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There really wasn’t anything exceptional about it. Sad, certainly; graphic, most definitely. But nothing Sherlock and John hadn’t dealt with before, multiple times—nothing that would have led them here.They’d gotten the call in mid-afternoon, and John had been glad to hear it. Sherlock had been perishing with boredom for days, growing increasingly irritable, sleepless and stroppy. Even Rosie hadn’t been exempted—while Sherlock was normally extremely diligent in keeping his flights of verbal insanity confined to hours when the baby was either asleep or at nursery, John had had to step in twice in the past two days to remind the detective that he had an additional audience. The memory of the look of chastened dismay on his friend’s face made John all the happier when Greg rang with the details of this new case.And, again, the case seemed straightforward enough. A series of murdered young men and boys, left unnoticed in semi-public spaces. Age range 16 to 23. No known relationship between any of the victims (4, at last count); all slashed repeatedly, possibly tortured before death. Ligature marks on wrists and ankles, but no bindings of any kind found in relation to the bodies, so only the final, killing strokes had taken place at their final destinations.In retrospect, though, Sherlock had been…odd, once he heard the brief details. Glad to have a case, granted. But there had been something moving behind his eyes, something John couldn’t get Sherlock to explain. He insisted he was “fine”. He was always “fine”.John hated “fine”.They had made a preliminary review of the earlier case files via Sherlock’s mobile on the way to the scene. No taxi, thankfully, since the location was all the way out in Biggin Hill, almost an hour away—Greg had sent an unmarked car, and Sherlock had begrudgingly agreed to ride in it, though not without a brisk argument first (“Ninety quid, Sherlock. Ninety!”). Nothing was available yet on the new drop site, beyond the location. It had only been identified as fitting into the series because of Greg’s request that Met systems flag any deaths within a 100-km radius that fit into the pattern—some sharp PC had actually checked and called NSY, apparently.They pulled off the A233 onto an old airfield, as their driver pointed to their left. “It’s the old RAF field from the war,” he said. “This part is open to the public. The body’s next to the chapel.” He continued down the narrow road until they reached a grouping of well-kept lawns and buildings, most dating from just after the war by their style of construction. They stopped in front of the church—blond brick, with a tall, narrow bell tower on one side.A host of emergency vehicles occupied the carpark around the back, and a tent had been erected in one section of the back garden, in an attempt to keep the persistent misting rain off of the crime scene, presumably. (Off of the investigators as well, of course, which didn’t break John’s heart. Standing about, soaking wet, while Sherlock crawled over every inch of a location wasn’t exactly a treat).They left the car behind and walked towards the mass of investigators. John let Sherlock head over to the body first—he saw Greg’s silver head in one of the furthest groups, and wanted to let him know they’d arrived.Greg looked up in relief as John walked up. “Thank God,” he sighed. “I was starting to be afraid I’d have to put down a riot if we stayed much longer. Poor kid’s been lying there since last night sometime, and the PC’s been holding the site since 7 this morning.” He looked behind John expectantly. “Where’s your better half?”John rolled his eyes. “Very funny. He headed over to get a first look at the scene before getting a summary—doesn’t want his first impressions ‘biased by idiocy’, apparently.” He met Greg’s sympathetic glance. “And yeah, he’s been a rare treat the past few days. This should help, but it’ll take a bit for him to get into the swing of it, so be prepared.”John took the time to grab two mugs of coffee from the provisions tent behind Greg before heading after Sherlock, to make sure the detective had had enough time to finish his initial examination. He arrived at the tent, though, to find it deserted but for a forensic technician who was tagging and bagging tiny bits of debris around the victim.The man—boy, really—lay half-dressed, on his back in the wet grass. Arms splayed out, palms up. There were defensive cuts on both hands, and the tell-tale bruising and swelling around each wrist and ankle that told of his being tied for a considerable period of time. His throat had been brutally slashed, cut back nearly to his spine, and the pool of blood underneath the body made it clear that death had happened here; this boy had been alive when his captor(s) brought him, tied and likely gagged, to this spot. Numerous other slashes, some visible through slits in his clothing, spoke to an extended period of abuse before death.John used his mobile to snap a few full-length photos; Sherlock didn’t need them to recall the scene in intricate detail, but John did, though he made a point of deleting all such pictures as soon as a case was completed. There was something unutterably sad about this; the boy, 20 at most, lay where he’d fallen. He was tall, athletic, beautiful in fact—like he’d been lifted off a Greek vase. Bronze skin, dark curls, long lashes, a chiseled Byzantine profile. And somewhere, his mother, father, girlfriend, boyfriend, may not even know yet that he was missing, let alone dead in the grass.John gave himself a mental shake, sighed, and put his mobile in his pocket, then turned to the technician. “Sherlock Holmes,” he said. “Do you know where he was going?”The man shook his head. “He just looked at the body for a couple of minutes. Didn’t move, didn’t say anything, just blinked for, like, three minutes. Then he spun around and took off.”“What do you mean, ‘took off’?” John barked, alarms suddenly ringing in his head.“Just what I said,” the technician sniffed. “Never said a word. Spun on his heels and trotted away. Last I saw, he was heading for the car park.”John dropped the two mugs of coffee on an evidence table and headed off hurriedly to look for Sherlock. His first stop was the car park—nothing, beyond a handful of empty cars and a coroner’s van. He walked back over to the command area, where he found Greg in conversation with the local PC. John waited impatiently for their conversation to finish, then pushed over in front of Greg.“Did Sherlock come to you?” John asked, hoping it was true. Greg’s head shake confirmed his worst fears.“Nah, haven’t seen him at all,” Greg said, a worried crease settling on his forehead. “Why? What’s wrong?”“He didn’t work the scene. He’s not there,” John said. “The tech says he headed towards the car park, but he’s not there either. And, of course, he’s not answering his phone.” John had tried—dialed twice en route from the tent.“Bugger,” Greg sighed. “Let’s go ask about, then.”Over the next ten minutes, the story emerged. Sherlock had come charging across the grass (very likely while John was inside the provisions tent getting coffee), stopped briefly to ask where Greg’s car was, then headed off at speed. He was last seen walking quickly through the parked cars, fifteen minutes before.It was shortly after that revelation that Greg looked, looked again—and realized that Sherlock had taken his car. Initially Greg had been hopeful—all NSY cars had trackers in them, after all. John slapped that one down quickly: “Does Sherlock know that?” he asked. Greg’s face answered for him.It was nearly impossible to rely on public sightings—Greg drove a nondescript grey sedan, just like millions of others travelling down all the roads around the city. They enlisted Mycroft’s help early on—CCTV turned up a view of the car heading towards the center of the city roughly two hours later, with a timestamp of forty-five minutes after John and Sherlock had arrived at the crime scene. That was it. The car itself finally turned up twelve hours later, illegally parked and abandoned.They spent several hours at NSY, reviewing CCTV film and conferring with several of Mycroft’s people, to no avail. With no other options to pursue, Greg and John took a panda car back to Baker Street, and were met at the door by a concerned Mrs. Hudson, bouncing Rosie on her hip. Mrs. H had been the first person John called, without result: she hadn’t seen him, and he hadn’t been home. By the time John got there, it was mid-afternoon and Sherlock had been missing for more than 6 hours.Mycroft arrived at dinnertime, not that any of them wanted to eat. While John’s relationship with the older man had never been easy, they nonetheless had come to a meeting of the minds where Sherlock’s health and safety was concerned, and John was grateful for his presence. Mycroft kept up a steady flow of conversation on his mobile, both spoken and text, but, in the end, was no more successful in finding his brother than Greg and John had been.John, by 10pm, was desperate enough to go out and look for some of Sherlock’s Homeless Network contacts. They wouldn’t necessarily speak to him, but they knew him well enough that they might help. He collected cash from Greg, Mycroft and Mrs. H, and spent the next two hours wandering through various alleyways and hidden cul-de-sacs, handing out money and notes begging for help to the few faces he recognized. He took a taxi back home, praying Sherlock would be there, annoyed at them all and irritated at the fuss.He wasn’t. The breakthrough came at 3am. Mrs. H had headed tearfully downstairs with the baby after a dismal dinner, but Greg, Mycroft and John kept vigil in the lounge, dozing fitfully in their chairs between fruitless phone calls and texts as searchers reported in. John, though, was awake when a quiet knock came on the door downstairs, and was down the stairs in a flash.By the time he opened the door, the street was deserted. But there on the steps was a broken bit of brick, with a torn piece of paper peeking out from underneath. John pulled it out and darted back into the lighted entryway to read it.“JOHN DOE ADMITTED TO ST. THOMAS HOSPITAL IN LAMBETH,” it said simply. “HURRY.”
