The peaceful atmosphere of the Diogenes Club set Mycroft on edge. The sunlight filtering through the parted curtains coupled with the wafting scent of absurdly expensive tea should have been more than enough to clear his mind. He knew it was irrational, he knew that this whole situation was ridiculous because there was no way that Sherlock would-
Mycroft sipped at his tea delicately, ignoring the way that it scalded his tongue and left the roof of his mouth tingling. Next to him, a discarded newspaper’s headline blared “CONSULTING DETECTIVE BACK FROM THE DEAD: SHERLOCK HOLMES FACING LIFE SENTENCE”. Forced level-headedness aside, nothing could stop him from recognising the familiar dull ache in his chest.
For the first time in a very long while, Mycroft Holmes felt betrayed.
***
Greg stood in the doorway where he was told he would find Mycroft. Stepping inside the Doigenes Club, he felt like an outsider- mainly because he was- but the men sitting, reading their paper didn’t make any notice that he even came in. It didn’t take much searching to find Mycroft.
Greg went to stand in front of Mycroft, blocking his vision from the wall he was staring off into.
“Mycroft, hi, look, there’s something I need to talk to you about,” Greg said and suddenly all eyes were on him. Greg tried to ignore the stares.
“I don’t know if it’d be better for you if we step outside or something,” Greg continued and this time he recieved glares from the other men. Greg glanced helplessly at Mycroft.
***
Gregory Lestrade. An interesting- though mildly unwelcome- development.
Mycroft could tell that the man wanted to speak about Sherlock [it was practically written all over his exhausted face] even though it was inherently obvious that all Mycroft wanted to do was finish his tea and brood. As far as he was concerned, his brother was guilty.
But the sight of the Detective Inspector floundering in a sea of silent, angry old men was rather comical, and Mycroft couldn’t bring himself to call security. It wouldn’t hurt to placate him, after all.
With a delicate sigh, he placed a finger to his lips- the universal ‘shush-ing’ gesture- and stood up, beckoning the policeman outside.
***
Greg stood outside beside Mycroft. It would be best to leave the “no talking” questions out of this conversation, there were mreo important matters.
“It’s about your brother. I think- I know he’s innocent…well he’s not, but he didn’t- he was forced. It was Moriarty,” Greg said, but Mycroft didn’t look convinced.
***
Mycroft pinched the bridge of his noise, suddenly in no mood to listen to this man trip and stumble over weak attempts to protect his brother.
“Doubtless he has told you as much. What you choose to believe is hardly any of my concern, and I can assure you that this has been a wasted visit on your behalf.” His tone was clipped, signifying a rapid end to this conversation.
***
Greg groaned aloud at Mycroft’s annoyed gesture.
“Look, he’s gonna be in court soon and if he’s found guilty, he’ll be in jail for a few life sentenses,” Greg said, finally finding his words. Mycroft still looked unconvinced and rather bored with the conversation. “This is your brother we’re talking about! How can this not bother you? I’m sure there’s something you can do to help him. It’s for your brother.” Greg attempted going in at an emotional side, hoping the elder Holmes had a more in tune emotional range than his brother. Turned out he was wrong.
***
“Facts do not cease to exist simply because they are ignored, Detective Inspector.” the quote came out sharper than he intended it to be, and Mycroft had to fight to keep his expression neutral. “Regardless of my familial ties to Sherlock, the fact remains that in the eye of the law, he is a criminal.”
He looked over at Lestrade then, his gaze cold and unforgiving. Even after all this time, people were still unflinchingly loyal to his brother. Fools.
***
“It was Moriarty that did this. Mycroft, you knew him, knew that Moriarty was real,” Greg said, trying to give Mycroft his facts. “Moriarty had John, Harry his sister and me kidnapped to blackmail Sherlock into committing those crimes and to come out of hiding. Look,” Greg said, rolling up the sleeve on his left arm, just above the elbow to show off a now-healing scar with some black stitches sticking up. “Can you really imagine your brother taking part in doing this to someone?”
***
Mycroft looked at the healing wound with a detached sort of interest before shaking his head. He knew that James Moriarty was real, was fully aware of the existence of Sebastian Moran, but could not [would not?] ignore such blatantly incriminating evidence.
“Whatever misplaced devotion you have towards my brother, I suggest that you heavily rethink it. Sherlock is not above such means, and I hardly pretend to have any insight into his motives.” He spared another disparaging glance at the other man before looking away into the dewy morning, quite obviously unimpressed.
***
“So that’s just it then? You’re gonna let your little brother rot away in a cell for saving me and John and Harry? Fuck, do you not get it?” Greg paused to calm himself, getting angry with Mycroft probably wouldn’t put him on the winning side.
Greg decided to leave it at that, to have Mycroft think it over and hopefully come to his senses, but as soon as he turned to walk away, he quickly turned back to face him again. “Mycroft, every time you told me to look over Sherlock, I did. Now it’s your turn to listen to me so I suggest you get off your lazy arse and do something to get Sherlock out of this.”
***
Mycroft was nearly impressed with this man’s tenacity. Lesser men had spoken to him like that and had been relocated to Serbia. Permanently.
Lestrade’s words spun around in Mycroft’s brain, reminding him of just how much he had failed abandoned betrayed ignored Sherlock. But he had brought upon himself, had he not? His brother was proud, far too proud, and that was his downfall.
The politician kept his smile pleasantly empty. “Pray don’t think of this as laziness on my part, Detective Inspector. You must understand how this looks to me. My brother borrowed quite a large sum of money from me and then used it to deal arms- being coerced into a situation of that nature is highly unlikely, is it not?”
***
“Sherlock did that because he had to!” Greg said, not even bothering to hide his iritation and aggression. “Sherlock was forced and you know it.” Greg wasn’t entirely sure that Mycroft knew, but it made him sound like he knew what he was talking about.
“I don’t know if there’s some feud between the two of you or what, but why are you having such a hard time with this?”
***
Abruptly, Mycroft took a step forward- as a threat or a warning, he wasn’t sure.
“I don’t take kindly to being crossed, Detective Inspector. I requested an explanation many times before this, but he deemed me an unfit recipient of such information- and please, spare me with the sentiment that it was an effort to protect me. Sherlock is fully aware-“
He stopped himself mid-rant, realising too late that he had let more slip than was strictly necessary. Taking a small steadying breath, Mycroft stepped back, looking nowhere near as apologetic as he should have been. God, he needed a cigarette.
“Whatever crimes my brother has committed- motivations aside- there is little that my position allows me to do. I quite hope that you understand.”
***
When Mycroft stepped forward, Greg felt as if he was out of his area. Silently, he was telling himself he had dealt with more serious people, people that committed crimes and were dangerous, not a well-dressed bloke. As best as he tried, he could hardly hide his- fear? No, he was not fearful.
And just like that, the tables turned. “Are you trying to say that you knew about this?” This man was impossible to figure. Greg was sure he could have a more understanding conversation with a spoon.
