Chapter 12 Day 121-122
Mycroft had made his way to Westminster station as soon as the reports of John's abduction had filtered through. His two agents were down. One was in critical condition in ICU, a knife wound that had barely missed his heart but had sliced into a lung. The prognosis wasn't good. The other agent was dead, his body crumbled in the bomb shelter that he had thought would keep them safe.
He had understood that John would be next, had in fact planned for that scenario. What he had not planned for was how quickly it would happen after the four-month lull that Moriarty had enforced. He could only hope that the tracker had been placed on John in time.
He wondered if Sherlock would forgive him for his faux pas.
He was in the room now where the bloodstain on the floor was testimony to the agent who had given his life to protect John Watson. Mycroft wasn't focused on the stain. Instead, he opened the drawer and noticed with grim satisfaction that the syringe was gone. He glanced around, scanning the room more carefully until he found it under the desk, discarded in obvious haste.
He made his way out of the shelter and back up the stairs out into the open. The bomb disposal guys were still busy, the dogs sniffing and searching. Mycroft ignored them and made a phone call.
"Lestrade, where are you?"
"Interviewing witnesses. So far not much luck."
"Yes, I think you will find that no-one would've seen anything. I'm in need of your services. Meet me in my office in thirty minutes."
"Do you know something we don't, Mycroft?"
"Of course. Don't be stupid."
He hung up, ignoring the other man's protestations. Anthea was waiting for him in his car. "It just came online, sir. Signal is strong."
"Good. What about the agents I activated?"
"They are in place."
"Ok, I'm going back to my office. You coordinate with the agents. Make sure that they understand that this is a sensitive matter. Hands off for now and no interference."
Lestrade was seated in a small conference room across from Mycroft's office. A laptop was open in front of him, the red light of John's tracker blinking on the map on the screen.
"So why don't you pick him up already," he asked, looking up from the screen and meeting Mycroft's eyes.
"As I've explained to you, detective inspector, John will let us know when he has eyes on Sherlock and Ms Hooper."
"Yeah, and how are you going to guess that? Telepathy?"
"Amusing, Lestrade. John knows what to do. I need you to keep an eye on that tracker for me while I go about my business here so as not to bring suspicion on myself."
"Why not use your own people, Mycroft."
"They get paid. Therefore, they can be bribed. You have a vested interest in making sure that my brother and Ms Hooper are returned safely. That includes John Watson. I'll leave you to it then."
"I have a job to do, Mycroft. I can't just up and go at your pleasure."
"I've arranged with your chief inspector that you are to be assigned to me on a special task force. So, in fact, Lestrade, you are to 'up and go at my pleasure'. My driver will take you to my home. We have packed a bag for you. Your wife is currently in Surrey, correct. With her gym instructor?"
Lestrade closed his mouth with a snap. Half rose but Mycroft has left the room.
Damn the Holmes brothers, he thought. Damn them all to hell.
He knew apart from his current frustration that in the end he would do what the older Holmes wanted. Because Sherlock and Molly and John were friends.
And he would go to hell and back for them.
Sherlock and Molly had spent the night navigating the world by stars. The world was bathed in diffused light, enough to see by as they moved in and around hills and valleys. They had made good progress by the time the world had started to lighten, the sun just under the horizon.
"We need to find a place to hide," Sherlock said, breathing harshly as he looked around the hollow they were in. "Oliver will be looking. I estimate we have maybe another day to go."
Molly sat down. Her muscles were quivering, her body bone tired. She had no idea how Sherlock was still standing, surveying the area calmly.
"Any idea where, Sherlock?" she asked, too tired at the moment to care. She wanted to flop down right where she was and sleep.
"An overhang would be preferable." He stated, walking towards the ridge that was sandwiched in the small valley at the far side. "That might be promising. Coming, Molly."
"Yeah, hold on," she said. Her muscles protested when she stood up, almost seizing. For a moment she froze, afraid she was going to cramp. Didn't know if she'd be able to continue if she did.
"Molly," his voice came to her, the impatient, normal Sherlock she knew at the lab. She sighed. It is what it is, she realised. Despite the deepening of their friendship over the past four months, he still was rude. Still brusque. But he had changed too. There was a gentle side to him that she guessed not a lot of people were aware of. And in all honesty, the only time she felt completely safe was when she slept in his arms at night.
"Coming." She moved off, following him over the shale and grass that covered the bottom of the valley. It wasn't very wide and she thought it might do a good job of hiding them away. At the end of the valley, the ridge loomed overhead. It curved outwards, leaving a little ledge at the bottom covered with fallen rock and shale. Patches of grass grew in between the rock, clinging to the soil barely. Sherlock ducked, entering the small area that had formed where water had carved into the hill.