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Shade: in Greek or Latin mythology, a spirit of the dead residing in the underworld
They were at the hospital entrance in less than ten minutes; between the late hour, light traffic and Anthea’s utter disregard for lights, stop signs, pedestrians or other minor annoyances, they never fell below 80 kph the whole trip. Mrs. Hudson’s hurriedly-offered Aston Martin made it seem easy.Mycroft spent the entire trip on his phone, getting updated on Sherlock’s status (after a spirited and ultimately terrifying argument with a senior hospital administrator). Despite those efforts, the only available news was “serious condition, not immediately life-threatening, currently heading to surgery”.As Anthea whipped the car to the entrance, they all hopped out and the agent handed over the keys to an anonymous black-suited man who had mysteriously appeared by the front doors. John didn’t even bother to ask.They were met in the lobby by an anxious junior administrator, apparently called from her bed to deal with Mycroft Holmes in her superior’s stead. The bureaucrat gave her a brisk handshake, and jerked his head towards the inner doors.“Lead the way,” he said, in tones that would have sounded bored but for the underlying steel. John realized, much later, that none of the rest of them had so much as offered their names, nor did the administrator ask. She had apparently been told that all of this was Above Her Paygrade, which worked out well for everyone.Mycroft’s phone rang again as they strode down the hall; he answered it without speaking, listened briefly, then replied. “Anthea is with me,” he said. “That will suffice until the rest of the detail can arrive. You can enter the exception under my authority.” Then he hung up and turned the phone off before shoving it in his pocket.It wasn’t until that point that John realized what this hurried trip had meant: Mycroft had summarily ditched his required security team. Since the debacle of Sherrinford, he had been required to have one with him at all times. In this case, they had presumably been left waiting in their vehicle in front of Baker Street, since Mrs. Hudson’s car was garaged out the back, in the former mews.The waiting area proved to be someone’s re-purposed office—likely a surgeon, going by the framed diplomas and photos on the walls. Several chairs and a small table had been brought in, with a carafe of coffee, an electric kettle, and a selection of teabags near a mismatched assortment of mugs.“We…the cafeteria is closed, but we can round up biscuits or the like if anyone is hungry,” the administrator said nervously, all but wringing her hands in anxiety. What on Earth had she been told about them, John wondered, to inspire this kind of flailing?“No, thank you,” Mycroft said courteously. “I appreciate your efforts. Will someone be able to give us an update on my brother’s condition at arrival, and where things stand now?”The woman bobbed, like a small bird. “The A&E physician who did the initial triage and treatment will be here momentarily,” she said. “And the surgical staff has been notified as to your arrival. They will send someone with updates as they become available.”Mycroft dismissed the woman with a nod and a handshake, and the poor woman presumably tottered off to her home and bed, still mystified by her wee-hour visitation from the High and Mighty. The rest of them sighed, chose seats, and started divvying out tea and coffee. No one doubted their wait would be a long one, based on the limited information they currently had. The A&E physician, a young man named Travers John had met once or twice in conferences, showed up about 10 minutes later. He smiled on seeing John, and relaxed slightly from his initial very tense stance.Mycroft stood up and identified himself. “We know my brother was brought to your department earlier this evening. Please tell us what you can about the circumstances.” He glanced to Greg and John, watching silently from behind him. “You need not mince words. We know he was heavily under the influence when admitted; please don’t edit yourself on my account. I would rather hear the unvarnished truth than a comforting lie of omission. And you may assume that our knowledge of medical terminology is quite high.”Dr. Traver’s eyes flicked to John, who gave a confirming nod.“Right, then,” the physician said with a nod. “Well, as you expected, high levels of controlled substances—O.D. level, in fact. It’s a miracle he was still conscious, let alone alert enough to fight his attackers. Cocaine, heroin, bits of what are presumably contaminants used to cut street drugs. Unclear whether this was an intentional O.D.—the fact that he did fight would argue against that. As to his injuries—serious fractures of left tibia and fibula, with some crushed bone. We’ll be stabilizing that with pins and steel plates. Blood flow to the foot looks OK so far. Defensive wounds on his hands, large scalp laceration, concussion but no fracture. Severe bruising of, and hairline fracture to, the left upper iliac crest of the pelvis. Three broken fingers on his right hand, one of which requires surgical repair.” He paused, thinking. “I think that’s most of it. He’s on the table now—ETA for completion, probably another two or three hours. They just took him into theatre about twenty minutes ago. He should recover fully, but he’ll be in here for at least a week, then on crutches for some time thereafter.” He looked up expectantly. “So, what questions do you have for me?”Mycroft, startlingly, seemed struck dumb, brow furrowed, much like Sherlock when “buffering”. After a moment or two, John stepped into the breach.“’Fight’?” he asked. “We didn’t…we thought it was just an overdose, and maybe a fall. What fight? Where?”“Oh, sorry,” Travers said. “I didn’t realize you didn’t know the circumstances. He was brought in after passersby broke up what appeared to be an assault. They were walking home from a late party when they heard what sounded like a cry for help—ran towards the sound, and saw Mr. Holmes fighting with two men. At least one had some sort of heavy weapon—a tyre lever, most likely. That’s what did the damage to the leg and pelvis, and most likely the scalp. Our Good Samaritans called 999 and the attackers ran off, but by that time your brother was unconscious. Breathing was very sketchy, heartbeat slowing. The EMTs intubated en route, gave him Naloxone and kept him going. We didn’t know who he was when he arrived—his phone and wallet were missing, and he was unresponsive. We got a phone call from what were presumably your people shortly thereafter, though, telling us who he was and advising that you were on your way.”“Did anyone inform the police?” Greg asked, pulling out his phone and typing rapidly.“I believe so,” the doctor replied. “Pretty sure the rescuers were going to file a statement, according to the EMTs. A PC was at the scene by the time the ambulance arrived.” He looked at John, then the rest of them. “Any other questions? Because, if not, I have some sutures I need to observe.”John looked to Mycroft, who blinked and recovered from his momentary paralysis. “No, thank you,” the bureaucrat said, his voice stiff. “Please encourage the surgical staff to provide regular updates. We will have my brother’s records transferred from King’s very shortly—I suspect it will prove useful.” Travers nodded, and left.And with that, they were alone again, but the mood had changed considerably.Anthea was already typing furiously on her phone. “The records transfer is in process,” she said. “Inspector, have you received the location of the assault yet? That will enable us to access the CCTV footage, if there is any.”Greg nodded, reading off the address from his phone as Anthea went back to typing almost too fast to see. “The PC hasn’t put in his formal report yet, but I got them to send me the transcript of the 999 call. The search of the area for the attackers is still in progress—nothing on that, yet. Maybe the CCTV will give us more to go on—my lot probably couldn’t get it until tomorrow, well, later today, considering the time.”Anthea nodded. “Should be coming through shortly,” she said. “The IT staff is rather limited this time of night, but we’ve pulled in a couple of extras.”And so it proved—ten minutes later, they were booting up a borrowed laptop and watching as slightly-blurred, black-and-white footage of an empty street corner began to play. Anthea tapped several keys and the resolution improved slightly, just in time to see a dark-clad figure stagger out of a narrow alley at the far right of the picture. It was Sherlock, his coat flapping in the breeze, scarf and gloves missing despite the cold. As he tottered down the pavement, using one hand on the brick wall of a building to steady himself, two men appeared from the left. They moved slowly, staying in the shadows, while they observed the obviously-impaired man opposite.The situation deteriorated rapidly, the two attackers darting in, shoving Sherlock against the wall, where he caromed off and tumbled to the pavement. One man moved to push Sherlock’s hands aside and paw his pockets to pull out valuables, but the detective managed to push him off and struggle back to his feet, beginning to fight in earnest, though his moves were eons slower than his usual quick, lethal flow. Attacker One was clipped on the side of the head and fell; Attacker Two produced a foot-long rod and began flailing away at Sherlock, who held his arms up defensively before falling again, this time staying down. The rod struck, once, twice, three times, as Sherlock writhed on the ground. Just then, though, two more men ran in from the right, shouting and holding up a phone, and the attackers both ran off. The scene ended as the rescuers bent over Sherlock’s inert form.Greg’s voice finally broke the silence. “Jesus,” he moaned. “And the worst part is, we’ll likely never catch them.”“Yes, we will,” Mycroft said bluntly. “Though you will likely not hear of it.” The night wore on. They took turns dozing, drinking coffee or tea, going for aimless strolls down near-deserted hallways. A surgical nurse popped in twice, with reasonably encouraging news: surgery progressing with no notable problems, though the fixation of the fractures was proving more complex than anticipated. Sherlock was expected to be in Recovery by breakfast time.By 6, they were exhausted, irritable and bored. Anthea and Greg volunteered to go down to the cafeteria, which was now open, and bring back an early breakfast for all, leaving Mycroft and John to await further news.Mycroft shifted uncomfortably in his chair, putting aside his phone after yet another flurry of texts. “It would be helpful to know what caused Sherlock’s…reaction,” he said suddenly. “It has been some time since such an event occurred, especially one so severe.” The tone was dispassionate, but John spoke “Holmes” well enough now to hear the concern behind the words.“He…we had just arrived at the crime scene,” John said. “I wasn’t with him, but one of the techs told me he just stood there and blinked for several minutes, then took off. I didn’t see anything startling or disturbing, beyond the fact that there was a dead boy on the ground.”Mycroft shoved himself to his feet with a groan. “Then perhaps Inspector Lestrade can share the details,” he said, heading towards the door. “I think it’s important to—”“Wait,” John said. “I took some photos. Maybe you can start with those?” He pulled the mobile out and flipped through to open the picture app, then held it out. “Not sure the resolution’s all that great, but they’re pretty clear overall.”Mycroft took the phone and clicked on the first photo, as Greg and Anthea returned, their hands full of bags and cups that smelled delicious. It took a moment or two for John to realize the older man hadn’t moved, hadn’t spoken, was staring silently at the screen of John’s phone, brow knitted. He was dumbfounded to see Mycroft’s face work momentarily before smoothing back into an expressionless mask.Mycroft jerkily held the phone out to Greg, who looked on with concern. “I believe you will find the boy’s name is Quinn Chapman,” he said, his voice tight. “I have not—I only ever saw his photo, and it has been fifteen years. But he is very like—Sherlock and I knew his brother,” he said, more inarticulate than John had ever seen him. “He looks very like his brother,” he finished softly.
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Yuangui—Chinese spirits of persons who died wrongful deaths After Mycroft’s stammered announcement, Greg Lestrade left, after making sure that someone would give him regular updates on Sherlock’s condition as soon as they were available. “Gotta get started on this poor dead kid—finding an address, notifying family…”“I can give you an address,” Anthea said, and pulled up her mobile. “And family contacts, though you’ll need to confirm they’re still local.” She paused long enough to send a text, then continued. “Quinn would be, um, 21 or 22 now—perhaps not living at home, but it’s highly likely his family will still be in the area.” Her face briefly mirrored the sadness Mycroft had shown, then calmed. “It’s a very large family, but they’re, they were, quite close. Quinn is…was the youngest of 9.”“Um…you’re gonna need to tell me how you both knew him at some point,” Greg said carefully. “Not now, but…”Mycroft nodded. “I will contact you this evening,” he said, and Greg hesitated, as if wanting to say something, then shook his head ruefully and left. Anthea looked after him, then shot a troubled look at Mycroft that the Great Man didn’t see, though John did.“I should go as well,” she said reluctantly. “The service detail has arrived and are in the surgical theatre waiting area. And someone needs to return Mrs. Hudson’s car.”Mycroft roused himself from his distraction. “Of course, my dear,” he said. “Once you’re done, you may return here, or go home and catch some sleep. We will keep you advised on Sherlock’s progress.” Unsaid was the understanding that Mycroft would be staying. As John looked on in bemused surprise, the agent reached out and clasped her—friend’s?—employer’s?--shoulder briefly before walking silently out.John had just mustered the nerve to carefully ask Mycroft what was going on when a brisk tap came on the door, and a tall, handsome older woman entered. She turned first to Mycroft. “Carmen Alvarez,” she said briskly, holding out a firm hand to shake. “Mr. Holmes’ orthopedic surgeon.” As Mycroft murmured his name, she turned to John. “And you are Dr. Watson, I believe. Listed as his GP.”“Yeah,” John said. “His brother and I are both medical proxies as well,” he continued, gesturing to Mycroft.“So I was told,” she said. “First things first—he’s doing well, generally speaking. Plates have been inserted and the bones are stable, and he’s in Recovery. But we have something we need to talk about.” She looked to John. “You know that copies of his records from his post-gunshot treatment were sent over, yes?”He and Mycroft both nodded. “I presume this has relevance to your question?” Mycroft said, in a detached tone that would have given anyone who didn’t know him well the impression that he was unconcerned.“It does,” the surgeon said. “We’ve had a few minor cardiac issues—skipped beats, irregular rhythms. All resolved with care, but it’s an indication his heart is working harder than I like to see, and our anesthetist agrees.” She looked at John. “If I’m reading his records correctly, he had a small perforation in his pericardium, which caused him a bit of trouble, yes?”John nodded. “Yeah, early on,” he said. “Mild cardiac tamponade, persistent bleeding until they found the defect. But it resolved after pericardiocentesis and surgical correction of the tear once they found it. He hasn’t needed any further treatment, and there’s been no indication of any kind of cardiac issue since, as far as I’m aware.” He looked to Mycroft. “Has there?”