A little swearing and inferred incest but no graphic descriptions.

Chapter Twenty One

'So why d'y'think t' brother's come 'ere?' Rosie asked her sister.

''E just said 'e wanted to talk to us – you and me – together,' Josie replied, standing in the kitchen area, waiting for the kettle to boil, while Rosie stood on the other side of the work top cum breakfast bar that separated the kitchen from the sitting room in this bijou, modern flat.

'Maybe 'e's organisin' t' Stag Night and 'e wants to invite us,' Rosie suggested.

''E wouldn't 'ave come all this way just to do that! And, anyway, we're not Stags.'

'OK, t' 'En Night, then.'

'Arthur is not a Hen, Rosie.'

'Ok, maybe 'e's writing t' Best Man's Speech and wants some embarrassin' anecdotes!'

'Rosie! Be serious! He could 'ave asked us that on the phone. No, 'e said something odd. 'E said, 'It's not Arthur's phone that's lost.' What does that mean?'

'That Arthur 'asn't lost 'is phone?'

'Exactly! So, if it's not the phone that's lost, what is?'

Rosie stared at the younger sister then said,

'I'm sorry, luv, y've lost me.'

Then the entry phone buzzed, to announce the arrival of their visitors.

Josie went to the front door and picked up the entry phone receiver.

'Hello?'

'Good evening, Miss Brocklehurst. It's Sherlock Holmes and Dr Watson. May we come in?'

'Er, yes, certainly,' Josie replied, pressing the button to release the lock, downstairs. 'I'm on the first floor.'

She hung up the phone and turned to her sister.

'They're 'ere! And 'e's brought a doctor!'

Josie opened her front door and listened to the sound of her guests climbing the stairs. When Sherlock appeared on the landing, she stared at him - with his finely sculpted, alabaster features, his unruly curls and his graceful bearing - her mouth half open. He strode toward her and offered his hand.

'Sherlock Holmes,' he said, with a charming smile.

Josie took the hand and shook it, still tongue-tied.

John reached past the tall detective and offered his hand, too.

'John Watson. How d'ya do.'

She shook his hand as well then remembered to say,

'I'm Josie. Please come in. My sister Rosie is here, too.'

She turned and preceded them into the flat and John closed the door behind them.

As they entered the sitting room, Sherlock scanned around, taking in all the salient features, including the other sister, standing by the kitchen counter. The two women bore a striking resemblance to each other and to Arthur. They shared the strong jaw and aquiline nose, although the female versions were less chiselled. They all had a similar hair colour, except Josie had added blonde highlights to hers, and where Arthur's was wiry in texture, the girls' hair was smooth and silky.

Slim, elegant Josie was wearing a smart black pencil skirt and a white cotton blouse, which befitted her role of Office Manager. Her hair was scraped back in to a tight bun, softened by a full fringe and wispy side pieces. Rosie was still wearing her Co-op Sales Assistant's tabard, over black leggings, and her hair was pulled into an untidy pony tail. Two pregnancies had left her a little broader in the beam than her younger sister and her accent was more marked – less adulterated. She was also the more forthright of the two.

'So why 'ave you come 'ere, Mr Holmes?' she asked, straight out, stressing the initial 'H' of his name, while Josie was asking them if they would like a cup of tea.

'Perhaps we could all sit down?' John suggested.

'Of course!' Josie exclaimed and ushered them all to the two sofas, set opposite each other, in the centre of the sitting room. They all took their seats and the women looked, expectantly, from John to Sherlock and back again.

'When did you last hear from Arthur?' Sherlock began.

'Sunday,' Josie replied. 'He texted and then I called him and we had a chat. He said he'd been to a barbeque – at your house.'

'And you, Mrs…?' he asked Rosie.

'Jus' call me Rosie, luv. We don't stand on ceremony 'ere.'

'Rosie,' Sherlock obliged.

'I spoke to 'im Sat'd'y. 'E'd been t' zoo wi' kiddies. Why are you askin' us this? Why don't y' just ask 'im?'

'Because, ladies,' John cut in, speaking carefully and gently, 'Arthur has gone missing. He has not been seen or heard of since Monday lunch time and we have good reason to believe that he has been kidnapped.'

Both women gasped and Josie put a hand to her mouth, in shock.

'Kidnapped? Our Arthur? Whatever for?' Rosie exclaimed.

'We were hoping you might be able to tell us that,' Sherlock replied.

'What?!' both women shrieked in unison.

