Chapter 4
What ho, early release. lol. I'm happy with how my story is building up. 19 Chapter in, which is a good buffer for trying two times a week updates. Hope that will be okay. This is the chapter where it all starts...we find out what Sherlock was hiding. And get a very brief introduction to the antagonist. Well, did get that introduction in Chapter 2 for those that might've noticed Oliver's mystery visitor. ;-) It's going to be good and I'm having fun writing it so far. Hope you enjoy the chapter. Would love to read your thoughts.
Day 3
The three became two. The enamel was now even more smudged than the day before. He eyed it. He'd have to get something to clean it properly with, he thought. It was already past 8 when he'd woken. John wasn't in his room anymore. The familiar smell of Mrs Hudson's full English wafted through the open door. It had been the first time he'd slept through in a long time. A time before Oliver and the bothy. It felt good. His mood lighter for it. He finished his plate, hungry for some reason. John and Mrs Hudson were pleased.
"End of the month, Sherlock." John said as he entered the kitchen. He thought to ignore his friend. Pretended he didn't hear him but John was wise to him. Moved into his space. "Come on mate. After this is done, you should be all good. Just need to make sure that your kidneys have settled completely. Check your iron levels. And where your weight is at."
"My kidneys are fine."
John just waited. Sherlock huffed and then rolled his shirt up. Extended his arm and waited while John drew some blood. Went to the bathroom and stood on a scale. Shouted the number out to John, who frowned when he wrote it down.
"Sherlock, you need to pick up at least 10 more pounds."
"I'm eating, aren't I." Sherlock retorted.
"Barely."
"I'm fine, John."
"Do I need to remind you how close to dying you were? You were seriously underweight and malnourished Sherlock. Broken ribs that needed to be plated. Injury to your lung. Your kidneys about shut down."
"You make it sound way worse than it was, John. It wasn't nearly as bad as that."
"You stopped breathing."
"No, I didn't. Molly told me. You were there."
"Do we really have to do this every month?"
"You're the one that brought it up. I don't see why we must keep this up. My transport is fine. I'm eating. I'm drinking."
"Well, until your transport is back to ideal weight, I'll keep this up." John stated. "So, we can do this again next month. How does that sound?"
"You wouldn't dare." Sherlock pouted. "You said it will be done at the end of this month."
"Only if your weight was where it's supposed to be."
"You can't make me," Sherlock said, a stubborn look in his eyes that was very familiar to John.
"No. But Molly can," John said. Smirked.
"That's not fair."
"Should I text her now? Let her know…"
"You're conspiring…I'm not a child, John."
"OhsometimesIwonder…" John said quietly, under his breath as he turned away.
"Sorry?"
"Nothing."
He readied his bag. Eyed Sherlock. "Are you going to be okay by yourself? I'll be back by lunch time. With food."
Sherlock rolled his eyes. Turned away from John and plopped down on the couch on his back. Stared at the ceiling. Huffed and turned on his side, his back to his friend.
"Fine. See you later, Sherlock."
He got up when the front door closed. Pulled the curtain away slightly and watched John enter a taxi. He sat down in his chair afterwards. Eyed the last folder that he'd hadn't looked at yet. Pulled it closer and opened it.
Read the first page.
What the hell?
His hand shook lightly when he turned to the next page. Read it through but he didn't have to. He knew what would be written down.
This isn't happening.
He turned another page. Looked at the photos. He closed the folder, placed it on the table and got up. Paced the floor as his body was flooded with adrenaline, fear and cold dread. He ruffled his hair. Ignored the ringing of his phone as he grabbed his coat and scarf. Made his way down the stairs and out the door. Eyed the street both ways before he set off for Regents Park and its loop.
"Where are you?"
"At Barts. End of the month…"
"Yes, yes. I understand John. Sherlock has gone out without his phone."
"Ok. So just pick him up then, Mycroft. What's the problem?"
Silence stretched over the phone.
"Mycroft. Tell me you didn't lose Sherlock."
"My brother has chosen to evade my efforts to track him."
"What the hell, Mycroft."
"When can you get back to Baker Street?"
"It'll take me at least 30 minutes."
"Ok. I'll coordinate with Lestrade. I'll meet you at the flat in 30 minutes."