“You would know if there had been,” Mycroft said, with an exhausted sigh. “It’s not the kind of thing that would have been kept from you.” Unlike other things, John’s hindbrain supplied helpfully.The surgeon nodded. “I wouldn’t have thought so, given his level of apparent fitness before this injury, but wanted to make sure. It’s most likely that he has some mild deficit due to scarring, which only became an issue after the combined insults of overdose, physical attack and general anesthesia. Bottom line, though, I want to give his system ample time to settle down before bringing him fully back to consciousness, especially considering his likely pain levels when he does. We’ll keep ahead of that as best we can, of course, but his notes indicate an ongoing issue with addiction and a strong suggestion that pain medication be light and of limited duration.”John nodded in his turn. “Yeah, the least meds he can handle, certainly. As long as he’s not lying there in agony.”“Agreed, though his dosages will need to be fairly high initially,” Dr. Alvarez said. “We can manage gradual withdrawal in-house; he’ll be here a week or so, regardless. Plenty of time. But that takes me back to my current suggestion. Unless you have some reason to think it’s contraindicated, I want to keep him sedated for another 8 hours. We let him rouse briefly in Recovery and he immediately starting throwing rogue beats, perhaps a response to pain. It’s my hope that a little additional time under will let everything settle down without any need for intervention on our part.”John looked at Mycroft, who nodded briskly. “Sounds like a good idea,” John said. “Will you keep him in Recovery the whole time, or…”The surgeon shook her head. “We’ll shift him to the cardiac unit shortly. He doesn’t really need full ICU, but I’m not comfortable without high-level heart monitoring. I’ll have someone come get you as soon as he’s settled, shall I?” She looked at Mycroft with a sardonic grin. “I understand that a private room has been deemed advisable, because of ‘security issues’. Would that be his security, or yours?”Mycroft gave a rusty chuckle. “A bit of both, Doctor,” he said. “We both have too much in our heads at any given time, and much of it is not for public consumption.” Twenty minutes later, they were established in a good-sized room—obviously normally used for two patients, but now equipped with two comfortable chairs and a small table. Sherlock lay in oblivious slumber in the cot, his colouring only slightly less pale than the sheets, though bruising obscured much of his face. His numerous monitors had been turned to their lowest volume, the lighting dimmed and blinds closed. Someone, clearly, had been informed of their patient’s sensory issues, though right now that patient was registering nothing at all.The foot of the cot had been elevated, and Sherlock’s left leg was raised on two pillows, the sheet drawn aside to provide easy access for his nurses. John saw Mycroft’s subtle flinch as he noticed the external fixative pins and frame protruding through his brother’s bandages and skin.“I know it looks awful, but it’s not really painful after the first day or so,” John said. “They’re necessary in this case—the bones needed more support than just a cast could provide. The external pins and struts help stabilize the bones and make things heal a bit faster.”“He will find that very difficult to deal with,” Mycroft said. “Not the pain—just the presence.”John realized the older man was correct—Sherlock would find that constant awareness excruciating. “I’ll have a chat with his orthopedist before they wake him—maybe they can limit the use to just the first couple of days, until the worst of the swelling goes down, and then give him a modified, braced cast. It’s worth asking the question, at least.”Mycroft moved closer to the cot, those sharp grey eyes darting over his brother’s damaged form—the large bandage on his head, the huge bruises covering his arms and hands, right hand braced and heavily bandaged as well. “He has to stop this,” the bureaucrat said softly. “How many times can he dodge the hangman? How many times, before he does irreparable damage to himself?”“From your mouth, to God’s ear,” John sighed.They settled into an uneasy quiet, Mycroft working steadily on his laptop and phone, John fitfully watching telly and trying to work out what, if anything, he wanted to add to his blog. He stepped out after the first hour, figuring 8 a.m. was late enough to make his necessary calls.Mrs. Hudson was first, of course. “He’s, well, he’s not fine, but he’s in no danger,” he told her. “He won’t be up to visitors for a day or two, but after that I’m sure he’d be glad of some biscuits and a hug, whether he admits it or not. I’ll be home once he wakes, at least for a while—should be late afternoon, I’m guessing. Maybe we can have dinner together, you, me and Rosie? And then I’ll come back to spend the night here once we get Rosie down for the night.” Leaving Sherlock alone in a hospital room overnight just wasn’t an option—the detective tended to wake disoriented and panicked, and it went badly for all concerned.The second call was to Greg Lestrade, who gave a grateful sigh when he heard John’s voice. “I was working myself into a lather, afraid something’d gone wrong,” the detective said. “Glad to hear he’s in a room now, even if it isn’t quite as smooth sailing as we’d hoped. Is Myc still there?”“Yeah, he wanted to stay until Sherlock woke up. So this is now MI5, MI6 and Whitehall in miniature, I guess—he’s working away, seems to have forgotten I’m there, for the most part,” John said. “Didn’t even notice when I left, I expect.”“Oh, he noticed,” Greg said drily. “Lay you odds he’ll tell you exactly where you’ve been and what you’ve done, too.” He paused, cleared his throat, then continued, sounding mildly embarrassed. “Listen, um…can you see if you can get anything out of him about this poor kid? We haven’t tracked down the family yet, though we’ve got some good leads. But it’s obviously something, well, bad, if it’s affected both of them like this, even after so many years.”John sighed. “Can’t you do that?” he said, in what even he admitted was a whinge. “You’re the detective, mate.”“And you’re the doctor-cum-best friend-cum-babysitter,” Greg said. “It’s in your job description, pretty sure.”“Bastard,” John sighed, and hung up to go do his duty. John swung by the cafeteria before he returned to Sherlock’s room. His ostensible reason was to collect tea for himself and Mycroft; the real one, he admitted to himself, was to delay that return. Attempting to pry information from the Most Observant Man in the World was fraught for all parties involved, and usually yielded very poor results.When he reached the room and swung the door open, he was unsurprised to see Mycroft still working away. He was surprised, though, when the bureaucrat looked up, glanced up and down his form, and sighed.“Whatever you’re concerned about, John, I’d prefer you simply asked. I am too exhausted to worry about niceties at this juncture, but I will endeavour to at least be courteous, if not forthcoming,” the Great Man said. The shadows under those grey eyes backed him up.John gave a bark of laughter, then held out the extra cup. “Here,” he said. “Consider it a bribe. Greg Lestrade’s made me the designated sacrifice, so let’s just get it over with.”Mycroft took the cup and held it in both hands, enjoying the warmth. “I’m unsure how much bearing what I know will have on that poor boy’s death,” he said quietly. “It was all a very long time ago. I would not have reacted so strongly were I not already…” his voice trailed off. He took a ruminative sip of the tea, eyes down.“Stressed?” John said gently. The older man nodded, still sipping his tea.“For what it’s worth,” John continued, “it may not have much to do with this case. But whatever it was, it brought Sherlock to this,” he waved his hand at the still figure in the cot, “and you to this.” He nodded at Mycroft, looking curiously small in his chair. “Maybe…I dunno. Maybe you need to tell it, for both your sakes, and then we’ll see afterwards if it’s relevant?”Mycroft raised his chin, looking thoughtfully at his sleeping brother. “We had an agreement between us,” he said finally. “In order to continue our relationship, to enable us to reach, well, if not forgiveness, then at least forbearance, we chose not to speak of it. Not to use it to score points against each other. I’m unsure if Sherlock ever discussed it with his therapist; perhaps he should have, given this reaction. I have said nothing, myself, once the necessary notifications were made and final reports were filed.”“Forgiveness?” John said. “Who, or what, needed to be forgiven?”Mycroft gave a wry grin. “Oh, me, of course,” he said. “Since, at its core, I bear most of the blame. But I couldn’t truly ask for forgiveness, since I have to acknowledge that, in the same circumstances I would make exactly the same choices that I made at the time. And forgiveness requires repentance, or so I’m told.”He put down his tea, and looked back at his brother. “As I said, the boy’s name is Quinn Chapman. His brother, his much older brother, was named Oliver. Many years ago, Oliver, Sherlock and Anthea worked for me. In the course of that employment, he was captured and severely injured.” He fell silent, fingers working fretfully at his empty cup.“And?” John said gently, when that silence showed no signs of breaking.“I abandoned him, and he died,” Mycroft said, turning his attention back to John. “There was a great deal more to it, of course,” he continued briskly, in the tone of voice Sherlock often used to distance himself from emotional things. “But I suspect you will not be content with that answer, and we have nothing else to do at present. And, if this story is to be told, it needs to happen before my brother wakes, since I will not be discussing any of this within his hearing under any circumstances. Would you like me to continue?” he asked, still in that deceptively detached tone.“If you’d like,” John said carefully.Mycroft gave a sound that might have been laughter, under other circumstances. “I should like to bury it deep enough that neither I nor my brother remembered a single moment,” he said. “But here we are.” He took a deep breath. “It began in Germany…”
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Apparition -- A supernatural manifestation of a person (dead or living), animals or objects. Ghosts are apparitions of dead people.
Munich, Late August, 2000
Anthea
It was only 11 am, and it had already been a long day. Anthea, trapped in a smallish hotel suite with the two most annoying adolescents in the known world, would have sold her soul for a reason to be elsewhere. Sadly, none appeared.“But why can’t we at least go out and have a walk around?” Sherlock whinged, for the third time in the past hour. “It’s not like we’ll be endangering the mission in any way. And there’s nothing to do here.”“Because your brother said so,” Anthea snapped, finally reduced to nursery tactics. Sherlock gave a thwarted huff and collapsed bonelessly onto his back on the sofa.“Well, as to that, we’re likely going to be spending considerable time locked together in rooms anyway,” Ollie observed from his position by the window. “Might as well get used to it.” He gave her what he likely believed was a Mysterious Look.“Enough, you utter brat,” she said bluntly. “Not in the mood for it, what with Tall-Dark-and-Sulky over there throwing a wobbly as well. Why are we likely to be lurking in rooms together, then?”“Because we must get our Boy Genius prepared for his starring role,” Ollie drawled. “Since he is the one who will be doing all the heavy lifting in this production.”“How do you come to that conclusion?” Anthea said. “Last I heard, it was still undecided who was going to be taking point.”The tall young man gave her a speaking look. “I,” Ollie said, waving up and down his form grandly, “am young. You,” he said pointing one long finger at Anthea, “are a child. But Sherrrrlock, here,” waving both hands at the skinny figure draped along the sofa, “is a fetus with exceptionally long legs. He will be perfect; the age limit is 18 and under. While you could certainly pass, all things considered, you don’t have musical or artistic skills up to the challenge. I’m six years too old and look it, even though my singing would probably pass muster. Which leaves us with our Junior Master, who looks 15 at best, and his enviable violin mastery. His brother says he’s exceptional, you know,” he added, with a wide-eyed look at Anthea.“And the horse you rode in on,” Sherlock (formerly known as “Lock”, and now taking no prisoners in his insistence on his new, “professional” name) drawled from the sofa, without opening his eyes.Ollie clutched his non-existent pearls. “Such language,” he wailed. “Your tutor will be appalled.”Anthea resisted the urge to smack both of them. “All right, enough,” she said sternly. “Clearly you know something you’re perishing to tell us about this mission. Get on with it, and spare us the theatrics.” Though she had to admit Ollie’s theatrics were usually pretty entertaining, teasing Sherlock did not typically result in a pleasant afternoon for all.“You’re mean,” Ollie said with a pout, but complied nonetheless. “But I confess I’ve been dying to tell you. And Our Leader will be here shortly to deliver the same news anyway, so where’s the harm?” It was a rhetorical question but, being Ollie, he ostentatiously waited for an objection before continuing.“It’s quite simple,” he said, when no such objection appeared. “We know that Our Leader will be personally involved in this scenario—that is, ‘hands-on’ as opposed to ‘man behind the curtain’. That means that a talent that he has, one not found in other members of the team, is required. Our pubescent associate is a violinist, almost certainly about to enter an international music performance competition. That means auditions, which means practice, which means a music tutor. Now I, granted, could probably pass as a tutor—I did go through music education for years, after all. But my background was voice, not orchestral. And I could not be that essential extra thing that a violin soloist requires, at least up to the point of the on-stage performances. And that is?” he concluded, giving a condescending look, certain that his audience would not be able to answer.“A pianist,” said Anthea and Sherlock simultaneously, though in very different tones. Ollie’s mouth made a discontented moue.