Chapter 12
Day 11/12
Mycroft was back at his office. He had taken the hour trip contemplating Moriarty's words. It had been concerning, to say the least. He had known that Oliver had plans for his brother. Had read as much when he had studied the file.
He was seated behind his desk, his eyes closed and his fingers tented beneath his chin as he opened his mind to look at the possibilities before him. He entered his own mind palace. Went straight to the file cabinet of his brother. Opened the drawer that held all of Oliver's files in relation to Sherlock. Sat down in his leather chair.
Do you really want to look at this again?
He sighed. It had been hard reading it that first time. He still remembers the shock and then horror when he'd read what Oliver had done to his little brother. For that reason alone, he didn't blame Sherlock for pulling the trigger. He had subsequently reread the files while Sherlock had been recovering in the hospital. While Oliver was still at large to see if it could lead him to where the man had been hiding. The files were now in his mind palace. Encoded and not forgotten, despite what Moriarty was thinking. He could access them at will.
Have you ever asked the question what Oliver's end game was, my dear? Why was he training Sherlock? Why was he willing to spend the time and money to remake him?
And that was the crux of it. The reason why Oliver had decided that Sherlock would do. And it begs the other question, why did Jim Moriarty decide to use Oliver. What was so special about Oliver and his training methods that had excited the consulting criminal. He had considered those questions. It wasn't new to him at all. In the long nights while Sherlock had been recovering, he had been mulling them over. Even discussed it once or twice with Irene. She had seemed able to grasp these things a bit more than most people he knew.
As Sherlock had survived and continued to astound Oliver, the man's plans had clearly expanded. It was evident that he had been pleased immensely by Sherlock's fortitude. His brother's ability to absorb and learn. To adapt. And the fact that he could control him by Sherlock's fear of what he'd do to Molly Hooper. Had clearly shown his resolve to his brother by those three days. There was no guesswork. His brother knew exactly what would happen to Molly if he misbehaved. It was enough to make Sherlock compliant and do the side project of Oliver. To not have set a word of it to Molly.
He opened the file. Scanning over most of it until he found the paragraph he was looking for. It was towards the end of the file, just before Jim Moriarty made his play.
Sherlock's is progressing at a rapid pace. He is able to adjust to change in environments and do what is needed in order to protect Ms Hooper. He is beginning to come to accept that this is now his life. His inner turmoil is less evident than it has been at the start. I'm going to increase his privileges when he does well. Reinforce the good behaviour until it's cemented in. Encourage the development of Stockholm Syndrome even more. Once Jim is done with his little experiment, I'll take him away from the bothy. It's reached its peak efficiency in any case. A change of environment will be good. Better food and better shelter will increase his reliance on me. The threat of going back to the bothy would be another deterrent for keeping him in line. I foresee great things for our dear Mr Holmes in the coming years.
He closed the file. Put it back in the file cabinet and lock it in place. That is what he wanted to contemplate. The reason Oliver was more than willing to expand time and money on his little brother.
He looked up when a knock came on his door. He was annoyed. He left clear instructions to not be disturbed.
"Sorry, Sir. I think you'd want to see this," Anthea said. Entered the room with a piece of paper in her hand. "It was delivered to the front desk by one of Sherlock's Homeless Brigade."
Mycroft took the paper from her. Opened it.
Check the video feed. Someone was in my room. He had a gun on John. I had no choice but to take the drug. I want you to remember your promise. I'll contact you when I'm ready.
Mycroft folded the paper. Put it in his jacket pocket. "What do you want to do?" Anthea asked.
Your little brother is in for a world of pain... And then he'll be me and you'll be lost.
"Status quo. Continue the search. Despite what my little brother thinks is the right thing to do, he can't do this alone. He is vulnerable. Moriarty knows this."
Anthea nodded. Shut the door behind her. Mycroft stayed seated for another five minutes. Decided he needed a bit more privacy for what he wanted to do.
It was dark by the time he got home. He placed his briefcase in his study and made his way to the kitchen. Got his secret stash out from behind the biscuit bin. Went outside and sat down on the bench. The temperature had dropped and he pulled his coat tight around himself as he lit his first cigarette. Irene found him there thirty minutes later after he had started on his second.
"That bad?" She asked. Sat down next to him.
"I fear my little brother made a grave mistake."
"What did he do?"
Mycroft sighed. Took a drag of his cigarette, the tip glowed bright red in the dark. Blew out the smoke. "He decided that alone was better."