"Mycroft, wait. Maybe he just needed to vent. Go his usual route. You know…Regent's Park."
"No."
"What do you mean no."
"30 minutes, Doctor Watson."
John looked at the phone as Mycroft just hung up. Concern for Sherlock heightened. "Hey Mike. Can you just text me the results when you get them? I need to go."
"Sherlock okay?" Mike Stamford asked.
"Not sure. I'll let you know, okay. Just…don't say anything to Molly. I'm sure everything's fine. Sherlock probably just needed to go for a walk."
"Ok. Will do. Let me know if you need anything else from me."
"Ta Mike." John exited the lab. Grabbed a taxi and made his way to the flat. Mycroft's black sedan was parked outside on the street in front of the door. John didn't bother with change. Threw two tenners at the cabbie before making his way up the stairs.
Mycroft was seated in Sherlock's chair, a folder open on his lap. He was frowning as he turned a page. Didn't look up at John. "Lestrade is canvassing around the park. My men are looking at CCTV footage, to see if we can trace when my brother chose to disappear."
"Moriarty…"
Mycroft looked up. "He's still locked up, John. This is not Moriarty. This is my brother going off-piste, as it were."
"Why?"
Mycroft closed the folder. Hold it out to John. "Because he read this."
"The cold case?"
"For some reason the death of a minor drug lord was highly upsetting to my brother. All the hallmarks of a professional hitman if I read this correctly."
"Do you think this might have something to do with Oliver?" John asked when he looked at the date. It was around the middle of the second month that Sherlock and Molly had been in captivity.
"I'm not so sure…" Mycroft said, eyes speculative. "Excuse me. I need to confirm something. Please stay here. I'll let Lestrade know to contact you directly."
"Mycroft…are you actually leaving…" John asked, shocked, watching the other man grab his umbrella and jacket. "Your brother is out there and we have no idea where?"
"I promise you, Doctor Watson, I might actually be able to shed some light on Sherlock's behaviour. Bear with me. I'll be back as soon as I can."
Sherlock opened the door to the warehouse. It was dark inside. Debris littered the floor, the light streaming in through a few broken windows that weren't boarded up. He stepped inside, the door giving a loud groan as it slowly closed behind him. He took a moment to assess the area in front of him before he walked with confidence across the open floor to an office hidden in the back beside the wall. His footsteps were echoing off the walls back to him. The door still had smudges of fingerprint dust on it. He used his arm to slowly push the door open and enter the office. Old blood was still visible on the floor, dried and a deep brown on the cement. He squatted beside the stain, his fingertips tracing the outline briefly. Eyed the table and chair. The air vent in the wall behind the desk.
He sat down against the wall. Hands hanging off his knees. Closed his eyes, shifting through files in his mind palace. Accessed a memory of his time with Oliver. He was hesitant to open it. It wasn't a pleasant memory. He opened his eyes, stared at the bloodstain. His lips thinned as resolve set in. He tented his fingers beneath his chin. Closed his eyes and opened the memory…
He looked at the cabin in front of him. He was in a part of the estate he hadn't been before. He immediately knew it wasn't where Oliver and his men had taken him for their retraining session two weeks ago. His wrists were barely healed, the skin still sensitive to the touch. The bruises faded almost completely now. His voice has recovered but he still rarely speaks. Even with Molly. He just needed time to find his footing again. His fear for Oliver and his men was still too raw. His mind was still fractured although he was making an effort to build it back up again. To fit the pieces together. He had to be careful. Knew that if Oliver even suspected what he was doing, he'd be back in that room, on the couch with Oliver. And he couldn't do that again.
"Mr Holmes…"
Oliver's voice had a hint of annoyance. The man was waiting for him by the door, a frown on his face as he inspected Sherlock. The consulting detective forced his body to relax. Made his way over to the other man. Entered the cabin.
It was bigger than the bothy. Comfortable, the main room had a fireplace, a table and four chairs. An area off to the side looked like it led to either the kitchen or a small bathroom. Oliver pulled out a chair, indicating for Sherlock to sit down.