“Spoilsports,” he muttered. In retrospect, Ollie was right: it was obvious. The mission was being undertaken at the request of Interpol, but there were certainly reasons for MI6 to be involved anyway—3 of them, in fact. What was startling, honestly, was the fact that no one from the British side had started an investigation until Interpol asked for their involvement.The Pan-Europe Excellence in Performance competition (referred to in the press, of course, as the Peeps) was an institution, attracting widespread interest and innumerable international followers. Run by a nonprofit foundation and now in its thirtieth year, it had produced numerous young champions who were now superstars on the international music scene: five world-class conductors, four stellar composers, and any number of opera and solo instrumentalists, from violinists to pianists to trumpeters. There had never been a breath of scandal associated with the Peeps—no bribery schemes, no dishonest judging, no hideous stage parents attempting sabotage. It was all ethical, all inspiring, all for the benefit of the young performers and the musical world at large. Children were nurtured and mentored as needed by chaperones provided by the foundation, in addition to any family members or carers along for the ride.What was less-known until Interpol brought it up was the fact that, in the past ten years, ten contestants had gone missing, either during or immediately after the end of the competition. Three had been UK citizens. The reason it hadn’t been connected before was the fact that, almost without exception, the missing contestants came from atypical, often broken families: no parents, absent/non-involved parents, alienated siblings. No one noticed immediately that the children were missing, since going long periods without contact was the norm rather than the exception. Their schools, if they attended one, assumed they were staying with family; their families didn’t follow up. It was sad, but logical.Of those who went missing after the competition ended, they were never the ultimate winners; they were those who won their subdivisions, occasionally (i.e., instrumentalists, or singers) but failed to take the overall prize. And because they failed to achieve the top place, their absence didn’t generate the level of press coverage that a winner’s disappearance would have. No small part of that was the fact that the realization of a disappearance often came months after the end of the competition.Those who were missed during the competition itself were presumed to have succumbed to homesickness or nerves—as many as 20% of the contestants withdrew for one reason or another every year. And because they had “withdrawn” from the competition, there was no formal follow-up. Their carers, sometimes overworked social agencies in the absence of parents, were left to wonder if the children were runaways, made frantic by the pressure of competition, lured away by unscrupulous hangers-on, or gone missing by misadventure—an auto crash, a mugging gone wrong. Because each child went missing in a different jurisdiction (and, typically, a different country), there was no reason for police forces to search for similar cases—as far as they were concerned, there were none.Whoever this kidnapper was, whatever their motive, they had thought this through very carefully.Their downfall, at least to the point of bringing the cases to Interpol’s attention, was an unusually involved boarding school teacher. Her student, an exceptionally promising singer and scholarship student, had gone off to the Peeps competition in the company of one of the foundation’s supplied chaperones. The child was an orphan but for a distant, overworked cousin who only remembered the boy’s existence when school terms let out and someone had to come collect him. When the boy didn’t return to school after the summer break, and she discovered to her horror that the cousin hadn't seen him since he left for the first auditions, she contacted the chaperone, and was astounded to be told that the boy had been missing from his room the morning after his performance and was presumed to have left on his own, despite the fact that the child was 16 years old and penniless. That was the last time anyone saw him. The teacher contacted police the same day, and a chance discussion with another officer by the PC that took the report led to a mention of a similar case reported six years before, in London. By the end of that week, Interpol was involved, and the remaining eight cases identified. It had taken nearly six months, though, to put together a workable plan, since it had to revolve around the yearly competition cycle. The case had ultimately devolved to MI6, and to Mycroft Holmes’ brief, two days ago. The team leader had chosen Ollie, Anthea and Sherlock for this mission for one simple reason: they were the youngest members in Mycroft’s group, the only ones (realistically) who had a chance of infiltrating a competition geared to contestants 18 and under.When Mycroft showed up ten minutes later, Anthea had been just short of calling him and demanding his presence, or she couldn’t be held responsible for her actions. Sherlock had instantly recognized the truth in what Ollie said, and was livid; Ollie was enjoying it entirely too much. She hated both of them.Well no, not really. But she didn’t like them much at present.As soon as the older man entered the room, the bickering began.“No one will believe I am a child,” Sherlock sniffed. “Surely we can enlist a summer intern or something for this effort?”“I’m assuming I’m a bodyguard,” Ollie chirped. “Does that mean I get to carry a gun?”“Can I kill them now?” Anthea begged. “Please?”Mycroft blinked, then turned to each in turn. “No. No. And no.” He placed his briefcase on the coffee table and dropped into an armchair with an exhausted sigh.Anthea felt just a tiny shimmer of remorse. It was apparent that sitting in a hotel room with the Twins From Hell wasn’t necessarily the worst morning, after all.“What happened?” she asked, stepping forward to offer him a cup of tea from the still-warm pot. He accepted thankfully.“I have just spent two hours on a conference call, explaining to various mid-level bean-counters why a succession of upper-end rail and air tickets, and high-range hotel accommodations, will be required for the three of us. Sherlock, of course, will be covered by the foundation, but that stipend does not extend to assistants and hangers-on, as the competition will certainly view the rest of us. I believe you will be able to stand as the required chaperone, though it can’t be guaranteed, but that still leaves Oliver and me, and we need to have sufficient funds available to address all contingencies,” he said. “I had to refer to ‘ten dead children’ entirely too many times to be seemly.”“And how, exactly, are you going to explain the useless expense to those same bean-counters when I am exposed as a grown man?” Sherlock snarled. “Since that will almost certainly happen.”Anthea had had enough. “To begin with, you’re not a grown man. You are nineteen, and this is your ‘gap year’, or so you said. Get over yourself.”Sherlock pulled back in outrage, while Ollie snickered.But she was on a roll now. “And you too, Oliver Chapman. You don’t have the excuse of not being adult. Stop poking the tiger and act like it.” Ollie flinched as it she’d slapped him. She almost had.Mycroft blinked into the ensuing silence. “Well put, my dear,” he said finally, as Sherlock glared in the background. “And given that we need to move to the competition site within the next four hours, I suggest we walk through our approach, and take any initial necessary steps before time gets away from us any further.”He opened the briefcase and pulled out several pages of notes, separating the copies and passing them to each team member. “The basic play is this: we know that the abductor has targeted children coming from atypical families—those with no parents, absent parents, neglectful parents. In this instance, then, I will be Sherlock’s hired pianist and music tutor, not his brother—I will be brisk, professional and, most of all, distant. Anthea, you will be his older sister, mainly along as a nominal ‘chaperone’, but in reality here to party, lounge about and sponge off of your absent parents in a variety of upscale European venues. This gives us the advantage of having someone easily able to go outside of the performance halls for extended periods without raising eyebrows. It will also lead to Sherlock being largely on his own unless in tutoring, rehearsal or performance.”“Absent parents?” Sherlock asked suspiciously, drawn in despite himself. “Who can afford to send along a chaperone that they must pay the freight for?”Mycroft nodded. “Mm,” he said, “and a bodyguard of sorts, Oliver, though most of your time will be spent ‘protecting’ Anthea, your assigned target. The family background will be of basic Eurotrash: endless amounts of money, children farmed out to paid caretakers by parents who are indifferent to them and unaware of their activities so long as no problems arise. We will make it clear that Sherlock has not actually seen his parents in several years, and decided to pursue the competition on his own.”Sherlock blinked in his turn. “That’s…not a bad concept,” he said slowly. “But I still maintain no one will actually buy me as 17.”“No,” Mycroft said with a smug grin. “You’re 15, actually. Young enough that you’re not able to travel unescorted, realistically.”“Oh, for God’s sake,” Sherlock sneered, and stomped off to the sofa in a huff.Mycroft raised his voice just enough that Sherlock couldn’t claim to not be able to hear. “Your first audition is at 10 tomorrow morning. You are registered as William Scott; the detailed biographical details are in your folder. I presume you have an appropriate piece prepared that you can use? I will need to secure the accompaniment score, so I will need the details by this afternoon.”“The Handel G-minor,” Sherlock sighed, resigned to his fate. “I presume you still know the piano.”Mycroft nodded. “Though I will secure the sheet music for both of us, just in case. In some cases the proctors wish to have the score in hand during the auditions.”Sherlock sneered. “If they don’t already know that piece, it doesn’t say much for their expertise.” He paused before continuing. “And where’s my violin? We need to at least run through the piece a few times before the audition.”Mycroft flinched minutely—only someone who knew him well could tell, but both Anthea and Sherlock did.“What now?” Sherlock demanded. “I have to have it—I can hardly impress international judges with an inferior—”“Not inferior,” Mycroft interjected hurriedly. “Just not yours. Yours is too valuable, too noticeable, for a child of nouveau riche parents to have. But I have secured the loan of two excellent, though newer, instruments from the London Philharmonic. You can take your pick. And we already have rehearsal space reserved this evening at the hotel, including a very fine piano. The Torbräu—only 10 minutes’ walk from the Gasteig. We already have reservations, so we can check in after lunch.”“Great,” Ollie suddenly said, having been ignored for too long, by his standards. “So, I have two questions: first, when do I get my gun, since I’m the bodyguard and all? And second, when do we go get Sherlock fitted for his short trousers and knee socks?”Anthea threw a magazine at him. Two, in fact.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Poltergeist—German a disruptive entity that haunts a particular person via strange noises and even petty physical attacks.
Sherlock
Sherlock had to hand it to his brother—the violins he secured were indeed of superior quality, more than acceptable for the task at hand. Didn’t mean he wouldn’t continue to complain about the lack of his own exceptional instrument, of course, but he would at least leaven it by acknowledging the offerings were marginally adequate. It was important to maintain standards, with Mycroft. Give him an inch, he’d take a marathon.The hotel, as well, was—well, “opulent” was probably the appropriate term. Certainly the suite a uniformed flunky escorted them to was that—large, airy rooms, sybaritic furnishings and conveniences, hot and cold running servitors panting to do one’s bidding. The furniture, though rather aggressively modern, was nonetheless of the highest quality and scrupulously clean; the two en suite bathrooms were a designer’s dream. From Sherlock’s point of view, the best part was the lack of fluorescent lighting, the bane of his existence in most public spaces. The not-quite-audible buzzing of such fixtures were guaranteed to send his hypersensitive hearing and eyesight into a frenzy, leading to the need for a lie-down in a quiet, dark room. Or, occasionally, a closet.Sherlock, Anthea and Ollie were in a two-bedroom suite, with a large shared living space containing a fold-out sofa bed for Ollie.“I don’t even get my own room?” Ollie sniffed, giving Anthea a tragic look.“You’re the help,” Sherlock said. “Be thankful you don’t have to share with Mycroft.”Mycroft, as it happened, was located in solitary state several floors below the suite, in a well-decorated, windowless shoebox. It had an en suite and a mini-fridge, but little more.“But why don’t I get a room to myself?” Ollie whinged.“Because you’re my bodyguard, which means you have to be in close proximity to my body,” Anthea chimed in. “And before you say anything more, no, that does not mean you may share my bed.”Ollie gave a theatrical sigh. “You can’t resist me forever,” he said. “I can be patient.”Anthea gave a crack of laughter. “In what universe?” she said incredulously. “You’re more impatient than Sherlock, and I thought he was the gold standard before I met you.”“You’re mean,” Ollie huffed, and turned on the telly. They went out for dinner, after several dull hours scanning material on past competitors, judges, venues and the like. Nothing new was discovered (as Sherlock had predicted before they began. As usual, though, Mycroft’s will prevailed). They had passable German fare—Sherlock rather liked it, as a rule, though not sauerkraut. It was all he could do not to gag from the scent of it wafting from Ollie’s plate.When they got back to the hotel, Sherlock and Mycroft headed off to their practice appointment. They took the lift to the second floor, and followed their directions to a gilded ballroom, now divided into smaller sections by removable panels. “Their” portion, against fine windows looking out over the city, contained a gleaming black grand piano that had Mycroft making little pleased noises as he opened the keyboard and made a few investigatory runs.“The quality isn’t quite as good as Mummy’s, but the action is very nice, and it’s well-tuned,” he said.“It’s probably rarely used by musicians of Mummy’s calibre, so it hardly matters,” Sherlock said. “For our purposes, it could just as easily be a spinet in the basement. You’re a piano snob.”“Pot, kettle, black,” Mycroft observed. “You’re quite particular about violins, you know.”“Because I’m the one that’s going to stand in front of several hundred people and compete with one,” Sherlock sniffed. “And it’s rather important that I win, now isn’t it?” Sherlock was not going to think about those several hundred people, and the bright lights on the stage, and the shifting, chattering backstage crowd, and the background hum from the sound system, and—enough! He had to get a handle on this anxiety, or things were going to go very badly indeed.Mycroft, of course, noticed the momentary pause. “You’re sure you can do this?” he asked quietly, in that hateful, hateful tone of concern that made Sherlock want to tear his lips off.“How many times must we have this conversation?” Sherlock hissed. “I told you—if I wasn’t sure I could do it, I would have said so.”Mycroft threw up one pale hand. “All right, all right. You are perfectly calm, and this doesn’t bother you at all. As you said. Now, shall we begin?” He swept into the opening chords, and they were off. They played well together; always had, actually, since before Sherlock could truly remember (anymore than he could remember learning to play violin. It has always been there, like breathing). They could anticipate each other’s tonal shifts, knew when to lean into notes and when to press forward, knew where the potential trouble spots were, not that there were many of those at this point. Much though Sherlock hated to admit it, some of the happiest moments of his childhood had been spent just like this—in a small room, with a violin, a piano, and his brother.Sherlock was shocked, when they reached the end of a run-through and Mycroft took his hands off the keyboard, to find that almost four hours had passed.“It’s past 11,” Mycroft said, and stretched as he rose and closed the keyboard. “Let’s get some rest. I have this space booked again for half an hour at 8:45; we’ll meet for breakfast first, then you can warm up. Audition is at the Gasteig; we can ride over together.”The irony in that summary was the assertion that either of them would sleep. For Mycroft, it was merely unlikely—he would spend the evening continuing his obsessive research, while worrying about his brother. For Sherlock, it was impossible, and they both knew it.Mycroft knew where his brother’s thoughts had drifted. He gave a wry smile. “Lie down at least, can you? If you’re too exhausted your hands will shake.”