Irene was quiet. Shifted next to him. Mycroft knocked ash off. "There was a man in Sherlock's room the night of his overdose. It is very obvious now what had happened. He pretended to be Oliver. Had been smart enough to utilise my brother's triggers to secure his compliance. He provided the drug and threatened to kill John unless Sherlock injected himself." He took another drag and then dropped the cigarette as he blew out the smoke. Grounded it under his shoe into the blades of grass as he stood up. Held his hand out and helped Irene up. "My brother is determined to not be in a position again like he had been with Molly Hooper and Oliver. In his mind, he thinks he's doing the right thing. To have a go at finding this man before he could do what Oliver did."
"Very understandable," Irene said, as they stepped into the kitchen. Made her way to the kettle and switched it on. "Sherlock is nothing but predictable."
"That is what I'm afraid of, Irene. This man who had pretended to be Oliver is not that stupid. And I'm afraid my brother is being emotional and reactive. Not helpful at all."
Irene turned to Mycroft, placed two cups on the table. "There's more going on than this man, Mycroft. What's wrong?"
Mycroft watched her pour the water into the teapot. Stirred the leaves and then brought it to the table to steep. "Moriarty," he said simply.
"You went to see him?" she asked. Stirred the water. Proceeded to pour the tea for both of them in the Meissen cups.
"Yes."
"You realise that Jim likes to rile people up. He knows you well, Mycroft. Don't fall for his mind games."
Mycroft gave a half smile. "I'm not my brother, Irene."
She gave a soft smile. "Clearly not. But beware, Myc. Tread very carefully with anything he says to you."
He took a sip of his tea. "He seems to know who this man is. And what his plan for my brother is. Alluded to the plan that Oliver had for creating a second consulting criminal. Seemed to be proud of the fact that Sherlock would become him."
Irene chuckled. "Well, that would feed Jim's ego to no end. To have a Holmes at his beck and call."
"Yes well, I'm planning to delude him of that notion. Giles had worked with Sherlock on mechanisms he could employ if he ever got taken again. But I fear that if this man knew Oliver as closely as I suspect, he would have Oliver's notes on Sherlock. In that case, I'm not entirely certain if Giles' training would help. Sherlock still struggles with triggers. Dissociation on some of the more potent ones. All he would need to do is to focus on those ones and he'd have entry into my brother's mind."
"Don't underestimate your brother, Myc," Irene said. "He's stronger than you think."
He finished his tea. Stood up and took her cup to the basin. Placed them in. "How is your search going," he asked over his shoulder while he washed the cups.
"Despite the fact that he's dead, Olive's name still retains some power. How much that has to do with Jim and his interference I can't say yet." Irene says. "Those I've spoken to, have clamped up. Snitching even when the man is dead is still seen as a big no-no. So far no luck, I'm afraid."
He nodded. Turned around and stepped towards her. "There's not much left of both his and Jim's organisations."
"I know. But there are others, Myc, as you are well aware."
"Here be dragons…" he said softly, contemplative. "And our dragon-slayer I fear has gone off to war without his trusty steed."
"John?"
"Yes. Not just John but the rest of us," he said softly. "My dear brother has forgotten the lessons he learned with Oliver. As I said, he's emotional. Impulsive. Not thinking rationally. Making decisions in isolation, not considering all the facts. I will do what I can from this side to make it easier for him but I foresee that he will very soon be in the hands of this person that was in his room. I'm cognizant of the fact that Moriarty is in play as well. How he intersects with this man I'm still working on. Whether it's a partnership or if Jim is just seeing an opportunity with someone who is an independent agent. That will come clearer over time."
Irene leaned in, her arms going around Mycroft in a hug. Looked up at him. "I'll say this again, Myc. Sherlock is stronger than you think. He'll manage."
He gave her a half smile. Returned her hug. "He'll manage," he said softly, "But it's dealing with the fallout afterwards that is my concern. We've already seen the result of Oliver."
"And that is why he'll be fine," she says, leaning into his chest. "He's survived Oliver. No one else had managed it before."
Mycroft gave a deep sigh. Stepped away from her after a moment. Focused on the fridge and the menus on it. "The difference though," he said as he took down the menu for the Indian Takeaway, "is he had Molly Hooper with him last time." Turned to her with the paper. "She was used to controlling his behaviour but she was also the reason why he'd survived Oliver. I'm well aware of that. This time…" he paused. Put the menu on the table as he met her eyes. "This time my brother is going at it alone. Out of his own perceived attempt to protect. That is where my concern lies."
