got to be on hand with the bandages and pain killers, even if Sherlock Bloody Holmes does think he's above all that.
No. He wouldn't tell Sherlock—and if Sherlock guessed, he would never admit it. Instead they'd both focus on the work at hand.
"What's on the schedule for the night?" he asked.
"Angelo's after stopping home. Then the Royal Marsden." Sherlock answered, not looking at him. "Check on one of the new guards. Talk to Beemish's people to try to learn what they've heard Mycroft was working on.
"Didn't Beemish and your Uncle William give you decent summaries?"
"According to them, they've given me full abstracts of everything they know about. If you can't identify the obvious uncertainties inherent in that statement on your own, I can walk you through the analysis."
"I may not be as clever as you, but believe me, I've dealt with unreliable intel in my time."
Sherlock's expression suggested that John's defensiveness was cute and rather charming, but that their relative conditions were entirely dissimilar—as distant from each other as a flashlight was from the sun. "This is somewhat more than a mere failure in intel, John. It's closer to—"
Aaaaaaaaaah.
Fuck, John thought, it's the patented Adler sigh… "Hell, Sherlock, don't tell me she's still…" he cut himself off before he completed that sentence. After all, he was supposed to think Irene Adler was in a witness protection program in the US, not dead. He'd have accepted either: it wasn't as though he wanted to have to factor her into his friend's pending emotional avalanche.
"Alive and living in Islamabad," Sherlock said almost absently, as he studied the phone screen. He keyed in a message. As the response came in, he said, "She says if you ever decide to misbehave, she'll teach you how to play 'Naughty-Naughty, Doctor!' You might want to take her up on that one: you'd be amazed what she can do with surgical restraints. Oh, do stop sputtering, John, I need to read this."
To John's surprise he was still glued to the phone by the time they arrived at Angelo's, having carried it into Baker Street with him, and carried it right back out, still in use, when he returned to the cab with his laptop. He was still reading and shooting back messages when the bread sticks arrived. He was still engaged when he absently ordered chicken piccata with a broccoli rabe side. John couldn't decide whether to be worried or impressed that he appeared entirely unaroused. What could a man find to say to Irene Adler for almost a half-hour that didn't involve sex or blackmail? What could Sherlock find to say to her that didn't involve him flustering, struggling to not-blush, or behaving like a teenager with his first girlfriend?
John ordered osso bucco for his own meal, and munched on bread sticks while he waited for their meals to come. At last Sherlock typed in a final message, and pocketed the phone.
"That's some frown," John observed. "Is the Parliamentary Whip in trouble again?"
Sherlock barely acknowledged the quip, or John's clear distaste for Irene. Instead he grabbed a thin breadstick, and failed to eat it, instead rolling the straw-thin stick between his fingers, still frowning. "She's been providing me with auxiliary research on Uncle William and Mr. Beemish's problem," he said. "Undercover intelligence, as it were. The trouble is, she's not learning anything useful." He met John's eyes, saying, "You do understand what Uncle William and Mr. Beemish are dealing with, don't you?"
"Nope. Half of what I've overheard was in code, so far as I'm concerned, and the rest was…well… I try not to remember Afghanistan."
For the first time since the fiasco in the morgue at St. Bart's, Sherlock's attention snapped into the immediate present, and his companion. "Oh. Yes. I'm sorry, John. I've been so focused on other things I'd quite forgotten. " His sincere remorse shone past his reserve.
Sherlock was so seldom stricken—so seldom apologetic. When it happened it struck like a round of mortar fire on a mud brick wall, leaving nothing standing. It was for moments like this, John thought, that he eventually forgave Sherlock far more than he'd ever forgive other men, even though they might never hurt him as deeply as Sherlock could. What Lestrade said about Sherlock during that very first adventure—that he was a great man, but that Lestrade was hoping someday he'd also be a good one—moments like this assured John that Lestrade's dream would, someday, come fully true. If you looked at Sherlock as only the man he was now, as often as not you'd want to deck him. If you looked at him through the glow of who he was becoming, though, you'd follow him through hell.
