No triggers.

Chapter Thirty Three

Sherlock had been 'listening' to Moran rabbit on for the better part of two hours, though his interest had waned sharply once the man had explained how he managed to survive the booby-trapped restaurant, and the Consulting Detective had largely filtered him out, after that. He was unsurprised to learn that the occasional 'Ah' and 'Oh, really?' was all Moran required from a conversation partner. The man had an ego the size of Jupiter.

It was through a combination of good luck and good management that Moriarty's little pet had escaped death in the explosion. Sherlock was disappointed to learn that Moran had known he was being monitored and had taken the precaution of employing a doppelganger to lead Mycroft's men astray, thus freeing up the real target to conduct his nefarious business deals, unobserved.

On the night in question, Moran had entered the restaurant by the back door a good half hour earlier and was actually in the kitchen, talking to the chef about his choice of steak, when his look-alike entered through the front door and the explosive devices were detonated. Consequently, the mark had been shielded from the worst of the blast by the open door of the walk-in freezer. The chef, who had been standing back a couple of feet, was not so fortunate.

Moran's men, guarding the rear entrance, had charged in and dragged him out – badly injured but far from dead – and whisked him away to a safe haven, to be treated and nursed back to full health. He had then begun his gradual rise back to the top of the Bad Boys' League, driven on by a burning desire to wreak his revenge on Mycroft Holmes.

Sherlock was pleased to learn, however, that Moran was ignorant, at that time, of the fact that he had survived his leap from the roof of St Bart's and was still not aware, even now, that the drug cartel representative, Lars Sigerson, was actually Sherlock in disguise.

This was most gratifying, particularly as the two men had met on several occasions, but also because it meant that Sigerson was still a viable alter ego and could be used again. Sherlock was rather fond of the Swede, whom he thought of as a completely separate person, although he wasn't overly keen on having to wear the prosthetic teeth. But the good thing was, the longer he wore them, the easier it got, to the point where it felt odd not to be wearing them, after a while.

'Here we are,' Moran announced, as the horse box made a sharp right turn and began to rock and sway, as though travelling on uneven ground – which it was. The box made slow progress along the rutted unmade lane for about five minutes then turned right again and lurched to a halt, air brakes hissing, as the engine cut out.

Moran got up from his chair and invited Sherlock to precede him through the Groom's Door into the back of the box. The driver and his mate were already lowering the ramp, as Robinson started up the Audi and began to reverse it out into the cool country air. Sherlock breathed in through his nose and discerned the unmistakeable aroma of horse manure. They were obviously at a stable.

Moran strode down the ramp, after the Audi, and Sherlock followed him.

'Welcome to Middleham, Mr Holmes, childhood home of King Richard III. The castle is just down the road. And this is my latest venture, or cover story, if you prefer. I'm a sleeping partner, you understand, but I own the yard and my business associate holds the licence.'

Looking around, Sherlock could see the logic in all this. Where better to hide a luxury horsebox than – a racing yard. And, when it wasn't being put to use as a getaway vehicle for the erstwhile boss of a terror organisation, it could be used to ferry horses to and from race meetings. A perfect cover.

And Middleham, North Yorkshire, was sufficiently removed from the main urban centres, it was the last place one might look for a terror cell, but the A1(M) was just a few miles to the east, providing excellent road links to London and elsewhere. Sherlock could not help but feel a certain amount of respect for Moran's prowess as a strategist.

'The house is over here, Mr Holmes. Come this way,' his host invited and Sherlock accepted the invitation.

ooOoo

As Mycroft and Anthea passed through the Treatment Area, he stopped outside the curtained cubicle, where Josie was still under observation, accompanied only by the WPC, now. Anthea continued on and out to the Waiting Area, to communicate with the Lead Agent, on the ground at the crime scene.

Josie looked up as Mycroft drew the curtain aside and asked if he could come in.

'The nurse said no more questions,' the WPC piped up.

'It's a'right,' Josie assured her. ''E's family.'

'Oh, OK. I'll wait outside, then, shall I?' the police woman offered and, when Josie nodded, she left. She needed to use the toilet, anyway, so she was glad of the break.

Mycroft drew a chair up to the treatment couch and sat down, passing his hand over his receding hair line, blinking his tired eyes.

''Ow is 'e?' Josie asked, after a few moments, when Mycroft showed no sign of beginning the conversation.

'I really couldn't say,' Mycroft admitted. 'He won't converse with me. His captors have told him something, I believe, something about me. I have no idea what that might be but, whatever it is, it has upset him, dreadfully.'

Josie wasn't sure how to behave in the presence of this rather austere man. He wasn't at all as she had imagined him to be, from Arthur's descriptions. But, she reasoned, she was not seeing him at his best. He was obviously very concerned for Arthur but he was trying to maintain a professional demeanour, since he seemed to be in charge of the operation to find the kidnappers, who were still holding his brother.