'What he means,' John interceded again, 'is that we believe that something happened when Arthur came to visit you and your parents, two weeks ago, and that his disappearance is somehow linked to that. So, we wondered if you could tell us what happened that caused Arthur to come back to London a day early and prompted him to text you, every day since, asking if everything is alright.'

The two sisters exchanged a furtive look then Josie said,

'Our dad went ape shit when Arthur told him he was gay and that he was marrying a man. And then he kicked Arthur out, disowned him, told him he was not his son any more.'

'Our mum,' said Rosie, taking up the narrative, 'were righ' upset 'cos she dunt care if Arthur is gay, straight or curly, 'e's still our Arthur. And Arthur were worri'd that our dad would tek it out on 'er, which is why 'e kept textin'.'

This was no more than Sherlock had already surmised, based on the evidence and on the little information Molly had gleaned from her conversation with Arthur, at the family barbeque. It still didn't explain why Arthur had been snatched.

'What makes you think Arthur was kidnapped?' Josie asked, looking at John.

John looked to Sherlock but he was lost in thought so he took the initiative and explained about the CCTV footage of the snatch, the clothes dumped in the Clothing Bank and the phone dumped at the railway station.

'It was a professional job,' he explained. 'The man who masterminded it is a professional kidnapper. He does it for a living.'

'What? How can someone kidnap people for a living?' Rosie spluttered.

'Have you heard the term Extraordinary Rendition?' John asked.

Josie nodded but Rosie looked blank.

'Well, it's a posh name for kidnapping,' John went on. 'The CIA have made a sort of hobby of doing it to terror suspects. The man who snatched Arthur was trained by MI5 but now he's gone freelance. He works for whoever will pay him. And he's not cheap. Five figures, minimum.'

'Well, I don't know why anyone would want t' kidnap our Arthur and I certainly don't know anybody 'oo could afford to pay someone to do it!' Rosie stated, categorically. 'Certainly not our dad! I mean, 'e is a grumpy ol' bastard an' 'omophobic as fuck bu' 'e would never even think o' doin' such a thing to 'is own son! An' where would 'e ge' tha' kind o' money?'

'Perhaps we could talk to your dad?' John suggested.

'If you think it would help, though I can't imagine what he could possibly know about anything,' Josie replied.

'Yes, good idea,' Sherlock exclaimed, back in the room again, springing up from the sofa, causing the women to start.

'What is?' John asked.

'Speaking to the father,' Sherlock replied, briskly. 'Take us there!' he demanded of the sisters.

'Please,' added John.

As they left the flat and made their way down the stairs to the ground floor, and off along the street, Sherlock charging ahead and the other three following on behind, Rosie said to John,

'I can see why 'e needs a doctor wi' 'im at all times. Is 'e the one that Arthur were nursin', when 'e met his bloke?'

John nodded and grimaced.

'And are you 'is minder?'

'Sort of,' John confirmed.

'Well, mate, you certainly earn your fee!'

'Well, I would if I got one,' John answered with a chuckle.

'So 'is brother dunt pay ya t' mind 'im?'

'He did offer, once, but I turned it down. No. I do it for love,' John replied.

'Oh! So you an' 'im, you're…'

'No!' John exclaimed, realising his error of judgement in employing that particular colloquialism. 'No, we are both happily married – to two other people…both women,' he explained, somewhat clumsily.

'Oh, yeah! I remember, now. That's why Arthur di'n't come 'ome for Christmas, 'cos he were going t' a wedding. So, some woman actually married 'im, your mate?'

'Yep! And she loves him to bits.'

'She'd need to,' Rosie observed, with a bit of a snort.

'And they have three absolutely beautiful children, which he loves to bits,' John added, still trying to promote Sherlock into Rosie's good books.

'Ok, well, 'e can't be all bad if 'e loves his kiddies,' she conceded.

'He's not bad at all, just a bit odd. But I'm used to him. And Arthur really likes him, so that must mean something.'

'Arthur likes most people, bu' only if they're decent. So, I'll give y' that,' Rosie concluded.

Josie had caught up with Sherlock and matched him, if not stride for stride then at least in pace, as they walked the short distance to the Brocklehurst family home.

'I'll tell you something, Mr Holmes…' she began.

'Sherlock. Please, call me Sherlock. Mr Holmes is my brother.'

'OK, Sherlock, I'll tell you something, if anyone around here is behind Arthur's disappearance, I bet it's that dick head, Mick Robinson.'

'Really?' Sherlock asked. 'Who he?'