Or through memories of Afghanistan. Assuming there was any difference.
An hour later they were still talking, and the dust of Helmand Province ruined the taste of John's osso bucco: even gremolata can't hold out against bitter memory.
"In the end it never changes," he concluded, wearily. "Some things you can't fix from the outside. But, so help me, I got really tired of looking at the part of the mess we made and thinking, 'So this is what England means to the rest of the world.' I think we need a new meaning."
Sherlock finished the last bit of his chicken piccata, and took a sip of wine. "Whereas Mr. Beemish and Uncle William think we need more messes, and are terrified that one of Mycroft's people will make that more difficult, through his presence or absence. I'm still not sure which. The more I look, the less I discover to be clear." He took his phone, clearly spooled back in a text, and slipped the phone across the table to John. "Here. See if this means anything to you. Irene's been trying to find any trace of an undercover mole in any of the circles suggested, and she's finding nothing."
John reached out with the suspicion of a man who's lived in places where scorpions, adders, mines and assorted booby traps can all be found hidden in seemingly innocent settings. He read the exchange slowly, frowning more and more as he went. At last he looked up at Sherlock.
"It really is an intelligence report—well, barring the sex talk and kinky endearments. Does she really call you—"
"It's merely a matter of form," Sherlock interjected quickly, snatching back the phone. "She has standards to live up to. What did you think of the information, though?"
"Let me see if I've got this right: she can't find any indication of a double agent. She can't even find any indication of a likely fault line in the social structures Beemish and his people have suggested she look into. The one family they were really worried about consists of a widow with three sons and three daughters, none of whom are clients of hers. The widow and her sons are currently up to their armpits reorganizing their family business since her husband's death, and have no time to dedicate to international hanky-panky of the espionage variety. She's found ten new pieces of 'insurance,' and thanks you for that—but has found nothing at all to illuminate the problem of Mycroft's hidden agent."
"Very good, John. You did leave out some incidentals, but I actually agree with your decision to leave out the irrelevant material. The educational activities of upper class Pakistani schoolgirls are hardly important in respect to the subject at hand."
"And you yourself don't know any more about the project Beemish has in hand?"
"Only that he's determined to make sure I never know. There are trust issues involved."
"Trust issues?"
"I don't trust Beemish; Beemish doesn't trust me. It's a bit of an issue." He looked away from John, staring out into the dark of the street outside. "Don't worry, John. I'm accustomed to the problem. Mycroft's been married to his work for decades, now, and it's dirty, cold work. 'The Ice Man' has taught me a quite a lot about dealing with the devil in a bespoke suit. You've been to Afghanistan. You know what happens when there's a failure of intelligence, in every meaning of the word. Just remember, Mycroft is The British Government. When you were at war, you were fighting his war."
John wanted to say, "Yet, still, you love him." He didn't think the comment would be welcome. Instead he said, "So it's a standoff? Beemish and William are desperate for answers, but unwilling to give you the information you really need to provide them?"
"Eloquently assessed. Yes. They still expect me to work without data. They think my 'personal resources' more than make up for their public resources."
John considered some of Irene's asides. "They may have a point. I'd bet none of their reports even mentioned whipped cream in passing, much less with triple entendres."
"So far whipped cream has not been mentioned even once in any of Beemish or William's reports," Sherlock confirmed, before trying to convince Angelo to comp him two cannoli to go. It turned out that Angelo was still grateful all these years since Sherlock had "saved his reputation," but that he wasn't willing to let two cannoli out unpaid for. Sherlock grumbled about the ingratitude all the way over to the Royal Marsden, ignoring the fact that he and John had just enjoyed two free meals as a benefit of Angelo's gratitude.
In Mycroft's room, Sherlock studied the new guard, a Mr. Denver, with narrowed eyes and obvious suspicion. The guard repaid him the compliment.
"And your connection with Mr. Holmes, Mr. Denver? It's existed for how long, then?"