"You've mellowed, Mycroft." Irene said as she picked up the menu. Scanned the menu items. "Is that a hint of sentiment I'm detecting?" she asked with a wink.
"Just protecting the family name," he said with a smile. "Mummy would be upset if anything were to happen to my little brother."
"Ah, that's the only reason?" she asked in jest. Pulled out her phone. "The usual?" she asked. He nodded.
"Well, it will be a bit harder to get a good dragon-slayer again. He does have some utility here in London."
Irene laughed. "Utility? Yes. I can see why both of you are the way you are…" Held up her hand as a voice answered the call. Ordered their food while Mycroft got out plates and cutlery.
They ate in companionable silence when the food arrived. Went to bed afterwards. Before he fell asleep Mycroft thought of his brother.
I hope you know what you're doing, brother mine. Because so far, it's not a great start.
He felt guilty at what he'd done to John. It wasn't his finest moment, upping and leaving like that but he had seen no choice. He had gotten Billy Wiggins to help him. He brought clothes and a wheelchair. Billy was dressed as an orderly. The lift doors were closing as John had come out of the kitchen. It had been a minor miracle that his friend hadn't noticed him. A taxi ride later and he had again needed Wiggins help to get from the car to his bolt hole. The effort had left him depleted of energy and he had been annoyed at his transport and its weakness. For a very brief moment he had regretted his action. Had thought that maybe he shouldn't have done what he did but he had squashed down the thought as soon as it surfaced.
No. Alone was definitely better for now.
Wiggins had gone off and had come back later with water and some sandwiches from a deli. Had drunk a whole bottle in one go but had left the food and afterwards he had sent Billy away again with instructions to drop a note off for his brother. He just wasn't hungry and he needed to think. But his transport had other ideas and he had in fact fallen asleep soon after. Had slept most of yesterday, only waking up to use the facilities. That had been a hard slog too. Getting up off the mattress and making it to the bathroom and back.
It's been much harder than he'd anticipated. His energy levels were appalling. He hadn't bothered taking off the tracksuit and t-shirt that Billy had provided. It just was too much to deal with at the moment. He had just kind of fell onto the mattress, pulled blankets over himself and then he'd closed his eyes and slept. He had woken sometime during the night and had drunk another bottle of water. He was uncomfortable and sore. Done his ablutions and fell asleep again. His transport was disgusting. He was annoyed and irritated when he woke in the morning.
You're a bloody idiot, you know that right.
John was back. Not the real one. The imaginary one that had been with him all through his time with Oliver. A familiar, welcoming presence. He gave a small smile. "I have a plan," he murmured. Pulled the blanket around himself as he sat up on the mattress, his back against the wall. Pulled his legs up and leaned his elbows on his knees, arms hanging freely.
No, you don't. This was just panicking, Sherlock.
He pulled the blanket over his head. Of course, John's voice was still there.
Hiding is not helping, Sherlock. I'm in your head, remember.
He huffed. Sat back with his head leaning against the wall, eyes closed. The blanket slipped down. His bloody transport wasn't cooperating. He needed to fix that. He thought of Molly.
His hands clenched. Emotions warred. Guilt came forward, strongly. He squashed it down.
Come on, mate. You shouldn't be doing this alone.
"Ha. That's where you're wrong, John. He was in my bedroom. Had a gun on you…" he trails off. Ignore the little voice telling him that this is all so very wrong. That he was making a mistake. That he's being an idiot. He takes a shuddering breath. The familiar tang of fear filled his nostrils and then Oliver was in the room with him. Materialising from the corner. Insidious.
You belong to me, Mr Holmes.
"No!" His voice was loud and he hadn't meant to be that vocal.
I'm in your head. You're never getting rid of me. Now be a good boy and do as you're told.
He shook his head. "Not real. Not real. You're dead, so shut up," he says. His hand bunches into the blanket, pulling and tugging until his breathing has calmed. Oliver dissipates with a smile. He wipes his face. Realises that his hand is shaking.
Bloody transport.
He still felt out of sorts. Whatever had been in the syringe that Oliver had given him was playing havoc with his senses. With his transport's signals. He wondered if the fatigue that was dragging him down was another symptom. He completely ignored John's voice telling him that he should still be in hospital.