"I have a problem I'd like you to solve, Mr Holmes." He said, pushing a folder closer to Sherlock. A hand settled comfortably on Sherlock's shoulder while Oliver opened the folder with his other hand. "You have three hours. It should be adequate for someone of your talent and skill. After that, we'll get to your challenge for the day."
"What do you want me to do?" Sherlock asked, looking up at Oliver.
"Read the file, Mr Holmes. I'll be back later. Please don't leave the table. Do you understand?"
Sherlock broke his gaze with Oliver. Looked at the folder lying open in front of him. Oliver gave his shoulder a small encouraging squeeze and then the man left. Sherlock started on the file. Horror etched in when he realised what Oliver was expecting of him. He had to plan the murder of a man. The fact that it was a minor drug lord wasn't really the issue. And as a mental exercise he had done this to his friends and family numerous times before Oliver. Not that he'd enact it but it had been stimulating. But this, he knew would be actioned. His ideas and his thoughts would lead to the death of another human being. He wasn't sure how he felt about that. Whether he'd be able to do it. He sat back in the chair, pushing the folder away from him as he contemplated his choices.
He was now certain this had to do with the man that Oliver saw last week. The one he wasn't allowed to see or tell Molly about. A professional hit man then. Maybe he could use this to send a message to Mycroft. Design it in such a way that would point his brother in some direction. But how would he do it in a way Oliver won't pick up on. That the man that had requested this, wouldn't see the moment he read Sherlock's suggestions.
Sherlock leaned back in the chair; fingers tented below his chin. Closed his eyes and went into his mind palace. Tried variants of the solution that was so obvious before him. None of it was good. There was just no way with the parameters before him that he could slip in a hidden message. Frustrated, he opened his eyes. Pushed the folder further away from him in disgust. Fingers drummed on the tabletop as he stared at the file.
If John ever found out…
His lips thinned. His brother would understand. Maybe…maybe Molly but both John and Lestrade…He swore then, loudly. His voice echoing through the room and back to him. He hated Oliver even more and what the man was making him do. Because he had no doubt what would happen if he declined to follow through. Molly would be the collateral.
He was still seated in the chair, the file closed on the table when Oliver returned sometime later. He placed a notepad on the table with a pen. Perched himself on the table beside Sherlock's chair.
"I take it you have a solution, Mr Holmes?"
Sherlock met Oliver's eyes. Oliver grinned. Shifted against the table and put a small water bottle beside the notepad. "Are we going to be having problems, Mr Holmes?"
Sherlock looked away. His hands clenched on the armrests of the chair. He shook his head. Oliver leaned in and despite himself, his transport reacted. He leaned back against the chair, his breathing and heart rate increased. Fear dropped into his stomach, spread its fingers wide. For a moment he wondered how long he'll have this physical reaction to the man's closeness before he'd get some form of control back. Some semblance of normality in his and Molly's captivity. He stilled. Waited. Oliver grabbed his chin, forced his head up to meet the other man's eyes.
"Mr Holmes?"
Sherlock swallowed. Cleared his throat. "No problems."
Oliver dropped his hand and leaned back. A speculative look came over his features. "If you fail with this, Ms Hooper will get an introduction to the first day. Incentive enough for you, Mr Holmes?"
He didn't dare break his gaze with Oliver. He tried to calm his transport down. But the remembrance of agony, white hot and coloured with red was at the forefront of his mind. Of his own screams – raw and unfettered - and the taint of his own blood filling his nostrils.
He couldn't…he wouldn't do that to Molly.
"You don't need her." He says softly. "I'll do what you want."
Oliver smirked. Nodded his head. "Very good, Mr Holmes. Please write everything down and when you're done, you can have some water and we'll move on to your challenge."
Sherlock nodded. Leaned forward and picked up the pen as Oliver watched. Started writing out the solution he'd come up with.
Sherlock heard his brother before he saw him. The tap-tap of his umbrella on the open floor of the warehouse echoed back to him in the office where he was seated on the floor against the wall. Mycroft pushed the door of the office open. His phone against his ear as he met Sherlock's gaze.
"Yes. I have him. Let John know I'll be bringing Sherlock back later…Okay. See you Lestrade."
He closed the connection, dropping his phone into his jacket pocket. "Am I to sit on the floor again?" Mycroft asked, raising an eyebrow at his brother. "Really, Sherlock…not a good look for me."