"Ten years, sir."
"And you worked with him in what capacity?"
"That's classified information, sir."
"And I should trust you to protect my brother for what reason?"
"That's classified, too. Sir."
"You don't much like me, do you, Mr. Denver?"
"You're Mr. Holmes' kid brother, sir. "
"My reputation precedes me, then?"
"Let's just say if Mr. Holmes had asked me, you wouldn't be living comfortably in Baker Street, sir. You complicate things."
Sherlock's eyes flickered, but he nodded. "Understood. Do you, however, trust me?"
"With what?"
"Mycroft's safety."
John could see Denver consider that one. Apparently it was a three-pipe problem. At last he gave a quick, hard nod.
"Then you can stop calculating shooting angles, Mr. Denver. Targeting my vital organs is unnecessarily stressful to both of us. Now, if you and John would do me the kindness, I'd like some time with my brother alone."
Denver, rather than leaving, narrowed his eyes. "You've decided you trust me, too."
"Oh, hardly. You'd kill me in a moment on no better grounds than national convenience. You will, however, protect Mycroft with your life—and that is sufficient."
"What makes you so sure?"
"Mr. Denver, Dr. Watson and I have been in this room for ten minutes, now. During that time we have made no move, even the slightest, that you have not evaluated for potential threat, and planned methods of countering. Seven of those counters involved placing yourself in the line of fire between myself, Dr. Watson, and my brother." He met the agent's eyes, an odd expression of appreciation showing, briefly. "You'd take a bullet for him."
Denver's jaw set. "Yes."
Sherlock nodded, and said, simply, "And that, Mr. Denver, is why I will trust you, for this very specific and limited value of the word 'trust.' Now, privacy, please. You may remain outside the door, if you like." He pulled the guest chair to the side of Mycroft's bed, and sat, ignoring both John and Denver as though they'd already left.
John was actually surprised when, rather than standing guard outside Mycroft's door, Denver strode to the far end of the corridor, took out a mobile phone, and proceeded to carry on what looked like a passionate discussion with someone the other end. He was curious, but didn't see an obvious solution to the puzzle, though, and, after watching for a few minutes, decided to at least be surrounded by secret service enigmas in the comparative comfort of the ward waiting room.
He'd been sitting on a hard, severely unlovely sofa looking out into mist-filled streets for ten minutes when someone joined him on the couch. Glancing over he was surprised to see his old friend, Mycroft's aide. Apparently she'd not put down her Blackberry in all the years since he'd last encountered her, except to upgrade.
He gave a crooked grin. "Is it a safe bet your name's still not Anthea?"
"Place ten pounds on it for the win," she said, "You won't regret it."
"Thought so." He watched as she poked and prodded her smart phone, apparently working on a project she considered of some importance. "You're not going to tell me why you're here, are you?"
She hit a final button. Without looking away from her screen, she said, "Actually, Dr. Watson, I am. I've been sent as the representative of a…certain faction…to ask your advice about something."
"You've what?!" He didn't like the stunned squeak in his voice, so forced himself to try again. "I mean, you have? What in the name of God can I give you advice about? You've got to have combat physicians of your own."
"Mr. Denver has reported his conversation with our Mr. Holmes' brother," she said. "We've decided we do not trust our own judgment. Tell me, doctor, should we show your Mr. Holmes this?" She pushed one final key on her Blackberry, and handed it to John.
Ten minutes later, wiping an embarrassing amount of water from his face, he said, "God. Yes. Show him."
It was another ten minutes to find a private office with a computer and set it up with the thumb drive she'd brought with her. Then John went down the way to Mycroft's room. He tapped on the door, but received no answer. He eased the door open and slipped his head in.
Sherlock was seated very upright with Mycroft's hand in both of his, like a child with a fresh-hatched chick cradled safe. Without looking at John he said, "There have been studies done regarding sensory input in patients in coma. There is no categorical proof, but contact does appear to have some therapeutic value."