“Knew about it or not, I’m sure you could do something about, you just choose to leave your brother when he needs you,” Greg said, trying to keep his voice even and keep a smile hidden. This time, he was sure he had Mycroft cornered with wordplay. With reverse psychology.
Greg crossed his fingers, hoping Mycroft didn’t notice the subtle gesture. Greg was sure Mycroft would get his brother out of this mess.
***
Mycroft stayed silent for a moment, processing his options. He knew that what this man was saying was true, despite his blatantly manipulative wordplay. Mycroft had abandoned Sherlock when it was well within his power to do otherwise, in addition to supplying one of the world’s most dangerous masterminds with the very information that would tear his brother’s life apart. Truly, in this scenario, who was the guilty party?
And with that, his mind was made up.
“I hardly think that crossing your fingers will do you any good, Mister Lestrade.” The sneering remark came out before he could catch himself. “Nevertheless, luck seems to be on your side today. I will see what I can do, though I cannot insure you of any success.”
Mycroft wasn’t doing this for Sherlock.
***
Greg did his best to hide his stupid grin, but the attempts didn’t work. Clearing his throat, he tried to compose himself. “Yeah. Good.” Greg had no idea what to do. Should he shake his hand? Just give a nod? It didn’t seem good enough. Greg just settled for a “Thank you for your time.”
***
Mycroft dutifully ignored Lestrade’s nearly ridiculous grin along with a rather nasty desire to send his brother off the edge of the Eiffel Tower and be done with it all. Crossing his arms behind his back -effectively cutting off any opportunity for a handshake-, he merely smirked.
“Naturally, Detective Inspector. Do have a pleasant morning.”
(Thread with Mary and Anthea, with an appearance by Mycroft)
Mary woke in a daze. Her head was pounding and she lay on the floor with her eyes shut, not able to move immediately. Something in her must have changed when she’d awakened though, as a trembling Gladstone approached and started snuffling at her face. She lifted a half-numb hand to wave him off, but it changed into a grab halfway through and she held him to her, opening her eyes. She couldn’t have been unconscious for more than a minute or two, but it had disoriented her. Gladstone’s warm, if still shaking, presence by her side helped to ground her, and for a bleary, overwhelmed moment she almost laughed at the fact that she was comforting the dog after Moran’s attack instead of the other way around.
Text: Mycroft Holmes:
This is Mary. Moran was just here. Please hurry. I think he took John.
She hit send on the message and sat back down, curling her fingers back into Gladstone’s fur and hugging the dog tightly, silently praying that help wouldn’t be long in coming.
***
This whole ordeal was turning out to be rather inconvenient. Mycroft’s surveillance had been revoltingly slow [what else was new- those so-called ‘specially trained’ buffoons couldn’t do anything by themselves] and heads were going to roll.
Text from- John Watson:
This is Mary. Moran was just here. Please hurry. I think he took John.
He had nearly forgotten about the wife- perhaps he was getting slow.. Pushing that thought aside, he sent another text out.
If you will, please stay where you are. Assistance arriving momentarily. MH
And to think, he had rather been hoping for the night off.
***
Mary got up from the floor, her nervous energy making it too difficult to stay put for long. She paced to the window and glanced outside again, before turning and leaving the room, Gladstone dogging her heels, his collar jingling. She walked past the bathroom and down the stairs, comforted by the empty feeling of the house. Moran hadn’t lingered, she was sure of it. John’s phone buzzed in her hand and she pushed the button, glancing at the screen.
Text from Mycroft Holmes:
If you will, please stay where you are. Assistance arriving momentarily. MH
She sighed with a nervous sense of relief. Help was on its way. She wanted very badly to ask questions. Where was John, what was going on, who was coming to their home to help, but she couldn’t fit it all in one message so she didn’t even try, already impatient to leave to somewhere safer.
Text to Mycroft Holmes:
I am waiting by the door. I hope your assistance plans on taking me with them because I can’t stand to stay here right now. -MW
She hit send right as headlights flashed by outside and her head snapped up to look onto the street. She saw a few shadowy forms ghost past the house before there was a knock on the door. She was afraid to open it.
***
Anthea was dwarfed by the size of the two buffoons that Mr. Holmes had set with her to retrieve Dr. Watson’s wife, Mary. The normally roomy car was suddenly crowded by the mass of muscle and lack of brain which made her fairly unhappy. More or less she was concerned for Mary and her safety. Well, Dr. Watson’s safety as well. Pulling up to the curb of their home, Anthea stepped out first, the two muscles following closely behind. She knocked on the door and waited for Mary to answer. When she knocked, there was no answer, but Anthea knew Mary was there. She’s probably frightened, she thought to herself.
“Mary?” Anthea called out, “It’s…Becky, Mycroft’s PA. Please open the door, I’ve two men here who are going to sweep the house.”
She waited, her fingers twitching on the blackberry. She stuffed the phone in her pocket, now was not the time to be cold and callous.
***
Mary sighed in relief as she heard the woman’s voice on the other side of the door mention Mycroft’s name. Thank God, she thought and unlocked the door, opening it slowly and flicking on the entryway light. She blinked in the sudden brightness and stepped out of the way to let Mycroft’s people in the house.
“He’s not here, he ran off. Moran I mean. John isn’t here either. I don’t know where he is, or if he was taken. Do you have any idea what is happening? Has Mycroft heard anything at all?” She knew she was accosting the poor PA, her anxiety flooding her at the same time the relief at no longer being alone rushed into her. She folded her arms closely to her chest and tried not to look so desperate.
***
Instantly, once the door opened Anthea stepped aside for the men to come in, instantly the began sweeping the place, walking around the perimeter of the room, scanning shelves, objects, furniture-anything that may have been recently misplaced. Anthea straightened up and looked at the frightened woman, arms crossed, and gave her the warmest smile she could muster (which, in her opinion was still rather cold)
“Mary,” she said calmly, trying to soothe her, “Did you see him at all? Did he take anything else? Does anything look out of place?” she glanced back towards the back as one man headed toward the kitchen. She asked if she knew what was happening and Anthea gave her grim smile “Not here,” she said, “If you would, please come with me.”
Her fingers ached for her Blackberry in her pocket, but she knew that now would not be the time to play with the keys. Mycroft had informed her this was top priority at the moment, so her emails would have to wait. Unsure what to do with her hands, she clasped them together in front of her and waited. “Please,” she said, “Time is of the utmost importance.”
***
Mary stood in the entryway, trying to keep her wits about her as she watched the large men begin moving around the house, searching for evidence of Moran’s visit. She regarded the cold woman before her with a small frown, not sure what to make of her. “I was upstairs. He came in the room. I think to make sure I didn’t call anyone for help. But I’d already received the message from Mycroft and once he saw it he left.” She decided to leave out the part where she’d tried to shoot him.
She grabbed her jacket from the peg on the wall and put it on slowly, not giving in to the other woman’s impatience. She was hardly dressed to go out, but she barely noticed. She slipped John’s phone into the pocket and reached for Gladstone’s leash, hesitating only slightly before clipping it to his collar without a word. She couldn’t just leave him here, after all. She stood straight again and met the other woman’s eyes, half daring her to comment on her unspoken demand to bring the dog along, “Where exactly are we going?”