"When did you ever care?" Sherlock asked.
"Well, evidently you don't," Mycroft said as he made his way to Sherlock. "Do you mind if we have this conversation somewhere else a little more comfortable?"
"Fine." He looked up at Mycroft. "How did you find me?"
Mycroft smirked. "Not that hard, brother mine. It was very obvious when I read the file."
"Ah. I see," Sherlock said. "How long did it take you? A minute? No… …more like five." Sherlock grinned. Held out his hand and allowed his brother to pull him to a standing position. "Getting old, Mycroft."
"Comes to us all, Sherlock. Here," he said, handing Sherlock his phone. "Please message John and let him know that you're perfectly fine. He worries, you know."
Sherlock opened his phone, send a quick text as he followed his brother out the door. They sat comfortably in the car and were silent on the way to Diogenes. They entered Mycroft's private office, the older Holmes locking the door behind him. Sherlock sat down in one of the high back chairs in front of the bookcase. A tea set was on a table at the back of the room. His brother made the tea, brought over both cups and seated himself after giving Sherlock his drink.
Sherlock folded his hands around the warm cup of tea as he leaned back on the chair. Watched his brother over the rim as he took a sip, enjoying the warmth of the drink. So far removed from the chalky, cold taste of Ensure Oliver had fed him and Molly.
"How many?" Mycroft asked, crossing one leg over the other as he leaned back. Placed his own teacup on its saucer on the table beside him.
"Mmmmh?" Sherlock mumbled, pretending he didn't understand. Took another sip as he gathered his thoughts. Mycroft waited him out. The silence stretched and Sherlock took another sip. But Mycroft wasn't John. Wasn't as easily distracted or manipulated away from awkward questions. He huffed and then pouted. Placed his cup onto the table next to him.
"I think there were five."
"You think?"
Sherlock sighed. Looked away, focusing on the titles of the books in the bookcase. "This one was the first. Oliver…" he trailed off. Shifted in the seat. Closed his eyes and leaned his head back. Took a breath. Opened his eyes and looked at his brother. Mycroft was waiting patiently.
Alone is not better. Sherlock thought. Alone does not protect. Molly has shown you that. Mycroft is safe. Mycroft will understand…
His eyes dropped to his hands fiddling on the armrest of the chair. "How much do you know?" he asked his brother instead.
"Sherlock…" Mycroft said, slightly exasperated.
"No! Lestrade is not as good as he thinks he is. I know Oliver kept files…"
"No one but me has seen them, Sherlock," Mycroft said softly. "I burned them. No one else will ever read them."
Sherlock looked up. His eyes shimmered. He blinked, trying to get some semblance of control back.
"This little issue with the dead drug lord…Oliver didn't write anything about that." Mycroft wiped his forehead. "I'm assuming this was something you weren't allowed to voice in any form to Molly Hooper."
"No." He looked away. Took up his cup and took another sip. The warmth and sweetness of the tea seemed to settle the rising pit of dread in his stomach. "So you know about the three days…" Mycroft didn't say anything. Sherlock shifted in his seat. "I tried, you know…but it was…It sucked." He said simply in the end. Embarrassment at his perceived weakness flooded his transport. He wanted to take another sip of his tea only to realise that the cup was empty. Placed the cup back onto its saucer. Fiddled with his hands again.
He wanted to run away so desperately; it took everything inside him to stay seated. Face his brother in something so personal.
"Giles?" Mycroft asked.
"A little. It's still too hard. I uhm…"
"It's fine, Sherlock." Mycroft sighed. "I'm sorry." He said softly.
Sherlock gave a humourless chuckle. "It is what it is. A part of me now and it's shit." Mycroft nodded, and didn't say anything. Which was better. Sherlock wasn't sure he'd be able to not let emotion get the better off him. He wasn't about to cry in front of his brother.
"More tea?" Mycroft asked after a while.
"Yeah. Ta."
"Very well." His brother got up, took his cup and busied himself with the tea pot. Added an extra teaspoon of sugar and brought it over to Sherlock. Settled back in his own seat. Wiped imaginary lint from his trousers.
"Did John put you up to the extra sugar?" Sherlock asked, trying to lighten the mood.