"Yes. Of course. Sherlock…there's something Mycroft's people would like you to see. Do you mind coming down the way for a few minutes?"
By the time John had Sherlock to the office, not-Anthea had been joined by six other agents. They hovered at the back of the room as she settled their superior's brother at the desk, and clicked up their offering. The first notes of the introduction to "Skyfall" filled the room, and a single image appeared on screen: Mycroft Holmes, dressed in flawless bespoke business greys, umbrella over his elbow, gazing out over London from the rooftop of St. Barts, Moriarty's body lying in the background surrounded by busy police and agents. The expression on Mycroft's face was both still and unutterably sad. Text appeared below the image.
Mycroft Holmes
AKA: The British Government
B. 1969 – D. ?
And then the tribute video really began.
John found it as devastating the second time as the first—more devastating, as he watched Sherlock's face in the cold office light see—observe—the memorial Mycroft's people had made for their leader. The images and the footagewere intense. From the first early pictures of a young man in the 1980s it progressed through Mycroft's career.
"That was the Bishopsgate bombing—'93. His first year on the job," one of the gathered agents murmured identifying a still of a shocked Mycroft carrying a disembodied hand. The body part seemed ironically out of place against Mycroft's double-breasted navy suit. Mycroft's face even then was reserved, but the look of stunned horror in his eyes shouted more than any grimace could have.
"That one was that extraction that went all pear-shaped in South Africa," another added, a moment later. "Ten of ours dead, and we didn't get the hostages out." Mycroft, still young and with all his hair, was running across dry, sere earth toward what appeared to be awaiting helicopter—it was hard to tell. The photo wa staken from within, but a helicopter rotor could be seen in the upper edge of the image.. Mycroft was just turning back, waving following agents on. His arm was across his body, and the combat uniform was dark with blood.
In one shot Mycroft walked—no, loped—from a building carrying a small child in a pink parka. His eyes were fixed on the mother waiting, arms stretched out reaching for her child, tears running down her face. Mycroft was caught forever in the gesture of first raising the child up to her.
"Hostage negotiation, Leeds, 1998," was all the murmuring agent chorus provided on that one.
There was a cut of footage from a cemetery, taken from a distance.
"Oh, look. It's Bandon's funeral."
"Before my time. Who was he and how did he die?"
"Mr. Holmes' mentor. AIDS. Too late in the disease for the new cocktail meds to save him."
No one had to ask if Mycroft had admired his mentor. John was becoming sensitized to all the ways the Ice Man's face could communicate passion held within.
For the first time Sherlock spoke, voice husky. "He must have just come out—Mycroft. Were they…?"
"No idea," the older speaker said. "You knew then? He's…"
"I'm not stupid," Sherlock snarled. "I have eyes. Even before he told Mummy, I knew. Even after, he wouldn't talk about it." Before the conversation could continue, a new picture filled the screen, and someone murmured, "Oh, God. Kosovo. I forgot Kosovo…"
Another image, and someone said, "Oh, God. I love this picture. It always makes me cry. Look at those two fingers on Mary's elbow." It was a stark black and white still. A woman was seated on a stage in what looked like a formal awards ceremony. She held a flag and a presentation box, and was determined not to cry. Mycroft, dressed like a living advert for Saville Row, sat beside her, staring forward, his umbrella neatly leaning against his knees. His arms were crossed, and only the telescoping zoom of the video's editor made it easy to spot the hand nearest the grieving widow. His index and middle fingers arched out across a space of inches to rest, softly, on her arm—a comfort and a kindness trying desperately not to be seen.
"Shy," someone said. "So shy…"
"Sweet," someone else said. "Not that he wouldn't spit at you if he knew you thought so."
There was a picture in a sterile war room, filled with banks of computers. Mycroft rocketed through the room, face burning with the same intense brilliance John knew so well from Sherlock's, one arm sweeping up to indicate something to the team that surrounded him, all eyes watching him like he was God.
"That was Manchester. '02."
"I never heard of anything happening in Manchester in '02," John said.