He took his time then, sitting on the mattress against the wall. Went through all his symptoms and what he could remember. Pulled apart of past remembered drug use and the way he'd react. Definitely a hallucinogen, probably LSD or psilocybin. He thought there was some sort of opioid thrown in there. The high he'd experienced was definitely leaning towards it. How the man had managed to combine the two into some twisted hybrid form…now that would take someone with particular skill. There was some other type of chemical present. He wasn't entirely sure what but it didn't really matter.
His body had obviously reacted. He vaguely recalled the cooling blankets. The feeling of his heart racing, threatening to burst out of his chest. The dreams, vivid and then the nightmares. Oliver didn't want him dead. He wanted him out of the way.
Why?
He sighed. Braced himself and then focused on the memory of Oliver in his room. Fear and dread immediately made their presence known. It took some time to unravel the emotions from his transport. To get rid of sentiment. He somehow managed to force them away so that he could look at the scene from a spectator viewpoint.
I was there, Sherlock. Oliver is dead.
"Yes, I'm very aware he's dead, John. You don't have to remind me."
Fine. So who was in your room, little brother. Think. Or are your brain too addled? Did you become stupid, brother mine.
"Get out of my head, Mycroft. I don't need you," he stated softly, wiping the air in front of his face. Wiped his brother away as the scene of his bedroom centred onto his mind. Of the man leaning over him…
Squashed the fear again.
Stupid transport, stop reacting.
Took a slow breath, focused on the image again. It was Oliver…yet it wasn't. The face was …rounder. The nose is a bit straighter. The eyes… He frowned. Focused and zoomed in. Ignoring the dread that spread fingers wide, his stomach clenched.
His eyes opened, wide and blinking. "Oh." The rush as he saw and understood was exhilarating as always.
What did you see, Sherlock?
John again, a smirk evident in the question. "Contact lenses. He had contact lenses. Oliver didn't wear contacts."
Good, mate. Brilliant. What else?
Even in fear his brain had managed to catalogue all of the man's characteristics.
Wig. Dark brown hair, small strands peeking out from the back. Man in his forties. Crow's feet around eyes. Eye colour lighter – probability blue. Contact lenses brown. Hand on his lips were callused. Fingers and thumb. Some manual work in his early twenties before changing jobs. Smell of sweat and something else…a musky mouldy odour. A tang of …
He sat up. His nose wrinkled at the familiar scent of …roses.
No…
Molly!
The man had been in contact with Molly. It was unbelievably true.
Fear dried his mouth. He swallowed hard as he pushed himself to his feet, hands splayed on the wall behind him. His transport protested. He ignored the dizziness. Ignored the signals that were screaming across the divide of his transport and hard drive.
Bloody hell, sit down Sherlock. You're going to faint.
John's voice was incessant. He swiped his hand in the air, hoping to dispel the noise.
Molly was in danger. He had no idea how he knew. Just that he did. He took a step forward, intent on moving when the world tilted. As he went down, his body slamming into the floor of his bolt hole, he thought, "Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. This is your fault."
Darkness threatened. He curled into himself, the familiar ache of his ribs flaring in protest. Falling had definitely not been good. He had hit the ground hard on his right side, right at the point where his ribs had been plated.
Not a bit good, Sherlock.
He couldn't breathe. He opened his mouth, sucked in air. His vision greyed further. He heard the front door open and measured steps into the cabin. He looked at the brown sensible hiking boots and tan slacks that came into view. The man crouched, balancing on the balls of his feet.
"You're a hard man to find, Mr Holmes." The man said, forcing his head to turn. He could barely make out the silhouette of the person in front of him. His eyes closed as the world slipped further from his grasp. "Don't worry…" he heard as hands slipped behind his back pulling him upwards. His head lolled on the man's shoulder and then an arm was under his legs. "…you're mine now."
He couldn't breathe.
He just…couldn't…breathe.
He heard a grunt and then he was in the air, nestled against the man who wasn't Oliver in a fireman's carry. The man who had contact with Molly. The man that had sat with Oliver on that day discussing him.
He whimpered.
"Shhhh. It will be fine. Just let go, Mr Holmes. You're not well. Sleep now."
He weakly shook his head but suddenly found that he was too tired to protest.
Darkness threatened and despite his internal protestation, it pulled its blanket over him.
"Why are we here?" Sherlock asked. He watched as Goon 3 was setting up the chairs. Two camping chairs and the event chair. His lips thinned and he met Oliver's gaze fully. Didn't back down.