Josie proceeded to explain who Mick Robinson was and how he had impacted upon her father. When she mentioned that he was a White Supremacist, Sherlock stopped in his tracks and turned to face her.

'What did you say?'

'Sorry, what? Which bit?'

'The last bit, the very last bit you said. Say it again, exactly as you said it before,' he insisted, resisting the urge to grab her by the shoulders, an internalised 'John' voice telling him that that would be 'a bit not good'.

'I said that he is a White Supremacist, who came here about two years ago and suddenly became my dad's best friend,' she repeated, feeling rather alarmed by Sherlock's intensity.

'Two years ago? Are you sure?'

'Well, more or less.'

'No, be precise. When exactly did he come here?'

Josie turned to Rosie and John, who had caught up and stopped next to them.

'When did he come here, Rosie?' she asked.

'Erm…' Rosie considered, then said, 'It were a year las' January, if y' remember. 'E jus' popped up, out o' nowhere an' that were it.'

Sherlock turned away, deep in thought again, then declared,

'That can't be a coincidence. The Universe is rarely so lazy.'

'What?' John asked, on behalf of them all.

'That was about the time that Arthur came to work at the house, just after the New Year, remember?'

John did remember. He could hardly forget.

'But you said this was nothing to do with Mycroft, that it was all to do with Arthur,' John reminded his friend.

'Maybe it's to do with both,' he replied and set off walking again.

ooOoo

Arthur lay on the floor, eyes open but unseeing, and unresponsive to Blake's attempts to rouse him.

'Fuck!' the MIB snapped, squatting beside the stricken man. 'That wasn't supposed to happen!'

He turned to Dr Knowles.

'Come on, you're a shrink, do something!'

'I'm not that sort of shrink!' Knowles squawked, highly reminiscent of his plea regarding the thermometer.

'So, exactly what sort of shrink are you?'

'I'm a Reparation Therapist! I cure people of being gay. I don't know anything about…this!' he protested, gesturing at the man on the floor.

Blake curled his lip in disgust at the other man.

'Arthur? Can you hear me?' he repeated, shaking Arthur's shoulder but getting no response whatsoever. He jumped to his feet and said to Knowles,

'Help me get him back on the bed. Then I need to call the boss, tell him what's happened.'

Between the two of them, with Blake taking the bulk of Arthur's weight, they lifted him from the floor and placed him back on the bed, in the recovery position, just in case he hadn't done with vomiting. Blake covered him with the blanket and said,

'Just watch him,' and left the room, with Knowles gazing nervously at the recumbent man as though he were about to explode.

Jogging along the deserted corridor to the stairs, Blake dialled Moran's number.

'Yes? How did it go?''

'Not according to plan, sir. He took it hard.'

'That's what we intended,' Moran replied.

'We wanted to turn him, sir, yes. But, at the moment, he appears to be catatonic.'

'You mean he's in shock?'

'More than shock, sir. He is unresponsive. Windows open but nobody home.'

'Damn,' Moran muttered. 'He won't be much use to us like that, will he? What does the doctor think?'

'Sir, that man is a graduate of the Mickey Mouse School of Medicine. He is no more a qualified doctor than you or I.'

Moran thought for a while then said,

'OK, look. Clean him up, keep him warm, make sure he's hydrated. I'm on my way.'

ooOoo

Arthur's mind was in turmoil. He refused to believe what he had seen in the videos. It went against everything he thought he knew about his partner and their relationship. Mycroft was not like that. He was refined and cultured. He was passionate but not dissolute. He was caring and considerate. He was respectful and appreciative of his staff. He loved his children. And he loved Arthur.

But Arthur had seen what he had seen, with his own eyes. That was Mycroft's bedroom and it was Mycroft himself. And the other people in the videos – Andrew, Charles and Sherlock… His gut spasmed, again. That was Sherlock – a much younger version but it was definitely him. Surely it wasn't possible to fake those images? And it was those images alone that had sent his mind spinning out of orbit. Trying to reconcile what he knew as truth and what he had witnessed was tearing his psyche to shreds.

A wee small voice, in a remote, rational corner of his mind, was telling him that this was a trick, designed to destabilise him and that he should not give in to it. But another voice was screaming that Mycroft was duplicitous, manipulative, sly and conniving, a sexual predator who had perverted the laws of common decency and corrupted all those around him – including his own little brother, for whom he was legally responsible. And that was the only voice Arthur could hear.

And, suddenly, he saw a different motive behind Mycroft's decision to father his own children and that thought tipped him over the edge into utter chaos.

ooOoo