"Thanks to that man, nothing did. You have no idea how many people are walking around buying their dinner at Sainsbury's today who'd be fertilizer if it weren't for him."
A long shot of the steps of Parliament. Mycroft in a glorious trench coat, leaning on his umbrella, looking cocky as hell, laughing with Tony Blair.
"Ah. That's the war he managed to keep us out of," someone said.
"Which war he managed to keep us out of?" another voice said, tones making it clear that this was the beloved punch-line of a joke they all shared.
Another shot: the announcement of the Good Friday Agreement. Behind all the official dignitaries stood Mycroft, a look of exhausted relief on his face.
Another shot. Not-Anthea spoke, voice sad. "That was the attack on America, 9/11. After that he asked to be made liaison between our terrorist teams and the CIA's."
"The start of a beautiful friendship," someone quipped—but no one laughed. The image of Mycroft, standing at a plate glass window, back to his photographer, made laughter impossible. One hand held a folded copy of the London Times. The other clearly had been raised to his face. No one had to see more to know he was in tears and preserving what little dignity was left by turning away.
A shot of Mycroft, face lit with victory, nodding to a woman across a room.
"She'd just successfully taken out Moriarty's handler," someone said.
"Moriarty had a handler?" Sherlock squawked.
"Of course he fucking had a handler," Not-Anthea snapped. "You didn't think someone that crazy was out without a keeper, did you? He had superiors. Hell, his superiors have superiors. Why did you think we had to risk letting him loose? That stupid code key? We had to find who was using him as a cat's paw. There's word they're the real cause of Fukushima. They're killing people. And it's all one big game, to them. We'd heard the next client in their queue was North Korea. You want to have nightmares? Imagine North Korea's wish-list being managed by Moriarty's bosses." She met Sherlock's stare with annoyance. "You didn't think he was doing all this for fun and giggles, did you?"
Sherlock looked away, eyes returning to the screen.
The rest was more of the same. Battles won and lost. The living and the dead. History was played out through the life of Mycroft Holmes, British Enigma, a man who wore a tailored suit so exquisite it became a parody of itself; who wore a stillness so complete that the slightest gesture stood out like black print on white paper. The final image came, at last…something rare and precious. Mycroft, apparently walking somewhere in London in a good mood. His umbrella was under his arm, his jacket was off and slung casually over one shoulder. He was having a small social moment with a huge orange moggie who sat on the brick wall of the front garden of a townhouse. It looked for all the world as though man and cat were holding hands, and one long finger arched up to tickle Sir Cat's whiskers. The ginger forelock of Mylock's hair fell forward over his brow, and he was smiling.
Over the image, text slowly faded in.
The Soldier
Rupert Brooke
If I should die, think only this of me;
That there's some corner of a foreign field
That is forever England. There shall be
In that rich earth a richer dust concealed;
A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware,
Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam,
A body of England's breathing English Air,
Washed by the rivers, blest by suns of home.
And think, this heart, all evil shed away,
A pulse in the eternal mind, no less
Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given;
Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day;
And laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness,
In hearts at peace, under an English heaven.
And it was done.
The silence ripped through the room, louder than "Skyfall."
Sherlock raised his hand, fingers wide, and pressed them to the screen.
"Ah," he said, softly. "The British Government. Ah, Mycroft…"
"And that," said Not-Anthea, "Is why we will take a bullet for him."
Words and lyrics to "Skyfall," if you're interested. They seem a proper backdrop for agents to use to commemorate a much admired leader they consider a true compatriot: someone they'd willingly die with and for. (Ok, I appear unable to make this a link, but it *should* work as cut and paste into your browser. Good luck, and failing that, google it on youtube!)
watch?v=_2GBOD_bD-Y
watch?v=7HKoqNJtMTQ
While the Rupert Brooke is slightly off target in non-vital ways, in spirit it seemed too perfect to pass up-the perfect epitaph for the sensitive patriot, and every bit as much a classic as Mycroft's suits.