"Because he wanted to see you again. You did good with the first three."
Sherlock broke his gaze. Turned his back to Oliver and looked out at the vista before him. A gentle slope down into more rolling hills. Clouds were scattered across the sky, white and curled against the light blue of the expanse. Birds were flirting in the air currents, far away and distant. As ever the wind was present but soft, caressing. The sense of peace and tranquillity so far removed from his circumstances.
"I thought we were done," he said wearily. "The last one…" he closed eyes at the memory of pain and drugs and vague images of uncertainty.
"You don't have a choice, Mr Holmes. It is time you learned to accept that this is your life now."
He shook his head, his focus not leaving the vista before him. His left hand clenched, his shoulder flaring in sympathy. Even now…even now his shoulder still hurts. A hand settled on his shoulder, as if Oliver could read his mind. He came to stand next to Sherlock.
"You belong to me, Mr Holmes. As you progress, things will get better. You and Ms Hooper are making a life for yourselves. Don't discount the training you had so far…"
He scoffed. "Training? Is that what you call it."
Oliver turned him so that he was forced to face the other man. "Do you need a reminder, Mr Holmes?"
He dropped his head. "No," he said softly.
"Very well. You will be given headphones. Focus on that while our client and I discuss details. Do you remember the rules?"
"Do not look at him. Don't deduce."
Oliver made a satisfied humming sound. "Very good, Mr Holmes. You are learning." He put an arm around Sherlock's shoulders. "Come, Mr Holmes. Let's take a seat. Enjoy the rest before your challenge."
Sherlock allowed Oliver to steer him to the chairs. What else could he do? They sat in silence until the sound of a Jeep engine broke the quiet. Sherlock looked up when Goon 1 came and stood in front of him, the hated headphones in his hand. His stomach clenched and he had to swallow the fear that came with immediate effect whenever he saw the headphones. Molly's screams still seemed to echo in his head. With trembling hands, he took it. Put it on and when the car door slammed shut and Oliver's voice came in greeting did the music start.
As usual it started with Bach's Partita number 2.
He leaned back in the chair, stretched out his legs and closed his eyes. Let the music wash over and through him while Oliver's hand was heavy on his head. He understood why the other man was doing it. Possession. Pure and simple. Just letting Sherlock know that he had no control whatsoever. That his and Molly's existence was entirely up to the man that sat next to him.
Not the end, Sherlock. Be wise. Bide your time. He'll make a mistake.
John as ever was encouraging. But it was getting harder and harder to trust in John. To hear his friend and know that they are looking. That he and Molly will find a way to escape Oliver. It's been almost four months now. And as time was marching on, the voice of John was getting lost in the cacophony of Oliver's.
He was just tired.
Don't let Oliver win.
And that was Molly. Her voice and courage strong. For Molly, he thought. For her he'll not give up. For John he'll be wise.
Oliver's hand left his head and the music stopped. He knew what was coming. Didn't even blink when Oliver stood in front of him with the blindfold. Put it on and then he stood, same as last time. The hand that wasn't Oliver held him by the chin, turning his face to the side.
"He's looking better than last time. A little thin, though. Are you actually feeding him, Oliver?"
"Enough." Oliver said, clearly irritated at the question. "Mr Holmes is still retaining the lessons he was taught. There has been no need to go that route again. He's learning what is expected of him," Oliver stated proudly.
The hand dropped from his chin to his neck and then his chest. Same as last time. Sherlock hadn't liked it last time. Liked it even less now.
"Do you have any objection to your task, Mr Holmes," he asked.
"I have no choice." He stated simply. The hand stayed on his chest and he rolled his shoulders, hoping that man would step away.
"Not the question I asked, Mr Holmes." The man said in a dangerous tone.
Sherlock's head dropped. He pressed his lips tight. Fidgeted.
"Truth please."
He huffed. "Planning someone's death is not exactly my idea of a Sunday afternoon out."
The man laughed, his hand dropping away from his chest. "Oh. You're funny. That's hilarious." Sherlock heard the rustle of clothes. "Very well, Oliver. I agree to your terms. I'll be sending the next one to you shortly." The voice got a bit louder as the man turned back to Sherlock. A hand possessive on his shoulder.
"The next one will be a bit more of a challenge, Mr Holmes. Despite your protestations, I think you'll enjoy planning this one."