“I’ll try,” Sherlock said grudgingly. It was true—the more tired he was, the more vulnerable he would be to the assault on his senses from the performance hall and all that went along with it. In the end, though, it was all a matter of degree--his hands would shake, whether he rested or not. By the time Sherlock got back to the suite, Anthea had already retired for the night. Ollie looked up owlishly from his fold-out bed in the lounge.“How’d it go?” he asked drowsily. “D’ya need anything?”Because that was the best thing about Ollie, honestly: for all his storm and fury, he was endlessly accommodating when Sherlock truly needed something. And did so without any implication of future obligation, or sneering about Sherlock’s myriad inadequacies as a functioning human being.Now, though, Sherlock just waved him off. “Go back to sleep,” he said. “I’m just getting my books, then I’ll be in my room.”Ollie hummed in agreement. “But come get me if you can’t sleep,” he said firmly, before lying back down and pulling up his blankets. “I know how you get. And none of us want to deal with that tomorrow.”“Thank you for that vote of confidence,” Sherlock said in an arid tone, and closed the door to his bedroom with a firm push. The night went much as Sherlock expected: comfortable bedding, adequate temperature control, fully-stocked mini-fridge and assortment of teas and coffees—and no sleep. He did try—even to the point of drinking a cup of soapy-tasting chamomile tea at about 2, suppressing his instinctive retch. But it was no use; neither his overactive brain nor his sodding anxiety had any intention of sleeping while facing the possibility of personal humiliation, and/or professional disaster, first thing in the morning.When he finally staggered from his room at just past 7, Anthea was already up, and noises from her en suite indicated Ollie was active as well. When she saw his face, she grimaced.“That bad?” she asked. “You should have come and gotten me—I have some sleeping aids you could have taken.”“And risk being semi-sedated while in performance? No, thank you,” Sherlock sniffed.She nodded—knew that many medications didn’t react well with Sherlock’s neuro-atypical “wiring”. “Well, come have some tea, and then go take your shower—that’ll help, likely. We meet Mycroft downstairs for breakfast in half an hour.”“Can’t wait,” Sherlock moaned, and grabbed his cup on the way to the shower.When they got downstairs to the well-appointed café, Mycroft was already comfortably ensconced with tea and a large basket of pastries in front of him. He looked up at their entry and gestured imperiously at the waiter lying in wait against the back wall.“We should go ahead and order,” he said, as they settled into their chairs. “Service has been a bit slow, and we need to head to warm-up within the hour.”Sherlock looked at his brother, looked at the menu, tried to think about anything other than (1) his imminent performance; or (2) the urge to spontaneously vomit. Mycroft, no stranger to his brother’s mood in this kind of situation, took charge. “You can manage some toast, I imagine,” he said, careful not to look Sherlock in the eye. It was enough, Sherlock decided—at least Mycroft had the sense not to try to insist on anything more substantial, and toast did, sometimes, have a bit of a settling effect. Not that he’d ever voice any of that, of course. He sat, with studied poor grace, and did several rounds of mental calming exercises while awaiting his dry toast.He managed half a slice.Finally (thank God!) it was time. Sherlock went back upstairs to gather his violin, Mycroft headed to his shoebox room for the music, and they met back up in the practice space from last evening.Mycroft was still walking on eggshells, which was both maddening and necessary. “Let’s get started,” he said calmly, opening the keyboard and running through chords while Sherlock tuned and prepared his bow. “I want to leave us roughly fifteen minutes’ grace time before we’re due at the theater.” Unspoken was the rest of that sentence: “so you have less time to vibrate in terror in the hallway”.The run-throughs alternated between stellar and abysmal, with little in-between. Mycroft called a halt after one final shatteringly poor effort, closed the keyboard, and turned to Sherlock. “Can you do this?” he said simply. “This is not me critiquing your work; this is me asking if this operation is something you are capable of bearing up under. You understand my concern.”And Sherlock did, much though he hated to admit it. Ignoring the fact that he was struggling was illogical; their time was better served by accessing coping methods. “Send them a message,” he gritted out. “Ask them for accommodation. A closed room, limited attendance. If they won’t, they won’t—I will manage. But I would prefer not to pay the price that would cost, given that this is only the first step in a long process.”Mycroft, to his credit, wasted no time, hurrying out to the lobby where Anthea had their mobile phone. While he was gone, Sherlock forced himself through multiple iterations of his anxiety techniques, ignoring the nausea trying to force itself to his notice. By the time Mycroft returned, eight minutes later, Sherlock could breathe almost normally, and contemplate motion without gagging.Mycroft was wearing a relieved smile, which grated on Sherlock’s lacerated nerves while simultaneously sending a surge of relief through his system. “All is well,” he said. “The audition has been moved to the small performance venue on the second floor, and attendance is limited to the judging panel and proctors. They were distressed that they had not been informed of your…situation sooner, and wished to express their utmost willingness to meet your needs.” He looked at his watch. “We should go now—the panel is already en route to the new location.”Sherlock suppressed his instinctive wish to strike out, to rail against such saccharine, pity-laden condescension (a kind he was all too familiar with, and despised). He had asked, after all. He sighed, closed his violin case, and followed his brother out the door. The taxi ride was silent and fraught. Mycroft exuded spurious calm; it would have fooled anyone other than Sherlock, their parents, or Anthea, but was of no use in their current situation. Sherlock wouldn’t, couldn’t open his mouth for fear of what might come out. In the end, silence was the least-damaging option either of them could think of.They rode the lift to the designated small hall, and Mycroft went to introduce himself to the proctors and panel members. Sherlock was not allowed to speak to either until after the judging was completed, which was all to the good, all things considered. He simply walked to the stage, dropped his case on a long table set up in the wings, and prepped his instrument and bow until Mycroft stepped up to the stage himself and walked to the piano bench.Mycroft made a show of limbering up his hands, striking through chords and scales to give Sherlock time to run through his performance discipline—the one he’d used in uni, the one that enabled him to block out most of the stimuli around him, at least for a short period. It wasn’t as deep, as intense, as he used for longer performances, but that version cost him a great deal, mentally and physically, one he didn’t want to incur for what should be an easy, comfortable hurdle.Mycroft hit the opening chords, nodded firmly at his brother, and they began. Sherlock climbed out of the music with a jerk, as Mycroft rose from the bench, placed his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, and folded both of them into a bow before hustling Sherlock off-stage and out of the room. He moved them both quickly down the hallway, glancing into closed rooms until he found an empty practice space and pushed Sherlock inside, closing the door firmly behind them.Sherlock sat, or fell, roughly into the folding metal chair, wrapping his arms tightly around himself and fighting the urge to rock.“You can, if you need to,” Mycroft said quietly. That, of course, made Sherlock all the more determined not to, which may have been his brother’s intent.But, to be fair, likely not.Sherlock settled for working through what appeared, to the uninformed, to be violin fingering exercises, but were in actuality a mildly effective stim. Mycroft watched in silence for five minutes before leaving the room, coming back shortly after with a large paper cup of water. He held it out, and Sherlock managed to wrap shaking hands around it and drink.“How did it go?” Sherlock finally managed to croak. “I wasn’t—I don’t remember, for the most part.” It was fairly common, with this kind of demand performance—he could play his part as needed, but functions normally devoted to memory were temporarily diverted to maintaining the necessary distance from disturbing stimuli.A relieved smile spread over Mycroft’s face. “Well,” he said. “Very, very well. I believe you will place very highly indeed.”And so it proved—when the results were posted the following morning, “William Scott” headed the list of 34 instrumentalists joining the competition. Round One would begin in three days.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Moroi—Slavic phantom who leaves the grave to draw energy from the living
Mycroft
The initial round of competition wasn’t set to begin until the following day. That gave Mycroft and his little crew time to think about their approach more closely, and speculate a bit more on who the likely link to the deaths was.“I suppose it could be the promoters,” Anthea said idly, more than an hour into their unproductive conference that morning. “Lord knows, this process must give them access to foreign banks, unscrupulous parents—all kinds of semi-shady individuals.”Ollie shook his head. “Nah. Many of the ‘promoters’ change from year to year. Most of them are no more than glorified booking agents for vendors, anyway—it’s not like the competition needs extra publicity or help lining up talent. Even the previous year’s winners are contractually bound to perform at the kick-off concert at no cost. And the ticket proceeds, after paying expenses, go right back into the organization’s coffers to fund next year’s round. No one’s getting rich here.”Anthea made a little sound of frustration, which set his brother off. Again.“We know all this,” Sherlock said from his “pacing spot” by the windows, in tones of intense irritation. “Every one of the large groups associated with the competition has been rigourously vetted multiple times. There’s no point in this endless speculation—let’s just start playing our roles and keeping our eyes open. How difficult can it be?”Mycroft managed, just, to suppress yet another sigh. It had been a long morning.“If it were not difficult, none of us would be here,” he said sternly. “It was only after an exhaustive evaluation of every possible approach that we landed on this attempt, which was only possible because we had superior musical talent readily available, in an individual young enough to pass for a child. I continue to believe that the only way to solve this is from the inside. And unless you have spontaneously arrived at some other, more palatable solution, I suggest you resign yourself to it, and move on. We do, after all, have work to do. I believe you are supposed to be in your practice space right now, aren’t you?”And Mycroft knew, knew, he shouldn’t have said that, as soon as it passed his lips. It was too much like their childhood relationship, and unfair when wielded as Sherlock’s erstwhile supervisor. True to form, Sherlock stood, a touch of furious red on his cheekbones, grabbed his violin from the sofa and slammed out the door.Ollie looked after him, considering following, but caught Anthea’s eye and subsided. Anthea, for her part, looked at her employer and shook her head.Mycroft let the suppressed sigh free. “I’ll give him some time to cool off before heading over,” he said, ignoring Anthea’s minatory expression. “It will only reinforce the impression that he is neglected.”“As long as he doesn’t believe that,” Anthea said, and returned to her stack of printouts. After he deemed an acceptable period of time had passed, Mycroft stood gracefully, picked up the sheaf of music from the table, and announced his intention to head over to the venue. He was, after all, needed to provide accompaniment, and he and Sherlock needed to decide on Sherlock’s performance pieces.Anthea had been surprised when Mycroft mentioned the need for more than one piece. “Can’t he just play the audition one again?” she asked. “From what you say, he does it beautifully, and the judges clearly agreed.”“That was a simple audition piece,” Mycroft replied. “And he can use it again if need be—if there’s a tie in judging, for example. But he needs at least one or two additional short pieces for the initial performance judging rounds, and a long one for the final night of each venue round, assuming he makes it that far. I brought along several suggestions—things I know he’s done before, either at uni or in private recitals with his instructor.” Unspoken was his private fear that Sherlock would reject all of them out of sheer pique, leading to a last-minute scramble for acceptable alternatives.He walked over to the venue, hoping the fresh air would bring him some perspective, if not more patience with his brother. He knew he was being somewhat unfair; Sherlock, despite appearances, was not being difficult out of sheer brattiness. His brother, voluntarily or not, was under excruciating pressure, not all of which came from the myriad difficulties of interacting with hordes of strangers and pretending to be several years younger than he was. Performance, much though he adored the music, was hideously difficult for Sherlock—one of the reasons the boy had refused to pursue a career in music, despite Mummy’s pleading that he consider it (“you can always return to chemistry later, dear”). Mycroft, in his deeply-hidden heart, thought it horrible that his brother was given such a gift, but was unable to share it because of his own innate makeup.He wandered through the maze of hallways, looking for Sherlock’s assigned practice room. In the end, he didn’t really need to look at room numbers—he heard the “distressed cat” wails of Sherlock’s violin from halfway down the hall. Two proctors, deep in conversation, flinched at the sound as they passed.When Mycroft reached the correct room, he grasped his sheet music tightly and forced himself to a glacial calm before opening the door. The last thing his brother needed, based on the emotion pouring out of his instrument, was escalation. Mycroft took one last calming breath and opened the door.The awful sounds stopped abruptly. “You’re late,” Sherlock snapped, and started fiddling with tuning. He kept his back to his brother, refusing eye contact, not letting Mycroft read his expression.Well then. First things first.“I’m sorry,” Mycroft said. “I shouldn’t have spoken to you so, especially in front of the others.”Sherlock gave a jerky nod, his back still to his brother. His shoulders were high and hunched.“I’ve brought a selection of sheet music,” Mycroft offered, thinking a change of subject was in order. “We should probably pick 2 short pieces, plus your long one. Do you have any preferences?”“I will be playing the Mendelssohn for my long piece. The first two movements,” Sherlock said, turning slowly around to face his brother. “You can choose the two short pieces—I don’t care.” His face was white and set.Mycroft managed to keep his shock from showing on his face, but it was a lost cause to keep it from his voice. “But you haven’t—”Before he could get out another word, Sherlock whipped his violin back to his shoulder and launched into the fiery series of pyrotechnics that marked the early part of the 1st movement of the piece. It wasn’t flawless, if only because of Sherlock’s emotional state, but the capability was clearly there.Mycroft was aware his mouth was unattractively open. “You’ve kept it up?” he finally managed. “All this time?” And, before he could stop himself, “Is that wise?”In response, Sherlock whirled, dropped his violin in it’s case, and forcefully shoved his brother out of the small space before Mycroft could react. The decisive click of the lock was an exclamation point to Sherlock’s fury.Mycroft stood indecisively in the hall for more than two minutes, trying to decide if knocking would make things better or worse. In the end, he sighed, bent and placed the sheaf of sheet music on the floor just outside the door, and walked away. The first official function of the competition was at noon—a mass luncheon meeting for all contestants and their families, to give detailed information on how the competition would progress, provide each child and their sponsor(s) with a rule book, and introduce the children to their assigned mentors. Attendance was mandatory, and Mycroft was on tenterhooks as to whether his brother would attend.The rest of them headed down to the ballroom after waiting for Sherlock in the suite until the last possible second. Ollie trotted off to grab the lift, but Anthea stayed back and grabbed at Mycroft’s arm, holding him back.