***
Anthea nodded as she told her what had occurred. It was nothing she already didn’t know, or what she could deduce from what little information Mr. Holmes had given her. She adjusted her coat just a little bit before the two loons came out, one holding a gun.
“Recently fired, ma’am,” he said, holding it up. Anthea turned back to Mary, a thin eyebrow raised in questioning. She didn’t even need to ask a question. Anthea was sure either she or John had fired it, she would have told her if it’d been Moran.
She watched as Mary clipped the leash on the dog standing near her. Anthea didn’t say anything as she did so. If the dog wanted to go, then it would go, she’d just have to switch the destination. She was sure the house Mr. Holmes had originally picked for them to meet at would not appreciate the furry animal destroying the marble floors.
“I’m afraid it’s classified,” Anthea said, when she asked where they were going. In truth, she didn’t know either. Instead, Anthea stepped patiently aside from the door, waiting for Mary to leave first. Once they were in the car again, Anthea would be able to touch her phone and text Mr. Holmes to set a location. It was safer this way.
***
Mary pulled her jacket tight around her and tugged on Gladstone’s leash, giving the other woman an uneasy look when she wouldn’t tell her where they are going. She headed out the door, Gladstone following at her heels, and made her way to the ominous black car parked right in front of the house. In the face of all that had happened, her anger over the recent events had burned down to only coals, slowly consumed by fear and uncertainty.
She climbed in the car and pulled Gladstone in after her, tugging him half onto her lap to make room for Betty, or Becky, or whatever her name had been. Mary couldn’t remember and honestly didn’t have it in her to care. She watched out the window as the car pulled away from the house, nervously chewing on her knuckle and burying her fingers in Gladstone’s warm fur, her thoughts tangled with endless worry.
***
Anthea nodded her head and stepped out behind Mary, the two muscles following her out. She made sure the place was shut tight before climbing into the car behind Mary, scooting up close to the fluffily dog that she’d been adamant on bringing along. Tapping on the window she leaned over to the driver.
“12 Chelsea Park Gardens,” Anthea said, picking a safe house that backed up to somewhat of a park. The driver nodded and pulled away from the curb, Anthea settling back into her seat. Quickly (and thankfully) she pulled out her phone and shot a text off to Mr. Holmes
Text to Mycroft
Dr. Watson’s wife is currently with us. She and her dog are heading to Chelsea safe house.
-Anthea.
She stuck her phone back into her back into her pocket (regretfully) and smiled the best she could at Mary before turning her face back out the window. She hoped Mr. Holmes would meet them there. She wasn’t very good with social interactions.
***
The drive to the safe house was uneventful, and Mary got settled in as quickly as possible, shutting herself in the bedroom with Gladstone to avoid any more dealings with the other woman. Not that she was paying much attention to Mary anyway, she appeared to be glued to her phone. Mary had wanted answers but it was clear that no one had any. Mary called Gladstone up on the bed and tried to rest, but her worries were many and daunting, and she tossed and turned almost until the sun rose before finally falling into a fitful and nightmare riddled sleep.
Mary awakened to afternoon sunlight streaming through her window and she glanced blearily around the room for a clock, but there wasn’t one. She sat up on the bed, disturbing a sleeping Gladstone only slightly, before reaching over to grab John’s phone off the nightstand where she’d placed it the night before . She regretted not bringing her own phone, but there was nothing for it. She hadn’t been thinking clearly before leaving the house. She pressed the button to light up the screen. 2:30PM. She felt slightly sick to her stomach. It had been over twelve hours since Moran had shown up at the house again. Over twelve hours since John had been taken. She slipped out of bed and walked across to the door, hoping someone would have answers for her by now.
It had been roughly an hour since his wife had been admitted, and John is growing very tired. He’d stayed with her for as long as he could, even helped mop the blood off her in the ambulance, but now he’s stuck in the waiting area. Mary had been wheeled off for an X-Ray - suspected broken rib.
He stands from the cushiony chair, leaving behind his shrugged-away coat (where the folded note remains in his pocket), and glances across the room. A few people in there with him - some chatting, some with their head in theirs hands. None by the tea vending machine though, and he might as well if it’ll keep him awake.
The machine is in the corner of the room, a good few feet away, so John grips his walking stick and walks towards it. His back to his seat, and counting out a palmful of change with his thumb.
***
The soft ‘ding’ of the hospital elevator.
“No, I just got to the third floor.” A man stepped out, wearing skinny washed-out jeans and a faded green hoodie, his voice light as he spoke on his mobile. “It’s, um… the waiting room,” he said, walking over to the seats and sitting down in one of them next to the aisle. “Um, the blue one.” A short pause as he waited for a reply, his dark brown eyes glancing around the room. “No, you said third. Oh, come on, he’s your brother!” he exclaimed with a laugh. “You should know which floor he’s on!” Sprawling back in his chair, stretching out his legs, he laughed again. “Right, so fourth floor. Jeez.” With an exaggerated sigh, he stood up, accidentally knocking the jacket off the seat next to him. Hurriedly, he picked it up and put it back on the chair. “Yeah, yeah…” he said, still speaking into the phone, “I’m on my way. Gimme a minute, okay?” He ended the call and started to walk back to the elevator, both hands in his pockets.
The soft ‘ding’ of the hospital elevator.
8 people in the room, excluding John Watson, nurses station to the right, cameras at 9,11 and 4 o’clock. The lenses itch.
Deep breath.
Walk.
Most likely in right pocket; easy enough.
Right pocket. John, always so reliable.
Time to leave.
***
Skip the milk, why not. Maybe the extra kick will wake him up. Slotting in a 50p piece, and an assortment of pocket change equalling one pound-twenty pence in total, John stands back and waits for his strong tea, massaging the corner of his forehead with his eyes frowned shut until the machine whirrs, and produces a steaming polystyrene cup.
Distantly, he can perceive some bloke chuntering into his phone. Not that John is bothered, or even cares. Just another person at the hospital, and on the wrong floor apparently - according to his a bit-too-chippy conversation. Forgetting him quickly, he moves back to his chair and slumps back down, swearing under his breath as he accidentally splashes a bit of his tea onto himself.
He didn’t even notice his jacket had been hung onto the back of his chair, as opposed to it being rumpled across the seat cushion just a minute earlier.
***
Near the elevator, Sherlock watched John, reflected in the curved mirror in the corner of the room. Tentatively, he ran his fingers over the note in his pocket, steeling his nerve.
/You can’t speak to him. Not yet. It’s not safe./
He allowed himself a few minutes, loitering at the end of the room. It was hedonistic, but safe enough. Once Mycroft arrived, then he’d leave; John was in no state to be alone, even if he didn’t realise he had company at the moment.
***
It is a little known fact that Mycroft Holmes hates hospitals. Admittedly, it is an irrational dislike- probably one of the only irrational things about him- but that doesn’t stop him from making it a point to never spend more time in a hospital than necessary.