Josie's heart went out to the man in the three piece suit and very expensive-looking shoes. She reached over and put a hand on his arm.

'Those men 'ave bin messin' wi' 'is 'ead,' she declared, repeating what she had said to the doctor. ''E were funny wi' Sherlock, too. The man in charge – Moran, is it? – I ge' the idea 'e 'as a grudge against you. Is tha' right?'

Mycroft rested his eyes on the young woman who resembled Arthur so much, and also had some of his mannerisms and the same easy way of speaking, that was most disarming, and he nodded.

'Yes, my dear, Moran bears a very serious and long-standing grudge toward me. That is why he took Arthur, to use against me, in some way.'

'Then it's obvious, isn't it? They've told 'im some 'orrendous lie an', because 'e's not 'imself, 'e's believed 'em, 'asn't 'e?'

'That is my opinion, too,' Mycroft agreed. 'When I went to see him, he referred to my 'harem' and said he wasn't my concubine any more.'

'Then they've told 'im you've cheated on 'im – and more than once, if 'e thinks you 'ave an 'arem. You 'aven't, though, 'ave you?' she asked, earnestly.

Mycroft looked at her concerned expression and had to admire her direct manner. These Northern folk certainly did not mince their words, he mused.

'No, I assure you that I have not cheated on him. I am strictly monogamous, always have been. Managing one relationship is complicated enough. I could never entertain more than one at a time and not even that for a very long time before I met your brother.'

'Good. I'm glad to 'ear it because my brother loves you to death. You do know tha', don't you?'

'I did. Now? I'm afraid I'm not so sure.'

'Well, I'm telling ya this, that if you are being straight wi' me, once Arthur gets 'is sense back, 'e'll realise that they lied to 'im and 'e'll be really sorry he ever doubted you.'

'He said something odd about Sherlock, too, according to John Watson. He told him he was contaminated and corrupted. I cannot imagine to what that might refer.'

'God, me neither! I mean, after wha' Sherlock did for us, me and our Arthur? 'E sacrificed 'imself to save us – and 'im wi' a wife and kiddies at 'ome, too. If anythin' 'appens to 'im, Mr Holmes, I don't think I'll ever be able to forgive meself.'

She was getting tearful, again, and this time it was Mycroft's turn to offer the comforting hand.

'Please, do not concern yourself about Sherlock. He is not as defenceless as he may sometimes appear. He has been in some very tight spots in the past and managed to wriggle out of them. He can be very tricky.'

'Yes, I can believe tha'. 'Is wife is a very lucky lady.'

This last statement sounded more than a little wistful, which Josie realized, all too late, and blushed a rather fetching pink.

Mycroft pretended not to notice either phenomenon and simply smiled and said,

'I have had your family taken to a safe house, to be looked after until we have resolved this matter. When you are well enough to leave here, I will have you taken to be with them. I'm sure they will be relieved to see you safe and sound.'

'And wha' abou' Arthur?'

'I would like him to go to a specialist clinic, St Hugh's, where he used to work. They have a great deal of expertise in treating people who have had experiences similar to his. He would be in the best possible hands. But I rather suspect he would be somewhat resistant to acting upon my recommendation, at the moment.'

'Then I will insist that 'e goes there. And Rosie will, too. And, believe me, Arthur knows better than to try and go against me and Rosie. We've been bossin' 'im about, all 'is life!'

Mycroft could well believe that. He wasn't sure he would relish going against the Brocklehurst girls, either.

He rose to leave, nodding his goodbye, and was almost out of the cubicle when Josie exclaimed,

'It were two colours, one light and one dark, and there were little windows, all the way down t' side!'

Mycroft turned back, with a questioning look.

'What was that, my dear?'

'The lorry, Mr 'Olmes! The lorry that they drove t' car into!'

Mycroft had no idea what she was talking about but he assumed that Richmond and Watson would.

'Thank you. That is most helpful,' he replied. 'And, please, call me Mycroft. We are, after all, family.'

As he walked away, he hoped with all his heart that this was still true.

ooOoo

Sherlock was shown to a very well-appointed en suite bedroom in the stone-built house and his host bid him goodnight. He was being treated like an honoured guest but he knew he was really a prisoner. The man with the gun standing outside the door was proof of that, if any proof were needed.

He walked to the heavily curtained window and gazed out at the moonlit scene, deep in thought. He still had no idea what Moran had intended to do with Arthur or what the man had in mind for himself but he was under no illusion as to the colonel's ultimate goal. He would not have brought a hostage here, to his secret hideaway, if he had any plans to let them leave alive.

He thought about Molly and the children, hundreds of miles away in Hertfordshire. He wished he had included a message for his wife, when he texted Mycroft. 'Sorry' would have been the most appropriate. But, at the time, he could not afford to even think about them, for fear it might have weakened his resolve.

Thus conscience does make cowards of us all, he thought.

So the game of mental chess would continue and only one of the players would walk away. He was determined that would be him.

ooOoo