“What’s going on?” she asked. “Why are you so concerned, and why is Sherlock so, um, distressed?”Mycroft almost, almost snapped at her, but managed to hold it back—it was, after all, only fair she should know about something that could affect their mission. He sighed, then nodded. “Later,” he said. “After we get this meeting out of the way.”Anthea frowned, but nodded, and they headed to where Ollie was impatiently holding the lift doors open.Ollie noticed, of course. “What?” he said. “What’s going on? Why are you both all frowny?” Seeing Mycroft’s repressive face, he sighed theatrically. “When one of these secrets of yours gets me killed, you’re going to be very sorry. See if you aren’t.”“This one won’t,” Mycroft said serenely, and pushed the “down” button.“And it’s really none of your business,” Anthea added as the doors closed. Ollie scowled but subsided. Mycroft was relieved, on entering the ballroom for the luncheon, to spy his brother standing testily next to what was presumably their table. He looked at least somewhat calmer than earlier, thankfully.“You’re late,” Sherlock announced as they reached him.“We were waiting for you, upstairs,” Ollie said. “You know, like we agreed.”“Did we?” Sherlock asked airily. “I don’t recall.” The irony was, he probably didn’t.The lunch was predictable, and a little dull. Several earnest luminaries made speeches, the past winners, seated at a central table, were introduced, then lunch was served—passable, but nothing special. Ollie was the only one to finish his meal. But then, Ollie was never inclined to pass up free food.After the meal was cleared away, one of the elite from the center table stood, and waved forward a group of people from the surrounding tables.“I’d like to introduce you to your mentors for the competition,” she said in German-accented English, waving her arm at the smiling group behind her. “If you open your program booklets, you will see your assigned mentor, as well as the time for your introductory meetings tomorrow. Please make sure you’re on time; the mentors have several charges each, so must allocate their time carefully. But, once you’ve met, they are available to you at any time. Please do not hesitate to ask for their help; especially for those of you who are here without parents or family, they can make all the difference in your comfort during the competition.”Sherlock leaned forward. “For however short your individual stays may be,” he murmured, and received an admonitory smack on the arm from Anthea.At the front of the room, the woman droned through the name of each mentor, as each person in turn gave a little bow and wave. Mycroft flipped through Sherlock’s documents and found his assigned mentor: Isidore Taubman. Matching the picture against the people lined at the front of the room, he located the man—small, elderly, but spritely. Sherlock might actually enjoy him—the old man looked a bit mischievous, somehow.As the mentors sat back down, the woman took up the microphone again. “Now, I know you’re all anxious to get back to practicing,” she said. “But we’ve found, over the years, that competitors do much better, mentally and in their performances, if we leaven that ‘work’ time with a bit of play here and there. And tonight is one of the best examples of that. This evening at 8 will be our Kickoff Concert. In addition to a performance by our resident symphony, last year’s vocal and orchestral winners will each be performing solo pieces. We will expect to see all of you there. And, after that, to get as good a night’s sleep as you can,” she concluded, with a wry smile. And with that, lunch was over, and they were all at loose ends again.Once they were back in the suite, they debated their approach for the concert.“I don’t think we can send you on your own,” Anthea said. “They made such a point of talking about families, and I think even the most neglectful ones would make a token effort at the start, don’t you?”Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Are we really discussing just how neglected I should appear?” he said. “Wouldn’t it be easier for Ollie to hit me a time or two, and go off with some poorly-concealed bruises?”Ollie moved over next to Sherlock and pulled back his arm expectantly. Mycroft gave him a chastising look, and he deflated and sat back down.“I agree with Anthea, to some degree,” Mycroft said. “Sudden, complete abandonment might seem a bit contrived. But I would like to consider which grouping would engender the most comment, while still being believable. Let’s table this until after our afternoon practice session, shall we?”And with that, a scowling Sherlock in tow, Mycroft headed back to the venue, to their small room, to his piano duties. In the end, they all went to the kickoff concert. Mycroft, in making the arrangements, had paid for tickets in a small box, so there was room only for the four of them. Sherlock and Anthea pulled chairs right up to the front, Mycroft wedged himself in between and slightly behind them, and Ollie stood threateningly at the back, arms crossed across his chest when he remembered to do so.“He’s seen one too many gangster movies,” Anthea whispered, and beamed when Sherlock snickered and looked over his shoulder.Once the music started, though, Sherlock was lost to them. He was enrapt—eyes riveted to the stage, leaning rhythmically as if bowing along with the orchestra, beating time with his foot.Mycroft noticed Anthea’s eyes on his brother a number of times, a mildly troubled expression on her face. He raised his eyebrows inquiringly, but she gave a little head shake and mouthed “later”, then returned to watching Sherlock.As soon as the performance completed (with a stellar performance by last year’s winner, a tiny 16-year-old with a huge operatic voice) and the lights came up, Sherlock stayed stock-still for nearly five minutes before bolting from his seat as if set on fire. Anthea stared after him indecisively, and Ollie came to join them.Mycroft, after thinking about it momentarily, erred on the side of caution. “Go after him, please, Oliver,” he said, as Ollie nodded. “Keep your distance—remember, we want our adversary to think him unsupported and largely alone. But…don’t let him do anything stupid, please?” he concluded, resisting the urge to take Ollie’s place and go himself. Ollie nodded again, and set off in pursuit. As soon as they reached the suite, Anthea pounced. “All right,” she said. “What’s going on? Why is Sherlock wound tighter than a watch spring, and you look like you’re afraid he’s going to start blowing things up momentarily?” She dropped heavily onto the sofa, and waved him to her side. He went, with a certain amount of reluctance.“You may have noticed that Sherlock is exceptionally high-strung at present,” he began. “And perhaps you’ve presumed that is the result of the weight on his shoulders for this mission—his responsibility to do well enough to ensure he moves forward, at least long enough for us to conclude our investigations. And you’d be partially correct.”“But…” Anthea coaxed.“But there’s more to it than that,” he agreed. “He’s not…this is not his first exposure to Peeps,” he managed, and Anthea gaped at him.“When?” she said. “And won’t that be a problem? I mean, some of these same people were—”“He had just turned 12,” Mycroft interjected. “And no, it’s extremely unlikely he would be recognized. He of course auditioned under his real name, and he was much smaller—very small for his age, in fact. His hair was somewhat lighter, with more visible red in it, and much longer than he wears it now. When he was small he hated haircuts, so it didn’t happen until absolutely necessary.” He remembered that small figure labouring up the steps to the stage. “He worked so hard to get there,” he sighed.“So what happened?” Anthea said. “Did he play poorly? Just didn’t make the cut?”“In some ways that might have been easier,” Mycroft said. “He had made it through the initial audition with relatively little stress. Because of his age, he was allowed to have his tutor in the room with him, and the audition had a limited audience—it was held in one of the smallest performance spaces. Mummy had traveled with him and acted as his accompanist. I came as well, but had no involvement in the process beyond moral support. When he came out, he was incandescent with happiness. He had worked for almost two years to get to that point. Just standing on a stage, with the harsh lights, the noise, the equipment, was profoundly difficult for him—Mummy worked with him on that endlessly, and I took him on a number of backstage visits at Cambridge to get him accustomed to it.”“But…” Anthea said again, and Mycroft realized his voice had trailed off, lost in memory.“But,” Mycroft sighed, “it was all for naught. He advanced easily to the main competition, and was scheduled to play his first full performance for the assembled panel of judges and various important musical types the following evening. It would be his first short piece—his long piece was reserved for the finals, if he got there. He had been working for almost a year on that. But this shorter piece—the Bach Violin Concerto Number One—he loved, and was very comfortable playing. That was my idea, actually—choosing a piece that was difficult but not daunting for this first effort, to ease him into competition. And it seemed to work, initially—his rehearsals went swimmingly, and he adored working with the small chamber orchestra who would support him on stage, rather than just Mummy’s piano.”“He was unable to eat dinner that evening, but we expected that,” Mycroft continued. “He was jittery, pale—again, nothing we didn’t expect. We got to the performance hall a little early, to let him get comfortable with the lights and the size. That was our first intimation of trouble—he was very distressed by the large overhead light bars, insisting he could hear them, painfully so. We requested they be turned down as far as possible, and the staff attempted to accommodate us.”Mycroft stretched to release the sudden tension he felt in his jaw and shoulders. “When they called ‘time’, Mummy slipped down to sit in the front row with the rest of the parents, so that Sherlock could hopefully see her, after a fashion, though he said later that he could see nothing but light glares. I pulled in a favour and was allowed to stand in the wings, so I was able to see him clearly from the time they called his name. Each contestant was seated in the orchestra pit until time for their performance, so he was required to walk across in front of the stage, then climb the steps and come right across, in front of the assembled audience, to take his place in front of the orchestra. And I watched him climb, slowing with each step, and I knew. I knew this would end badly. I wasn’t sure how, but…”Anthea leaned forward, sympathy radiating from every pore. It helped, a bit. Not much.“He froze,” Mycroft said baldly. “He reached his position. He looked at the orchestra; he looked at the conductor, then away. He put his violin to his shoulder, tried to put his bow up, and stopped. Couldn’t continue. Then he put his violin back down to his side, put his bow hand up to his mouth, and closed his eyes…and began, very, very slightly, to rock. That was the point at which I went out, picked him up, and carried him off the stage.”“Poor little mite,” Anthea said shakily. “Poor baby.”“Just so,” Mycroft said, his voice just as shaky. It was a memory he had tried, very hard, to bury deep enough that it would no longer be so troublesome. He hadn’t succeeded.After a pause in which both of them recovered themselves, he continued, somewhat calmer now. “The aftermath was very bad indeed. He suffered a serious breakdown—multiple meltdowns, sedation, there was even talk of his taking a term off from school, though in the end he managed to avoid that. But I took the opportunity to begin teaching him techniques, largely gleaned from both my own experience, and from a therapist friend of our father, to manage his anxiety and temporarily subdue his sensory issues. By the time the spring term the following year rolled around, he managed to audition for the school orchestra and excel, both as a soloist and as a member of the ensemble. He continued through university, by which time he seriously considered continuing. But, in the end, the price was much too high. Those disciplines are temporary, like a patch over a damaged pipe. Once the patch is removed, the ‘backflow’ is enormous and painful. He experiences vicious migraines that occasionally last for days, nausea, dizziness—typical expressions of sensory overload. He reluctantly decided he couldn’t spend his life that way.”They passed a long, contemplative silence together. Finally Anthea spoke.“So, putting him in this competition—was it really a good idea?” she asked.“Very likely not,” Mycroft said. Mycroft jerked awake to a coal-dark room, aware only of movement somewhere that had awakened him. He strained to avoid giving the intruder any clue that he was awake and planning his attack, while slowly rearranging his limbs to make a sudden leap easier. That was forestalled when a weight suddenly dropped on the foot of his bed—a weight that huffed and subsided onto its back, sprawling across 2/3 of the bed.“I want this,” Sherlock said suddenly, quietly. “I don’t know why.”Mycroft shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts enough (and drain off the now-unnecessary excess adrenaline enough) to have a coherent conversation with his little brother at half-three in the morning.“The competition?” he asked warily. “You want to win?”Mycroft could just see Sherlock’s shaggy head shake. “No, not exactly,” he said. “It’s…I want to play,” he said wistfully. “I want people to hear. I want the orchestra to follow, and it all to flow together. I know it’s absurd—it’s a contest for children, for God’s sake.”“If we were having this conversation only a year ago, you would have been a legitimate contestant,” Mycroft said. “It’s not like all of the competitors are too young to drive. And you know as well as I that virtually all of the eventual winners have been at least 16, and mostly 17 or 18.”Sherlock made an indistinct sound that contained both frustration and confusion. “Perhaps,” he said finally. “But why do I care?”“Perhaps because you invested so much in it before, and it ended…it ended prematurely,” Mycroft said delicately.Sherlock was silent for some time. Then—“Was that cowardly of me?” he asked, in a voice that said he thought it had been.Mycroft shook his head vehemently, even though he knew his brother likely couldn’t see. “No,” he said firmly, investing all his conviction in his tone. “I have seen few braver things in my life than you, climbing up on that stage as if going to your execution, but continuing to climb.”There was another long pause. “Really?” finally came, in a small voice.“Yes,” Mycroft said, and waited for a response. Instead his brother sighed again, stood, and went silently out the door.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Dybbuk-- (Jewish Folklore): Malevolent spirit believed to be the soul of a dead person, able to possess the living.