Nevertheless, he strides into the elevator, pressing the ‘Floor Three’ with the tip of his umbrella. As the doors slide shut, he wrinkles his nose delicately. The whole ordeal is rather standard in terms of procedure, but it is obvious that Sebastian Moran is behind it, which complicates matters.
Before he continue his train of thought, the elevator doors slide open.
***
Sherlock is jerked away from his thought process as the elevator doors open just a few steps away. He keeps up the guise for now; it doesn’t really matter whether Mycroft sees through it, but it’s still interesting to see if he can fool his brother, even after all this time. He steps into the elevator just as Mycroft steps out, his shoulder clashing against his siblings. “Oh, sorry,” Sherlock says with a quiet but carefree laugh, shrugging a little as he pressed the button for the ground floor.
***
Stepping out of the elevator, Mycroft is knocked back a step. He looks up and keeps a genial smile on his face, taking in the important details of the man in that second (casual clothes, worn but not too worn- thrift store likely, indicating frugality or a low income, obvious contact lenses by the way he’s squinting, though they don’t aid his vision).
“Oh, sorry.” The man laughs a little, and Mycroft steps aside to allow him in.
“It’s quite alright,” he responds, narrowing his eyes marginally. Something seems.. off about this man. The way he holds himself says carefree bachelor, but his his body language indicates differently, almost as if he’s- ah.
“Not a problem.”
As the elevator swings shut again, Mycroft shakes his head and rubs the bridge of his nose. Sherlock never could resist sticking his nose in places where it didn’t belong.
***
Not long before John’s sunk back into his seat, sipping idly at black tea - not his preferred. He finds himself blinking hard a few times and rubbing his eyes, deciding instead it’s best not to recline and get too comfortable. He sits forward, looking instinctively up the corridor. Upon doing doing so, he narrows his eyes at the figure leisurely striding away from the shut lift. Tapping his umbrella along the floor as he goes.
John inhales deeply and sits up straight, turning himself slightly toward the seat next to him incase Mycroft chose to sit down. “I hate hospital tea.” He mutters upon approach, looking miserably down into the cup. “Too watered down.”
***
Upon immediately sighting John across the room, Mycroft makes his way over to the doctor and takes the proffered seat. John looks worried and exhausted, both of which are understandable, but neither of which are Mycroft’s concern at the moment.
“I can request something a little more invigorating, if you’d prefer.” His tone is politely disinterested, as the offer was nothing more than a aesthetic gesture.
***
“No, it’s okay.”
John likes to think he can tell when Mycroft is just being polite. Bit like his late brother in that way, catering to the ‘normal people’. He simply shakes his head and sets the tea aside, clasping his hands together on his lap. Right now, John looks less than normal. The front of his shirt and the knees on his trousers still red with his wife’s blood, from when he had knelt down to her and she’d clung to him. He probably should have changed before leaving the house, make the effort to look less like the Westminster horror.
Clearing his throat, he finally looks up. “Your surveillance, Mycroft. Did they manage to get a look at .. whoever … ” He gestures tactfully, not wanting to name it outloud.
***
“Naturally. We have identified him as ex-Colonel Sebastian Moran.” Mycroft keeps his voice impassive, deciding against telling John much more than that. “Your wife, I take it, is in stable condition?”
That question, on the other hand, is not so much of a formality. Mycroft needs her alert as soon as possible- the less time he spends in the hospital, the better. He can’t help but wonder what exactly Sherlock was doing here. Sentimentality isn’t something that motivates actions such as these- he had came here to get something.
And Mycroft intends to find out what.
***
John slowly nods, the name registering as familiar. Strange how one can suddenly regret not taking Irene Adler’s word as gospel, vague as it had been. Colonel, though. He’d known a few of those back in the wars - usually big, mean looking blokes that liked to sit alone and polish off their .50 Caliber Long Ranges. The thought alone of one of those big brutes smacking his Mary about makes for a sinking, sick feeling in the pit of stomach.
For now, he’ll leave it there.
“Depends what you’d call ‘stable’.” He replies, his tone dry. “She’s .. not great, in for a scan right now actually. They’ll want to keep her in overnight.”
He suddenly thinks to ask, his expression carrying a hint of reservation. “Why?”
***
Greg’s heart is racing. The elevator seems to be taking its sweet time to transport him up a few flights. Every possible situation has gone through his mind although he already has a slight idea of what actually happened.
The doors finally open and he makes it to the floor and immediately spots John and another figure that he identifies as Mycroft and giving a slight nod to the latter, he turns his attention to John.
“How is she? Is she alright?”
***
Momentarily distracted, John pivots in his seat and raises his glance up - to see they have been joined by DI Lestrade. It had been a long time since he had seen Greg face-to-face, and what a bloody shame it had to be under these circumstances. The poor man looks as haggard than John does, if not more.
He exchanges a brief nod of greeting, before giving a mingled shrug. “Don’t know yet, Greg.” Looking down at his hands hanging over his lap, John cringes and looks away. Still got blood smears on them. “I take it you’re here to launch your inquiry.”
He looks between them. “Both of you.”
***
Mycroft gives the officer a cursory glance and finds what is only to be expected. Gregory Lestrade looks weary and exhausted, as if the past three years have finally taken their toll on him.
“Ah, Detective Inspector. Punctual as usual, I see.” Mycroft gives a chilly smile without any real meaning behind it- he likes the man well enough. “And yes, John. An inquiry is necessary, though I promise you that my questions will not take too long.”
***
“Yeah, I’m here for questions too…and for you.” The second part wasn’t meant to come out, but after seeing John…how defeated and tired he looked he knew he couldn’t just come to question his wife. After all, John is a friend, even if there hasn’t been contact for a while.
Greg tries to smile, but it’s a failed attempt. “How are you holdin’ up, John?”
***
John isn’t entirely pleased. Knuckling down and starting inquiries - that’s fine, but at the very least they could have let Mary get a night’s rest in first. They’ve not stopped for breath all night, and with her being in the state she’s in, it might be too much too quickly.
But he doesn’t send them away, as he can understand that they’d probably want a fresh description of the man who attacked her while it’s still in her head. Besides, it isn’t down to him. He’s said it before, his wife is as strong as a mule and twice as stubborn. If she’s awake and hears that he’s sent away the people that intend on helping, there’d be murder.
“I’ll live.” John answers under his breath while getting to his feet, clapping Lestrade on the shoulder in a way of thanks. He’ll feel better when he’s not sitting idly around a waiting room. Speaking of which he picks his coat up and hangs it over his arm, looking between the two of them and rolling his eyes sideward, indicating the receptionist’s desk.
“Look, um ..” He rubs his finger under his nose, using the second to take a sharp inhale then snapping his head back up. “I’m going to go and see if she’s awake, if you’re wanting to question her.”
Mycroft leaned forward on his trademark umbrella, taking time to clinically examine the chosen meeting place. An empty conference room, filled mostly by cheap office chairs (purchased about two years ago, of Chinese manufacture, obviously well used) and an oblong desk (older, going by the worn finish, and scuff marks at the base).