"Apparently you still need to gain 10 more pounds."
Sherlock smiled. "He's always bringing snacks. Nuts. Chocolate. Carrot sticks…ugh. He's trying to fatten me up…his words not mine."
"Carrot sticks? Doesn't sound very filling."
"According to John I still lack some important vitamins. And iron. He's mothering…"
"He was very vexing when you were gone. Is he always so…talkative? I ended up sending him to Lestrade. Which was better for both of us."
Sherlock gave a small wistful smile. Met his brother's eyes. "Mycroft…thanks." Mycroft shifted in his seat. Looked away and gave a small nod. Turned back to face Sherlock. "We will need to deal with this little snag, brother mine."
Sherlock sighed. "Four days after Oliver's retraining session, he picked me up. My body still wasn't up to any physical exertion. I think he knew that. Instead, we flew to a hill. Sat down in chairs and he told me that I can rest. He met someone that day. Oliver was very clear what would happen if I tried to deduce the man. If I even looked at him. He gave me headphones and had me listen to music while he and this man spoke. At the end of it, they decided that I would be useful to them. Two weeks later Oliver had me sit down and work out how to take out the drug lord. It was a test. If I failed…he was very clear on what would happen to Molly. He had me do a few more. It's hard to remember how many…there were days I could barely function. Staying alive and not drowning in his insanity was about the only thing I could focus on."
"Okay. Is there anything about this man you can remember?"
"I heard his voice. Upper middle class. Definitely public school. Educated."
"Smell?"
Sherlock shook his head. "Everything was still too raw. All I could smell was my own…" he trailed off. Swallowed. "…my own blood. Oliver blindfolded me in the end. I just…" Sherlock gave a frustrated huff. "He knew how to get me to comply…the threat to Molly was just too real."
"Okay. If you heard him today, who'd you be able to identify his voice."
"I'm not that feeble, Mycroft."
"Very well, brother mine. How about we go about identifying the others. I'm almost certain given the police competencies that all of the ones you worked on would be cold cases."
"Not all of them were in London."
"Very well. Where do you want to start?"
"The ones I do remember…maybe there. If I can write down what I remember – how would we find the commonalities that match without raising suspicion?"
"Leave that to me, Sherlock. That's what the British Government is for."
He looked at the screen. The camera had worked as advertised. Had switched on the moment movement had been detected. Had sent him an alert text. He watched the consulting detective enter fully into the room. Squat down by the bloodstain, long fingers tracing. Looked around the room. In the end, the man sat down by the wall. Closed his eyes and seemed to be sleeping but he knew better. He knew about his mind palace. His techniques for analysing memories. His lips thinned as he contemplated this conundrum. It was at least thirty minutes before the brother entered and both men left.
This wouldn't do.
It wouldn't do at all.
It was late when he got back to Baker Street. John had already gone to bed. He had sent another text from Mycroft's phone, letting him know not to wait up. That he'd be fine. He sat down in his chair and texted Molly.
You good? SH
Going out. Everyone is meeting at a pub. Only be back late. MH
Okay. Be careful. Let me know when you're safely back in your room. SH
Will do. You had a good day? MH
…
…
Sherlock? MH
Will be okay. I promise. SH
Do you need me to come home? MH
No. Enjoy the night. Let me know when you're safe. SH
He stayed up, reading until her text came through to let him know that she was safely back at the hotel. He plugged his phone in afterwards and went to bed. Managed to get two hours in before the nightmares started again.
This time it wasn't Oliver.
It was about the files he worked on. The men and women he had helped plan to kill. In the end, he couldn't anymore. Got up and barely noticed the time. It was 4 am.
He picked up his violin and started working on his composition. John came down shortly after. Didn't say a word but made tea. Sat in his chair and read while Sherlock worked on his music. He lost himself in the flow of notes that came forth, his tea getting cold.
It was daybreak when he finally relented and stopped, his fingers sore. John was asleep in his chair, his head pillowed on his hand. Sherlock's lips curved upwards in a small smile.
John as ever, steady, and unassuming but bringing by his very presence comfort and stability. He knew then that as long as he had his friends, his brother, he'd be okay.
That Oliver would never win.