Come morning, Sherlock was mortified by his late-night visit to his brother. Why in God’s name had it seemed a good idea to go to the one person here who remembered his earlier epic failure, and remind him of it?He was extremely glad to note that both Mycroft and Ollie had taken off on some errand or other, and so were not present for the Spartan breakfast Sherlock shared with Anthea (well, Sherlock’s was Spartan—tea and half a pastry. Anthea’s was positively sybaritic by comparison).“Why so glum?” she said, around a mouthful of pastry cream. “I know you enjoyed the concert. Everyone did. And I hear your mentor is really lovely. They call him ‘Izzy’. He adores children.” She gave him a faux-doting look, and waited expectantly for his sneer. He did not disappoint.“Yet one more person to feed a line of hokum to,” Sherlock said, with perhaps a bit more vehemence than was warranted. He felt annoyingly off-kilter this morning.“There will come a day when you’re glad your face looks five or ten years younger than the rest of you,” Anthea pointed out philosophically. “And it’s not like you’re doing this from any kind of ill intent. Children are disappearing, remember?”Sherlock didn’t bother replying to that one. He wasn’t sure what would come out of his mouth right now. It was maddening, but his intent wasn’t to eviscerate Anthea before half-nine in the morning. She had a way of getting her own back, with interest. And, to be honest, she really didn’t deserve it—his ill-humour was all his own.Anthea, observant as ever, accepted the de facto change of subject. “So, you’re meeting your mentor in an hour. How are we going to handle this? He, of all people, needs to pick up on the ‘neglected child’ scenario. But I think making it too over-the-top could backfire on us.”Sherlock thought about that while sipping the last of his excellent tea. “For this first meeting, I think we should observe the convention we talked about last night—even the most lackadaisical families would make a token effort initially. But perhaps less ‘in-force’ than for the dinner and concert. Maybe just you? Or you and Ollie?”“Mm,” Anthea hummed. “With a bit of theater included, perhaps. You don’t need to do anything—Ollie and I will do the heavy lifting. All you need to do is look young, neglected and resentful.” She smirked. “We all know you can handle two out of the three, after all.” She blew an air kiss as he threw a croissant at her, and skipped out the door. Sherlock was surprised, when he asked a passerby for directions in careful German, that his mentor wasn’t actually based in the venue, but had rooms in an ancient stone house nearby. He crept up narrow stairs with the ridges of hundreds of years of passing feet, till he came to a low-ceiling landing faced by a diamond-shaped window with old, thick, wavy glass. It was all rather charming, despite its impractical nature. He had just reached up a hand to knock when the heavy wooden door popped open, and a round inquisitive head with a few straggling white hairs leaned out.“William?” a warm, friendly voice said, from somewhere around Sherlock’s sternum. He was startled to realize how tiny the man was. Sherlock stepped back a bit, so as not to loom, and stuck out his hand.“Yes, sir,” he said. He rarely used them, but Sherlock had lovely manners when he wanted to. Mummy had spent many, many hours making sure of it.“You can call me Izzy,” the old man said, waving Sherlock inside. “Even after all these many years, ‘Isidore’ is still my father, rest his soul.”Sherlock had a feeling he should say something in response, but was at a loss as to what. In the end it served him well; social awkwardness was expected of 15-year-old boys, after all.“Come, sit,” Izzy said, gesturing towards battered leather chairs and a low wooden coffee table spread with tea and biscuits. “No reason we can’t have a nibble while we talk.” He looked suddenly to the door. “Is your sister on her way? I would hate to start without her.”Sherlock had no idea—which was exactly Anthea’s intention, and, again, served them well. He briefly held his breath to bring a flush of colour to his cheeks. “I, erm, she said she would,” he said, head down. “Maybe.”Izzy bustled about, handing over cups and plates. “It’s fine, we can wait,” he said reassuringly. “We have plenty of time. My last two sessions aren’t until the afternoon, so we can take as long as we like.” He nudged a plate of chocolate-dipped biscuits a little further toward Sherlock, who took two. What 15-year-old boy wouldn’t?And they were his favourite, after all. He gave Izzy a shy smile and took two more.Izzy grinned, and settled comfortably on one of the old chairs opposite Sherlock. “So, William,” he said, “tell me, what brings you to Peeps? How long have you been working towards it?”“More than two years,” Sherlock said. No reason not to be honest, even though the time spent was when he was ten, eleven, twelve. “I always wanted to come.” Again, perfect truth. He had a vivid memory of watching the finals while sitting on Grandmere’s warm, comfortable lap, while she gave a whispered critique of each performance. He hadn’t understood a word, but loved it nonetheless.“And your instrument is violin, yes?” the old man said. “I played viola, myself. Though it has been some years. I teach some, these days.” He chuckled. “Well, and mentor. I played with the Munich symphony for many years, hence this flat. But these days my hands won’t allow it.” He held up fingers marred with arthritic bumps and knobs. “So I spend the rest of the year in Venice or Paris. I have a small place in each.”“I received my first instrument from my grandmother when I was three. I don’t really remember learning to play,” Sherlock was shocked to hear coming out of his mouth.He blushed furiously—a real one, this time. What was he doing? He looked around the flat, to give himself time to land on another, safer topic of conversation. “Are you German?” he asked. “Your accent doesn’t really sound it.”Izzy shook his head. “No,” he said. “I grew up in Warsaw, actually, though my parents were German. But when the Nazis came, we were shipped off to Treblinka.” He paused, blinked, his eyes growing rather bright, while Sherlock froze in dismay. “I alone survived,” he said finally. “I was your age, or thereabouts. They didn’t know quite what to do with me—too young to be on my own, too old to be put up for adoption. Thankfully a widowed aunt also survived, was never sent to a camp—an aunt by marriage, not a Jew. She still lived in Munich, and came looking for us as soon as peace was declared. Found me in the Displaced Persons camp, and brought me here.”Sherlock looked at his tightly-clenched hands, mildly panicked. He was sure he should say something, anything, but had no idea what. Izzy thankfully, misread his silence and rescued him. He reached out and patted Sherlock’s jittering knee.“Don’t fret, my dear,” he said soothingly. “It was a very long time ago, and I have had a very good life. A better life, perhaps, than I would have had if I’d stayed a rabbinical student in Warsaw, as my father preferred. I am content.”“You don’t hate the Germans?” Sherlock managed. That seemed a safe question, and something he was genuinely curious about—how could Izzy return to live with the people who had conspired in the death of his entire family?“No,” Izzy said gently. “I hated the Nazis. And there was a time when many, many people, whether they agreed with the Nazis or not, were complicit in what happened. But after the war, it was as if they woke from a terrible dream. While they may still harbour mistrust of Jews in their hidden hearts, they do not act on it. I can count on the fingers of one hand the number of times I have felt singled out or slighted for being Jewish.” He gave a wry grin. “And God, after all, requires us to forgive.”“And I’m going to assume you were a very, very good violist, which made it harder for them to turn you away,” Sherlock said.“Just so,” Izzy said, ever-so-slightly smug. They chatted comfortably for another ten minutes or so, largely about string repertoire and the like—Sherlock figured that was a safe subject, and one he would be expected to have interest in if he truly were a contestant. Truth be told, he enjoyed it—Izzy had an encyclopedic memory for music trivia, and an intimate familiarity with the major violin solo pieces. Sherlock had to continually remind himself of the true nature of this conversation, it’s inherent deception—especially when some useless internal monitor in his head kept telling him that Izzy was safe/kind/warm.“How long have you been involved with the Peeps?” Sherlock asked over his third cup of tea (and sixth biscuit).Izzy looked thoughtful. “Well,” he said, “I started out as a judge—two or three years. But I found I didn’t much enjoy passing judgment on children who had worked so long and hard to get there. So I turned to mentoring—for, oh, perhaps fifteen years now, though it doesn’t seem so long. I suppose it’s my calling, in a way.”“Have any of your people won the competition?” Sherlock asked.Izzy nodded. “Three times,” he said. “I was so happy for them. But many of them have also moved to great things in orchestras or universities, even if they didn’t ultimately win.” He looked very proud. “There are few things more rewarding to see, to a teacher.”Sherlock suddenly thought of Mr. Travers, the orchestra head in uni. The man had been near tears when Sherlock told him he wouldn’t be continuing once he returned for his graduate degree. At the time Sherlock had assumed it was because the man would lose his greatest player—but now, he found himself wondering if that was all of it.Just as Sherlock started to formulate a reply, there was a rap at the door, which abruptly sprang open before Izzy could say anything. Anthea burst in, trailed by a mortified Ollie, who moaned “Miss Scott” reproachfully in her wake.“Carmen!” Sherlock bleated, stumbling out of his chair. Anthea had chosen her own name—God only knew where “Carmen” came from.Anthea darted over and air-kissed him on each side, then launched herself at Izzy, grabbing one of his hands between both of hers. “Hi,” she breathed. “I’m Carmen, Will’s big sister. So glad to meet you.” She turned a chiding glare to Sherlock. “You told me the meeting was at eleven!”“No, I didn’t!” Sherlock barked. “And you had the printed schedule last night!” He scowled and wrapped his arms around himself resentfully.“It doesn’t matter,” Izzy said, one arm on Sherlock’s shoulder. “Why don’t we all sit down, yes? There’s no rush.”“Oh, I’m sorry,” “Carmen” cooed. “I truly can’t—we have family friends in town who will only be here for the day. But I couldn’t leave Will here all on his own, without seeing his mentor.” She gave Izzy a blinding smile, which faded quickly as she turned, suddenly hesitant, back to Sherlock. “But I’m afraid I have a bit of bad news, dear.”Sherlock let his face congeal with dismay. “They’re not coming,” he said flatly. “Despite promising, several times, that they’d be here ‘without fail’.” He let his eyes fill, and tightened his bottom lip, then dropped his head and stared at the floor. He was shocked to feel a wiry, warm arm move around his waist, as Izzy moved over to stand next to him.“They’re terribly sorry,” Anthea said defensively. “There’s been some sort of explosion at the plant in Saudi Arabia, and Daddy has to go since he’s the senior official.”“But why can’t Mummy come?” Sherlock asked, very softly, without looking up. “It’s been such a long time. And she promised.” He almost believed it himself.“Now, you know she can’t,” Anthea replied, reaching out to ruffle his hair. “Daddy just falls to bits without her—always has.” She brightened. “But she hired someone to tape the whole thing, so we can send it to them in Saudi Arabia as soon as you’re done. So that’s almost as good, isn’t it?”“I suppose,” Sherlock whispered miserably. Anthea left shortly thereafter, kissing Sherlock’s forehead first and fawning over Izzy. Ollie gave the room an apologetic look as he closed the door.“I’m so sorry,” Izzy said, as Sherlock continued to stand, arms tightly around himself. “Can you come sit back down?”“Maybe I should go,” Sherlock said, inserting a warble into his voice.“No, my dear,” Izzy said, rubbing his back and guiding him towards the chair. “Why don’t you sit back down, and I’ll send for some lunch? It will make both of us feel better, I suspect.”Sherlock allowed himself to be persuaded, pleased with the morning’s efforts. He was aware, though, of a slight feeling of guilt at misleading this kind man so. It wasn’t pleasant, however necessary it was.Izzy urged Sherlock to eat much more than he wanted to; Sherlock felt fortunate that his “distress” could be seen to suppress his appetite. He allowed his spirits to gradually “improve” during the meal, to the point where they were conversing naturally again by the time they got to dessert.“So what is your position for tomorrow evening?” Izzy asked. “I left the schedule at the venue.”“Last,” Sherlock said, with unfeigned glumness. It was flattering, of course—a reflection of his first-place finish in the initial auditions. But it also gave him hours of time to contemplate and fidget and fret. Mycroft would be an absolute nightmare, trying to keep Sherlock “calm”.“Ah,” Izzy said. “Congratulations, and condolences,” he added with a smile. “Definitely a double-edged sword, especially if you suffer from nerves, as I always did. But I am sure you will do well; your audition was the talk of the staff room, you know. Such artistry, such feeling!”Sherlock jerked in surprise. “You were there?” he said, before he could stop his mouth.“Oh, yes,” Izzy said. “Backstage. I always try to attend the string performances.” He sobered, and reached to capture Sherlock’s hand. “And I will make you a promise,” he continued. “I know your family’s absence is hurtful, whatever the cause. But I will always be at your performances, William, always. You may rely on me. I will support you; I will be your friend. You will do your very best, and I will be there, come what may.” He smiled. “So, do we have a deal?”And what could Sherlock do but nod and smile, and hate himself, just a bit.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Wiedergänger