Bland white paint covered the walls, and judging by the dust on the hinges of the door, this room hadn’t been used in at least five months. He tapped out a quick message to John:
Your transportation should be arriving. Across the street; the silver car. MH
He resisted the urge to roll his eyes while pocketing his phone. Honestly, where did Samantha find these places?
Not two seconds after looking down at the new text on his phone, John looks up again to spot a flash looking car pulling up just on the corner of the opposite street. That’ll be his lift, then. To wherever he’s being taken too - Mycroft (and his power complex) always did fancy himself some odd locations.
Your transportation should be arriving. Across the street; the silver car. MH
Grabbing his stick and a plastic bag containing the ‘package’, he pushes the phone back into his pocket and leaves the house. The car journey is short and uneventful. Same attractive woman babysitting him in the backseat, same tight-lipped driver. It’s almost like three years ago, back when he might have huffed and puffed at getting blatantly abducted. It’s almost nostalgic.
It looks like Mycroft has picked a vacant office block in the back-end of London, John observes as he leaves the car after the short drive over. He’s even put thought into it - there being an elevator right beside the staircase. Shuffling inside on the weight of his walking cane, he pushes down on the second floor - where Mycroft’s latest assistant had instructed him to go, first room down.
On arrival, John pauses not a foot away from the door, as though in hesitation. Bittersweet, this. Makes him feel a bit homesick for better days. Still, he sucks it up and doesn’t bother knocking, turning the door knob and entering to find Mycroft Holmes, poised and ready for him.
“Sometimes I wonder if you hire these places out, you know.” He says, stopping on the far end of the room.
***
He hears John before he sees him, the characteristic thump-clunk of someone with a bad limp (using a standard issue cane, light metal, most likely an aluminium mix with a hard plastic tip on the bottom) sounding oddly out of place in a place such as this. Perhaps Sherlock was right- a better qualified therapist might do the doctor some good. Nevertheless, he doubts John would accept the help, and a blow to the doctor’s pride would probably do more harm than good.
“Sometimes I wonder if you hire these places out, you know.”
Mycroft’s smile is sardonic with just the barest hint of an edge to it. As much as he hates to admit it, this situation is far too familiar to him to be completely comfortable. Gesturing to the numerous chairs scattered throughout the room, he turns his full attention to John and the bag he holds close to his chest.
“Good evening to you as well. Please, have a seat.”
***
As a pleasant change of pace, John accepts the offer after a seat. Not because his leg might be bothering him, but he wanted to appear entirely compliant. He’s finished being angry with Mycroft now. The first year following Sherlock’s passing John wouldn’t have entertained meeting him in private at the risk of doing something he might regret, after what Mycroft had done.
But, after many talks with Mary and his therapist, John had eventually come to the conclusion that Mycroft hadn’t much choice. Moriarty had backed him into a corner - it was either his brother, or Britain. Blabbing Sherlock’s life story might have been the dishonourable thing to do, but it wasn’t what killed Sherlock. Not as far as he’s concerned - and the man had lost his little brother. The least John could do was forgive him.
He places the plastic Asda bag on the table, centering it between them. “Well, I’m here. Any chance I can know what’s going on now?”
***
Folding his hands in front of him, Mycroft is almost painfully reminded of the incident three years ago. An unfortunate occurrence, and certainly one that Sherlock wasn’t going to let go of any time soon. John’s face shows clear signs of age, and his nostalgic expression seems to magnify those three years of wear.
The bag between them is a barrier.
Mycroft clears his throat, folding his hands in front of him. “As you may or may not have realised, there is a very high probability that James Moriarty is alive.”
***
“We don’t know that.” John cuts in, almost right away. “It could be just another comedian, having a joke at our expense.”
Prank letters, death threats, vulgar messages sprayed across the front door, - he’s seen the lot. Having someone impersonate Moriarty certainly wouldn’t come as a big surprise, the only question being how to ensure the safety of himself, and his wife. Mary’s scared, he knows she is. John’s even had to leave his phone on incase she needs him to come home.
“Wouldn’t be the first time.” He says.
***
Mycroft notes John’s defensive tone with some interest. He is well aware of the degrading graffiti and threatening notes that had proceeded Sherlock’s departure, but at the time had decided against intervening. Retrospectively, that was probably a poor choice on his part. The eldest Holmes brother leans forward, searching John’s face and finding an array of emotions on this soldier’s weathered face- sadness, concern, frustration, and perhaps even a hint of excitement.
Of course. The war never truly ends, does it?
“Wouldn’t be the first time” John says, and Mycroft feels a small frown creep onto his face. At this moment, he truly understands Sherlock’s frustration with other people.
“Of course not. In my position, I am simply forced to consider every option. Now, I assume you have questions?”
Mycroft’s voice is the smooth, polite tone that he reserves for placating diplomats and appeasing his mother. He absolutely loathes it.
***
Keeping his eyes trained on Mycroft, he lets a small silence sit between his concluding question. Of course John has questions for him - though he holds back against one that he thinks may contain tones of spite if asked. Why does Mycroft care? Cheifly, Mycroft’s concern had always been his brother. The bribes, the calls, the popping in - all for Sherlock’s benefit. Now that Sherlock is no longer around, why is he bothering?
He clears his throat loudly before speaking, nodding once. “Yes. I called Scotland Yard, and they’ve had the same. One of these.” His eyes drop, indicating the bag. “I’m wondering -if this isn’t a joke- if this really does have anything to do with Moriarty. And why now, all these years later?”
His voice quietens, “Moriarty got what he wanted. I can’t see what he has to come back to.”
***
“Given his apparent mental state, having something to come back to doesn’t appear to be completely necessary to his motives.”
Mycroft thinks- rather blithely- that Sherlock is going to have severe consequences to come back to. There’s no doubt in his mind that Sherlock will come back, even though running away seems a more befit option.
Without another word, he begins to examine the contents: One egg (no less than a day and a half old, unremarkable) that was sitting in a small box (approximately fifteen by twenty two centimetres) on top of a printed note. That would be the melodramatic and oddly ominous nursery rhyme, which was printed on heavy card-stock in bright red ink.
“This situation will be handled as delicately as possible. Moriarty’s motivations are far from clear, though if my suspicions are correct, then we have quite a problem.” He smiles, his tone the tiniest bit condescending. “Though you hardly have to worry about that.”
***
“So it’s likely Moriarty’s alive then.”
John’s gaze drops down, having a quiet moment of acceptance. He’d suspected as much, supposedly, in the back of his mind. The police had swarmed Barts in the aftermath, stripping that crime scene down to the bare bones. They’d found a gun, and a blood pool .. but no body. John had always tuned out that last bit, the idea of Jim Moriarty dead and gone being a lot easier to live with.
He sits aside, letting Mycroft hover over this and that - doing something very similar to which Sherlock used to do, only a lot quieter. Once finished, he seems appeased. John isn’t, he’s far from it. Practically sitting on the edge of his seat. “No Mycroft, if there is a problem then I am going to worry about it. You have to aim before you fire.”