"We should be safe here for today," he stated, cleaning an area at the back for them to lie down. His back was against the rock and soil and she settled into his arms, their bodies moulding automatically now into one another. Her eyes started to shut almost immediately; her body completely drained of energy.
"Sleep well, Molly Hooper." He said softly, his own breath deepening.
She smiled. He always said that now, a ritual that had kept her grounded through all the days of their captivity so far. Even on the days he had been so bone tired from Oliver's challenges that he could barely make it to the mattress before slumping down on it, to fall asleep almost immediately.
"Night, Sherlock."
His arm tightened, as it always does at her words.
She fell asleep soon after.
John had woken up an hour earlier. He had no idea where he was. He was in what looked like a basement, the door locked. The flat was big enough for a chair, table, and a bed. Another door led to a small bathroom. The taps and toilet worked and he had slaked his thirst. He had cleaned the blood from the side of his head as best he could while he considered his options. There weren't any. The windows had been boarded up, slivers of light piercing through gaps in the wood but not enough to get his hand through. The locked door was solid and he had tried to ram it with his shoulder and had only resulted in bruising his arm.
He stood up when he heard a key in the lock turn.
Two men entered and he remembered them from the group that had kidnapped him. Behind them Lyle came.
"Hello Dr Watson."
John didn't acknowledge the greeting. He took a deep breath as the other man stood before him, tucking on the glove of his right hand.
"Where's Sherlock? It was you that took him, yeah?"
"He's not here."
"Ok, so why am I here?"
The blond-haired man gave a sinister smile but moved out of the way when another man entered the room. Brown eyes met John's as a smirk played on his lips.
"Well, isn't it obvious, Johnny boy."
John remembers the pool. The weight of the bomb that had been strapped onto him. The manic glint of the other as Sherlock had lined up the gun to the discarded jacket that had contained the bomb.
"You utter bastard."
"Now that's not very nice, is it Dr Watson. Or can I call you John. I feel we're a little more acquainted than last time we met."
"Where's Sherlock and Molly?"
"I don't have them." Moriarty pretended to look surprised. "You didn't think…oh dear me. This is indeed a turn up, isn't it John."
"I don't understand."
"No. I don't think you do. Pity really. I might explain things to you later. I'll draw some pictures if that'd be helpful." Moriarty chuckled softly, "Tell me John. Were you at least a little jealous that Molly was taken and not you?"
John glared at Moriarty as the other man circled him. "I bet you wondered why her and not you. Bet your little mind has been going around in circles and circles trying to see. I bet you got tired just trying to figure out what Molly has that you don't? Why would she be taken and not you?"
John stared straight ahead. He wasn't going to give the other man the satisfaction of seeing how his words were taking mark and prying open his private thoughts.
"Did you know that Sherlock could choose? Between you or Molly."
John laughed dryly. "Now I know you're lying."
"Really. Do tell?"
"Sherlock would never choose Molly. He barely thinks of her outside the lab. She is a means to an end for him, nothing more."
"Oh. Mmmmh. We'll have to see, won't we. They have been together now for about four months. They've become quite chummy. I don't think you're Sherlock's best mate anymore." John blinked as Moriarty whispered into his ear. John swallowed and took a deep breath before turning his head to meet the gaze of the other man that was less than a hand's breadth away. He tried a measured voice as he asked, "Why am I here?"
"Because I wanted you, my dear. Duh."
"Ok, you want to tell me that this has nothing to do with Sherlock?"
"Well, maybe a little if I have to be honest." Moriarty pretended to be thoughtful. "Ok, maybe a lot. But you'll get to understand in a while. It probably will take you a lot longer than Sherlock but I'm willing to give allowances for your shortcomings."
Moriarty put his arm around John and smirked. "Smile."
John blinked as a flashlight went off. One of the men had a camera focused on him and took two more photos.
"I'll be back later, pet. Don't fret. You'll get to see Sherlock soon."
And with those words, John had been left alone. He focused on his breathing. On the fact that this was part of the plan.
He lied back down on the bed, arms behind his head as he went over the conversation he had with the criminal consultant.
One thing he was a hundred percent sure of was that the other man had been lying about Sherlock having a choice.
Sherlock would never go with Molly Hooper if he had a choice.