Looking up at him, his eyes beg sincerity. No poetry - just a straight answer, just this once. “We’re all in danger, aren’t we?”
***
This is typical John, Mycroft thinks. Simple, direct, sincere John. Mycroft can see the appeal in a person like him and can’t help but muse on the fact that, given the proper tools, John would make an excellent politician. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he wonders if that is a good thing.
“Spoken like a true soldier, John.” His tone is cool, his smile even cooler. He sighs lightly before continuing, “and I hate to point out the obvious, but yes. You- and a great many of your associates- could be in a great amount of danger.”
***
More moments of grudging acceptance, this time with slow nodding and a deep nasal sigh. “Okay.” John speaks, eventually. “Okay. That’s all I needed to know.”
With a heavy heave, John pushes back from his seat and raises himself. Definately ruffled, with a lot more to take in, though with the razor-sharp nerves of a man at-arms, he manages to stand with painfully straight posture. He lifts his cane away from the edge of the table, gripping it at his side and standing with his head down for a moment. Letting it sink a bit.
“Thanks, Mycroft.” He says, raising his head but not quite looking at the man. “Thanks for .. you know, getting in touch. Even if it isn’t the best of circumstances.”
***
John stands, the very picture of a man burdened with all the world’s troubles. Mycroft can easily read the turmoil on his face, and can’t help but feel a misplaced sense of regret. With a polite smile, he rises as well, offering his hand out to the other.
“Naturally. I appreciate your compliance with these matters- trust that I will be in touch with Detective Inspector Lestrade as well.”
The space between them is hanging with words that Mycroft could say. There were so many words, and so very little time.
***
The only hand John has free is his left - the dominant one, but because of recent tremoring he can’t afford to apply his weight onto it. He can feel it even now, fingers set half claw-like, practically scratching at the sides of his trouser leg. Bloody thing betraying him, and now he’s going to have to shake Mycroft’s hand with it. He flexes his fingers far apart, the best disguise he can manage, and settles into what he hopes is a calm handshake, lasting only a few seconds before John lets his hand drop. This time balling it up into a tight fist.
He clears his throat in a conclusionary manner, breaking a strange and heavy silence where the two men had just stood and stared away from each other. Turning his back, he purposely leaves the bag behind. Mycroft’s people probably wanting to give it the once over, or something. John didn’t want it in the house anyway.
Apparently JM is going to blow someone/thing up. Though my intel could hardly be called reliable. -SH
IA has hardly proven herself to be a worthy source of information. My options are limited with such a minuscule amount of information. MH
I’m aware of that, but at this stage it’s all I have. We are utterly in the dark until he makes his move and it’s infuriating. What was the point of the last three years if it continues like this? -SH
Very little, I’m afraid. But pointlessness has never stopped you before. MH
forty seconds later
Now, what do you know of a man by the name of Sebastian Moran? MH
Moran is closely associated with JM. Dishonourable discharge a number of years ago. Extremely loyal. Very highly trained. Very dangerous. Information suggests he may have been the sniper at the hospital, but I was unable to track him down. Why? -SH
Information suggests he could be linked with JM’s recent activity. Further research may be warranted. MH
It must be coming up to 10pm, and John has been sitting unmoved in his armchair for almost an hour. The television blares away on the other end of the room (some Fawlty Towers repeat on Gold) - he looks up at it every now and then, pretending to watch it, when his mind is really on other things.
His mobile phone sits on the coffee table infront of him, beside his now-stonecold dinner that he had barely picked at. Hours since his last text to Lestrade, and he’s anxious for any information he can get a hold of. Desperate, even. Whoever sent the package knows John, and knows where he lives - even if it isn’t Moriarty, an impersonator or an accomplice could be just as dangerous if they’ve got the same intentions.
Inclincing the corner of his forehead into his hand, John continues to sit. And wait.
Mary stares at the computer screen in front of her, the cursor blinking mockingly. She rubs her face and glances at the time. Almost 10pm. The lesson plans were never going to get done at this rate. She lifts her hands to type some more, but drops them again after only a few seconds of staring at the cursor. John is in the other room. Unusually silent, just like the last few days, and she is beginning to worry. She can hear the tv on in the other room, but the sound of cutlery on John’s plate had been almost nonexistent, and has completely ceased over the last half hour. She took a deep breath, smoothing the worry from her face and standing from her desk, walking from the office and back into the sitting room.
“Alright, John?” She smiles at him, picking up his plate and taking it to the kitchen to clear it.
***
John is startled from the edge of tension when his wife enters the room, snapping his hand away from his head and making an instant effort to appear less frazzled. He sits up, watching with his lips pressed tight together as she takes his untouched dinner away. Thinking perhaps to make up some excuse that he had eaten earlier on in the day - when in actuality, his stomach feels like it is in a tight knot.
“Yeah, fine. Fine. Just watching a bit of ..” He says a bit too quickly, looking at the telly and realising he doesn’t for a second remember the name of the program. “.. this.”
Once her back is turned John steals another look at his phone, still inactive. “How’s the book marking, did you get that done in the end?”
***
She walks the plate over to the sink, very aware of John’s sudden surprise, but not yet ready to mention his recent distraction. She clears the plate slowly, frowning at the amount of food left on it.
“No, I’ll never get it done at this rate, it’s been awful this week.” She calls over the rush of water from the faucet. She finishes in the kitchen and dries her hands before returning to the sitting room, rounding John’s chair and sitting in her own, curling her feet under her and casually leaning on the arm.
”You didn’t eat much, are you not feeling well?” She keeps her voice light, but watches John’s face closely in between glances at the television, consciously keeping from wringing her hands.
***
As Mary explains the dregs of marking children’s book after children’s book, John makes a small murmur of acknowledgement but does not offer furthur comment. He begins biting his thumb, looking anxiously between his phone and the clock - what if Lestrade didn’t text again tonight? And what if something less pleasant than eggs arrives at the door tommorow? He won’t be getting any sleep tonight at this rate.
He clears his throat though when Mary sits back down, careful to pay her that bit more attention when she’s in the room. Can’t have her stressing out and worrying as much as he is. “No. Yeah, I mean .. I ate earlier. Bit stupid trying to fit dinner in really.”
John smiles, attempting to laugh at himself. In truth he hadn’t eaten since breakfast, and even then he’d skimped.
***
She knows he’s lying. She knows he doesn’t think of it as lying to her so it doesn’t bother her too much, but it’s lying all the same. She sees the frown lines in his face more clearly today than yesterday, proof enough that he’s only smiling for her benefit. She chews her bottom lip. He is worried about something, but what? Why won’t he tell her? If it were important he would, she knows that, but why would he spend half the week worrying over something unimportant?
She tries to piece together an invisible puzzle of the last week’s events, letting her eyes focus on the television while they sit in amicable silence. She had had a normal week thus far, and John’s shifts at the surgery had gone smoothly as far as she was able to discern. Yesterday had been Valentine’s Day and John had been flustered at not having a perfect present (which Mary honestly didn’t mind, they’d had a nice dinner at least), but John’s stress had started before then. She risks a swift glance at him and catches his gaze lifting quickly away from his phone and back to the television. Was he waiting for a call? From whom? Had he already gotten a call? He would have told her if someone had called with bad news, or any news that resulted in this sort of reaction from him. She lets out a defeated sigh. She wasn’t going to be able to guess it. She’d have to ask. She disliked having to ask. She turned tentatively toward him, waiting a moment before speaking, finally forgetting to keep her hands from wringing.
“John, for the life of me, I cannot figure out what’s bothering you this week, or why you’d be trying to hide it from me. Care to share with the class?”
***
Damn it, she’s onto him. John is visibly agitated by her question, shifting a bit in his seat and turning his head down to his lap. He can cope with a bit of stress -god knows he’s used to it- but if he can just confirm whether or not there is actually some danger, or if someone’s just having a joke at his expense. Mary needn’t be troubled by it, at least until he knows what’s going on.
“It’s nothing you need to worry about, love.” Not yet, comes an afterthought that quietens John’s voice. “Can we just leave it there please?”
***
She reaches a hand out to gently grasp his wrist, her face still concerned. So there was something, she had known there must be, but why the secrecy? Her eyes scan his face, searching for anything that might give a clue.
“You’ve been getting steadily more upset all week, John.” Squeezes his wrist briefly, dropping her gaze down to her hand on his arm, “You’re sure talking about it won’t help you feel better?”
***
John hadn’t realised he had been furiously tapping his two fingers on the arm of the chair until Mary settles her hand on his wrist, ceasing the agitated rapping. He curls his fingers into his palm, feeling a bit trapped. Now that Mary’s got it into her head that someone’s wrong, she’s not going to leave it alone. He’s done it before, keeping things to himself, and it never did him much good.
“Look it’s okay, I’m not upset. Just a bit wound up.” He says, attempting to withstand turning her into a second Ella. “I don’t want you getting wound up too.”
***
Mary can clearly see the tension behind John’s eyes, but at least he’s stopped fidgeting at her hand on his wrist. So he’s worried, no, wound up, about something that she would have cause to be wound up about as well. All the more reason to find out what it is, but she knows better than to force him. She shifts her hand down his wrist to thread her fingers through his, chewing her lip before speaking.
“To be honest, I am getting wound up anyway, watching you fret about whatever it is. I understand if you really would prefer to keep it to yourself, but I can’t help but worry about whatever it is you’re not telling me.”
***
With a dry smile and a shake of his head, John utters, “Stubborn as a stain, you are.”
Finally seeing that silence isn’t going to get him anywhere, he gives a resigning sigh and prepares himself for it. He feels himself beginning to shake - whether it is with fear, hatred or a combination of the two, he isn’t sure. Inhaling deeply, John sits straighter and turns himself in his chair, to face Mary and speak with her in more confidence. As though subconsciously paranoid of there being a third party in the room.
He spends a minute patting her hand over his, preparing her as well as himself. Eventually, John finds his words. “Do you remember me telling you about James Moriarty?”
***
Mary is heartened a bit by John managing a smile, even if it is a meager one. “Of course I am, I have to be to manage living with your stubbornness.”
Her slightly improved humor slowly curdles, as John sighs and his demeanor slowly shifts. She grips his shaking hand a bit tighter, offering stability without a word, as he turns to face her, his face more serious than she has seen it in a long time. She swallows, attempting to quell the fluttering in her chest that has suddenly taken root. She watches him closely as he decides what to say, letting him take his time finding his words. She pales slightly as he poses his simple question, not having expected the cause of John’s concern to be ghosts from the distant past.
“Yes,” she clears her throat, dropping her gaze to their hands for a moment before returning it to John’s face, “I remember. He’s the one that ruined Sherlock’s name. He died the same day as…” She pauses, “What about him?”
***
There had been a lot of media speculation surrounding ‘Richard Brook’s’ death. Most of the papers seemed to fancy the idea that Sherlock must have murdered him for selling his story - what rubbish. Nobody knows what happened on that rooftop, which made for a lot of ghost stories.
“Yeah, well ..” John clears his throat, leaning forward in his seat. “… someone, well, I think someone’s impersonating him. Or working for him. I’ve been in touch with the police.” He rolls his eyes in the direction of his phone. “But .. god, I don’t know. Could do without the maniacs and psychopaths, to be honest.”
A beat. “Whoever they are, they know I’m not living at Baker Street anymore.”
***
Mary’s eyes widen marginally at John’s words. It couldn’t be. All that Moriarty trouble had happened ages ago, before she had even met John. How could it be coming back to haunt him now? Why now of all times?
“What’s happened, John?” She tries to keep the concern out of her voice but knows she fails at it, her grip on John’s hand turning wooden and her tone hardens, “You decided to call the police over it but you didn’t want me to know? And you think the potential maniac knows where we live? How could you think to keep this from me? What happened?”
***
With an exasperated sigh John pulls his hand out from underneith Mary’s and uses it to massage his forehead, eyes frowning shut. “See now this is why I didn’t want to say anything, you’re getting stressed.”
He lifts his head away with an air of affirmity, not at all wanting to start a barney with his wife but determined to defend his actions. “Look there might not even be a maniac, okay? I’ve had jokes like this before, back when I lived at the flat, from people that thought I was some kind of criminal’s sidekick. It could just be another one of those.”
Unlikely that a silly prankster would be able to get hold of his new address, but John fails to sound that. “A few days ago, we got a basket in the post. It had … ” He hesitates, shaking his head in muddlement. “.. eggs, and a nursery rhyme. I needed to call Lestrade to see if he knew anything about it.”
Another pause, before he quietly adds on, “I put it in the shed.” John wouldn’t have it in the house, afraid that it might have been a bomb.
***
Her expression fraught with worry, Mary takes a steadying breath, clasping her hands together to keep them from betraying her nerves. She lets the breath out slowly, closing her eyes for a moment before opening them and looking once more at John’s face, keeping her worry in check. He is right, there was no guarantee that there is anything to worry about yet. He is on edge and she doesn’t want to argue anyway.
“Look… I wasn’t expecting your response to be, well, anything like this. I thought maybe…,” she gestures aside the train of thought, “but I suppose it doesn’t matter. You must have known I would notice something was wrong eventually. And if I’m going to be worrying about not knowing why you’re worrying, I might as well know the truth, right?”
She settles back in her chair, mind racing, her hand idly rubbing the back of her neck while she thinks.
“And what did Lestrade have to say about it? What about eggs in a basket makes you think something is happening?” She considers the possibility that John is blowing the situation out of proportion, and fervently hopes this is the case.
***
“I don’t know, Mary! I’m not a bloody mind-reader.”
His tone is snappish and, having fidgeted for too long in his seat, he heaves himself up and begins to pace the room. Pace being a very loose term - more of an agitated limp. John is okay with short distances -just about managing to lump himself about the house unaided- he keeps the walking cane for when he’s more mobile, outside the house.