Mycroft had spent the day at the office, going through the logistics of sorting out the bomb threat of yesterday and analysing the data that had come in. He had surveyed the CCTV footage, and had noticed the moment the four men had exited with John sandwiched between them, disappearing around a corner. They had tracked the van until it entered an underground garage, where they had lost track of the doctor and his kidnappers. The police had found the van abandoned, doors open and no forensics to speak off. Lyle Bowman had not been part of the initial kidnapping but Mycroft recognised two of the men that had been present in the video of Sherlock's capture. Lyle Bowman was begging for his attention and he was inclined to give it. But he still had no idea where the man's bolthole was and he wasn't about to risk the plan he had riding on John Watson to satisfy his own indulgence.
That would come later, he told himself. When Sherlock and his friends were home safe. Friends, he thought with a sneer. Sherlock really was the emotional one.
He gathered his files, tidying his desk in preparation for leaving the office. He wondered briefly how Lestrade would fare if the Woman returned to his residence early. He hadn't really thought about the potential of the DI meeting the woman that had beaten Sherlock.
It could be interesting; he thought and gave a brief smile. Yes. Definitely interesting.
A knock on his door pulled him from his thoughts. An agent entered the door, a brown package in his hand.
"Sorry, sir. This came for you earlier but with all the emergency around the bomb threat, it was forgotten."
"Never mind. Thank you," he said, taking the package and weighing it in his hand while the agent closed the door behind him.
Mycroft inspected the brown package, turning it over before slitting the envelope decisively. A DVD slipped out, unmarked and unremarkable. He pressed his lips together as he inspected the disc briefly before slipping it into his laptop.
It contained one movie file.
Obvious really. What have you got us into, dear brother. He thought as he pressed play.
It was evident that the clip had been taken in the early days of Sherlock's capture. Judging by the beard growth and how gaunt his brother looked, he guessed probably a week after he had been taken. Shortly after Molly Hooper disappeared.
He wondered at the timing of the DVD. There had been any particular reason why Moriarty had held onto the disc until now. The consulting criminal should realise that this was no proof of life. It's been several months since and Sherlock could very well be incapacitated or dead. Not a good start for Moriarty to bring in pressure or demand Mycroft listen and give the codes to Lord Marsden.
The scene opened, focused on Sherlock.
Mycroft knew his brother well enough to know that Sherlock was doing his best to keep his anger in check. He could read it in the taut lines of his brother's face, in the way he held his body. Had seen it countless times before when they had disagreed and Sherlock had decided to throw a wobbly. It reminded him vividly the last time he had seen Sherlock this obstinate. It had been at Buckingham palace when Sherlock had tried his best to embarrass Mycroft while refusing to put his trousers on.
Sherlock glanced sideways before refocusing on the camera. It was less than a second but in that micro expression Mycroft read a whole chapter.
Oh dear, brother mine. He thought. It seems the threat of hurting Ms Hooper was enough to get your cooperation.
It was clear to Mycroft that there had been several takes. That they had edited out any auditory or visual cues to what had happened to Ms Hooper or the reason Sherlock had in the end done what they asked.
Sherlock's hair stuck at all angles, even more unruly than Mycroft remembers. His face had grown an impressive stubble that would soon turn into a very ragged beard. Mycroft could trace old cuts and bruises against the ivory of his brother's skin. Dry sweat patches were dark splotches against the background of his once white shirt that was streaked with dirt and blood, torn in one or two places.
He knew how Sherlock detested looking unkempt unless it was for a case. And off course the time when Sherlock hadn't cared about appearances at all when he had been in full blown addiction glory and was only interested in feeding his next high. That had not been a good time for his brother.
"Hello Mycroft."
His brother paused, took a deep breath, and continued, "By the time you get this video it would be day 122 of my capture." Sherlock swallowed and Mycroft could read the fear his brother was trying to hide. There was a jump in the video at this point. It was obvious that something had happened because Sherlock had a split lip, his eyes focused on the camera, dark with anger. "This video is not proof of life." Sherlock paused, closed his eyes briefly and then snapped them open. Another jump in the scene, and this time Sherlock's shoulders had slumped noticeably. "It is to let you know that you have no control over what happens to me. That my continued existence after day 127 would be entirely up to you. You can choose to be the Iceman, play it cool and forget about me. That's fine. But John Watson will die." Here Sherlock's voice cracked noticeably. He paused again, shook his head as if to rid himself of the emotion that seemed to overwhelm him. "Molly too. And then a whole bunch of people until you realise that he'll keep his resolve. And he'll send me back to you bit by bit until you let sentiment get to you in the hope that he'll keep me alive. So be a good Englishman and do as you're told."