John spends a minute or so shuffling about the room, having something of a furious think to himself, before he buries his face in his hands and sighs into his palms. Seemingly calmer, he lowers them -looking guilty. “Look, look .. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to snap at you. This is all just a bit sudden, and I’m worried, and now you’re worried too and if it is something to do with Moriarty then I don’t-“
He stops himself, frowning his eyes shut. Taking a breath, and composing himself enough to get back on topic. ” .. Lestrade said they got the same thing. Basket with eggs.”
***
It’s been quite awhile since John has snapped at her like this. Mary frowns in shocked silence as he stands up and starts walking around the room, letting him pull himself together. She resists the urge to snap back at him, but only just. He is obviously more wound up than he wants her to believe, which in turn makes it much more difficult for her to swallow her own trepidation about their current situation. But for John’s sake she holds her tongue.
She stands when his hands come up to hide his face, walking over to him as he apologizes. “It’s ok, John, it’s fine.” She reaches a hand up to rest comfortingly on John’s shoulder, “We’ll get it figured out. I really am glad you told me. I’d rather know than be left in the dark.” She stares intently at John’s collar, not wanting eye contact to give away her level of concern. She didn’t know too much about what had happened three years ago. She had read about Sherlock in the papers of course, and John had told her the story, but she gets the distinct impression that he had told only as much as necessary for it to make sense at the time and no more. She doesn’t grudge him his unwillingness to elaborate, it’s never been easy for him to think about what happened. But the sudden potential danger relating to his past that she isn’t fully informed about is very unsettling.
“Did only you and Lestrade receive these baskets, then, or have you heard from anyone else about it? Is there anyone else that might know what they mean?”
***
John stops hobbling about the room, standing still as Mary gets up and comes over to him. She touches his shoulder, and his chest falls as he breathes out. To his limited knowledge, yes. He and Lestrade are the only ones that have received strange, ‘signed’ packages containing eggs and nursery rhymes. Then again, it might be worth phoning around.
“As far as I know, yeah. But I don’t know if Lestrade’ll know more by n-“
Right then, John’s phone lights up and begins to vibrate. His eyes flare in alert, immediately -as though in reaction- snatching the phone up from the table and stabbing his thumb down on the ‘open’ key.
Text message: Mycroft Holmes
» Good evening, John. I trust all is good and well with you? It has come to my attention that you and a select few others have received a rather enigmatic package recently. MH
“It’s Mycroft.” He utters with his head down over the glowing screen, still in mid-read.
***
John’s phone buzzing startles her and she jumps, her breath catching in her throat as John darts toward the table to pick it up. She watches him read the message, her heart pounding too loudly in her ears as he tells her the name of the sender.
“Mycroft?” She doesn’t bother keeping the puzzlement from her voice, “What does he have to say?”
***
A perplexed frown on his brow, John lets a brief silence sit before answering. It had been a while since he had heard anything from Mycroft, and to get a message from him out of the blue is nothing short of surprising. Still, he taps out a reply for him. Not raising his head up from his phone even as he responds to Mary.
Enigmatic .. and worrying. Do you know anything about it, Mycroft?
It’s nice hearing from you.
- JW
“He’s asking about the package.”
That raises a little hope. Mycroft’s the all-seeing eye, he’s got to have a little more information. Within moments, his phone lights up again. That was fast.
Mycroft Holmes:
» What little information I have is best transmitted through a more private medium, John. May I suggest a meeting? At your leisure, naturally. MH
“He wants to meet up.”
***
She’s relieved to hear the note of hope enter his voice, but the mention of the older Holmes brother is still difficult to swallow. She has never met Mycroft Holmes before, and she gets the sense from how John refers to him and the stories he’s related to her about him, that she probably never wants to. It unnerves her that he is the one asking after the package. John’s phone lights up again rather quickly and she watches an unfamiliar gleam enter her husband’s eye.
“Does he know who sent the package to you? Why can’t he just tell you? Does he want you to meet with him right now?” After the worry filled week and the tumultuous conversation this evening, Mary doesn’t particularly want to be alone and she can’t help the slight tremor in her voice at the thought of John running off.
***
The text responses seem to be coming quick as a wink, and before long Mycroft is instructing him that there should be a car waiting just opposite his home. John’s initial reaction is, oddly, not one of outrage. He finds a small, barely-conspicuous smirk poking the corner of his mouth. Smoothing it out quickly into a tight-lipped look of acceptance, he utters a chuckle when Mary asks if Mycroft could just give it to him outright.
“Ha, Mycroft doing uncomplicated and straight-forward?” He shakes his head, putting his phone away in his pocket and pivoting on his heel to hobble into the small hallway leading to the front door. “He always did like to keep things artful.”
It might sound absolutely outrageous to Mary, but John can safely say he’s built up a certain resilience to it - and if it gets them some answers, then it’s worth nipping out. He plucks his coat from the peg, beginning to shrug it on. “If I meet with him now, then maybe he can give us a bit more information. Maybe even help us, okay?”
John then realises he might be going a bit fast for her. He lightly holds her at the elbows, asking with more caring notes in his voice. “Okay? Is that alright?”
***
She watches his face as he receives and sends the handful of messages. She’s not sure what to make of what she sees. Is he… pleased? Not quite. Less worried maybe. Perhaps interested in the opportunity to find out more about the package. And his laugh sounds less strained when he explains Mycroft’s propensity for theatrics, so maybe this is good for him after all. Maybe this is something he needs.
She follows him as he bustles about preparing to leave, and she wants nothing more than to ask him to stop, to stay home, (it is rather late after all, it’s not just due to her reluctance to be left alone) and make Mycroft Holmes wait until tomorrow, but even imagining the tension seeping back into his face and shoulders at her protest is enough to quell the request on her lips. Of course he needs to go. It’s been eating him alive for days, the not-knowing. She has to let him go.
John’s shrugging into his coat, and preparing to leave, his words rushed and Mary can tell he’s already focusing on his impending conversation, but something in her stance or expression must betray how she’s feeling because he slows abruptly and grips her elbows, asking if it’s okay if he leaves.
She pauses almost imperceptibly before allowing herself a small smile and nod, pulling John into a brief hug and breathing his scent in deeply.
“Of course you have to go, of course. It’s fine. I’m just not used to-” she gestures at John’s phone and at the door vaguely, “this, I suppose. I do hope Mycroft has some answers for you. Please do hurry back, John.”
She doesn’t like it, but it’s just this one time, she tells herself. Just this once and then things will go back to normal.
John had been standing at the back of the room for about a minute.
To this day, he had never fully understood the assertion behind the Diogenes club, the total need to gather that many people together just to sit in the eeriest atmosphere he had ever come across. If a man so much as coughed, he was out. John had learnt that the hard way, and so had entered with very softly-treaded footsteps.
The suited men seemed to scatter, unsurprisingly, when John perched himself near the door, crossing his arms and leaning his back to the wall. Narrowed eye looking over the room, only spotting Mycroft when he leant forward in his armchair to reach for a newspaper.
Dropping his eyes, John raised his phone (already in hand) and stabbed out a text.
TEXT: MYCROFT
Can we go somewhere that's not going to get me briskly escorted?