—German Category of undead spirits who would trouble or torment the living in different ways; some types would jump on the backs of their victims and grow heavier and heavier until they are broken down, exhausted or dead
That afternoon, Sherlock and Mycroft spent three hours working on the audition piece. Sherlock had settled on Czardas, despite Mycroft’s lifted eyebrow at the choice. It was somewhat bourgeois, certainly, but it was technically flashy and definitely an audience-pleaser. As Sherlock tartly told his brother, “the judges always claim that audience reaction has no bearing on rankings. You and I both know that’s a lie.” Mycroft sighed and acquiesced.Ironically much of their practice was for Mycroft’s benefit. Sherlock knew the piece very well, which was yet another reason he’d chosen it—it had been one of the encore selections the university orchestra used during his last performance season a year ago. But that had been “violin with orchestra”—unlike the earlier piece Sherlock had played, Mycroft had never learned the piano part for this one. It wasn’t difficult, but it was quick, which meant the notes had to be imbedded in muscle memory quite firmly.By the time they finished, neither of them had any desire to hear Czardas ever again. They had a mediocre dinner in the suite—while the room service menu was extensive, the food didn’t quite reach the same standards as that served in the restaurant. But neither Sherlock nor Mycroft could face two hours in the dining room, vibrating with nerves. At least in the suite they could pace to burn off excess energy (well, Sherlock could pace; Mycroft could obsessively research and ask several hundred questions that had already been repeatedly answered. Anthea finally reached over, pulled the project file out of his hands, and shoved it under her bottom in her chair. Ollie howled; Mycroft frowned but returned to his plate; Sherlock ignored all of them.Sherlock did sleep that night, but only because Mycroft silently handed him one of his prescription antihistamines at 11. He debated refusing it, knowing it would leave him slightly sedated still, come morning. But he hadn’t really slept the night before, and he had all day to work the drug out of his system. And he was, well, rather tired, and ready to not be vibrating out of his skin. He threw the pill back with a sip of wine, brushed his teeth, and climbed somewhat gratefully into bed when he felt the characteristic dizziness coming on.Morning was just as dreary as he expected. Thankfully there were no formal functions today, other than performances, some of which Sherlock would like to see, if only to get an idea of the calibre of competition. Anthea, wisely, had ordered breakfast delivered, non-perishable things that weren’t ruined by the fact that Sherlock couldn’t face eating them for several hours. He languished in bed until almost 10, aware of the others milling about, coming and going periodically, but nothing really required his immediate attention. A brief respite from his typical anxiety, even if chemically induced, was worth savouring despite the drug hangover.At eleven, while Ollie and Mycroft were off attending a briefing of the various surveillance teams (whose only task here, as far as Sherlock could see, was to film every living soul who came in or out of the venue, identify them, and file the results in a rigourous timeline), Sherlock and Anthea headed over to attend the first of the performances. For this initial round, pianists were the norm for accompaniment, which made for a somewhat quieter venue and less-intrusive lighting (since no lighting was required in the orchestra pit). It also made for less that Sherlock would have to block out, once his turn on-stage came.The first few performers were vocalists, who were not in Sherlock’s division at this juncture. In this first Peeps stage there were three main groups: vocal, string, and “all other”, which included both instrumental and percussion performers. In the second round, the winners of each group would proceed on to the next venue, Paris, to determine the grand champions for each group, competing against their counterparts from the other first-round locations in Madrid, Stockholm and Athens. The final venue, in Interlaken, Switzerland, would feature competition between those three winners. Sherlock intended to be one of those three.The quality of the performances was quite high—Sherlock, also once a singer, appreciated the level of advanced artistry here. He allowed himself to subsume into the music, blocking out Anthea, the lights, the incessant movement of the people around them; the music was, in some cases, sublime, and he felt a bit of the tension he’d been carrying for days ooze slowly out through the soles of his feet.He came back to himself as the lights came back up after the final voice contestant finished, and the enthusiastic applause finally waned. Anthea smiled as she saw him focus, finally, on something other than the stage.“Welcome home,” she said. “I was beginning to feel a bit neglected.”Sherlock made a rude noise. “You were reading, most of the time,” he said. “Not a fan of opera, then?”Anthea’s face tried, and failed, to avoid a bit of a sneer. “Not really,” she sighed finally. “It’s just so shrill, you know?”“I’ll take you to Don Giovanni sometime,” he said. “Lots of bass baritone in that one.” He smirked. “And the hero gets hauled off to Hell at the finale.”“Sounds like your kind of show,” she said with a chuckle. “Music, followed by people meeting a horrible end.” They ate a quick lunch in the venue cafeteria while waiting for the afternoon performances to begin. Anthea had just finished her sandwich (Sherlock, already beginning to feel the rising sandstorm of anxiety in his veins, stuck to tea and a few crisps) when Mycroft and Ollie showed up.Ollie swept up Sherlock’s abandoned crisp bag as Mycroft wandered off to view the offerings in the serving line. “Well, that was dull,” he said, shoving several crisps in at once. “I mean, I know it can prove important in the end. But none of it matters a rat’s arse until we have a suspect.”Anthea gave him a repressive look before pushing a leftover cinnamon bun over in front of him. “Remember when watching tape was the most important part of your job?” she said sternly. “You would have been thrilled to meet with the real field people and have them tell you what you were doing actually mattered.” She nodded towards the tall man currently picking up a fruit plate. “Mycroft’s really good at that kind of thing, and it could save any one of our arses one day.”Sherlock and Ollie rolled their eyes in unison. “Yes, Mummy,” Ollie said, in a ripe falsetto, segueing into a breathless laugh as Anthea swatted him with her serviette. They spent the last few hours of the afternoon watching some of the other competitors—instrumentalists, but not strings. Sherlock had thought about that, but suspected that listening to other violinists would make his anxiety even worse than it currently was (impossible though that seemed, he accepted the possibility). They headed back to the suite at 5. Mycroft vanished periodically, then hovered annoyingly whenever he returned. In desperation, Sherlock finally locked himself in the loo and took a forty-five minute shower, alternating periodically between hot and cold water. By the time he came out, it was nearing dinnertime (not that Sherlock had any plans whatsoever to eat), and less than an hour to his performance slot.He was ready, finally, to start on his pre-performance ritual, one he’d honed at Cambridge to the point where it seemed like a religious observance. His tuxedo was already laid out on the bed when he came out of the shower; someone, likely Mycroft, knew how this needed to go. He put each piece on in a specified manner; it wasn’t that he feared something adverse would happen if he altered the routine, but rather that his shattered nerves required the certainty of this progression to keep from spraying his fears messily in every direction.When he came out to the lounge, fully dressed and ready to go, the others had already assembled—Mycroft in his own tux, Ollie in a well-cut black suit, Anthea in…a sparkly mini-dress and four-inch heels?The agent picked up on Sherlock’s surprise and scowled. “I’m not allowed to attend,” she sniffed. “Since we’re supposed to be neglecting you. Ollie and I are heading to a club or three, so I will only make it back after you’re finished, with floods of visible, useless apologies.” Her face was suddenly very earnest. “I am sorry, dear heart. Truly.”“There’s no need to coddle me,” Sherlock said firmly. “Your presence or absence will make no difference to the outcome.” It wouldn’t. He wouldn’t even be aware of it until it was too late to matter.“It will to me,” Anthea said, and leaned over to kiss him on the forehead, while he huffed and tried to bat her away. The first person he and Mycroft met, once they reached the backstage holding area, was Izzie, whose face split in a broad grin. “I’m so glad you’re here a little early,” the old man said. “I have excellent news. Your performance is going to be broadcast live. So we need to get you a bit of a touch-up for the cameras, you know.” His reaction said he thought this was the Best News Ever.Sherlock did not. And Mycroft read his mind, making a helpless little noise behind him. Izzie, no fool, picked up on this unexpected vibe and moved quickly into soothing mode.“Now, now,” he said, linking arms with each of them and tugging them down the hallway, “it will be fine. I say this as someone who has been in front of television cameras many times. After the first five minutes you won’t even notice.” And on that laughable note, they were shoved into chairs before being attacked by people with brushes and far too many cosmetics.There was nothing for it—Sherlock would have to put himself in his most stringent mode of self-control, detaching himself from all reality save the music. As soon as they were released from the bondage of the television people he threw a look of helpless despair at his brother, who bustled them both to a small backstage storage area.“Can I help?” Mycroft asked, looking as if he already knew the answer but didn’t want to hear it. “I can ask if they’ll change their minds, given your…” He stopped himself just in time.“Disability,” Sherlock snapped. “And no, there’s no point. We should have thought of this—the latter rounds are always televised, so it’s not shocking to find them expanding to these earlier ones as well.” He gestured towards the door. “Just…keep people away, can you? And come get me five minutes before, so we can tune,” gesturing to the violin case in Mycroft’s hand.As soon as the door closed behind his brother, Sherlock began—the deep breathing, the muscle relaxation progressions, the forced visualization. Over and over and over. He was unaware of the passage of time; the door opened briefly, but he took no notice. By the time Mycroft came and touched him on the shoulder, he was locked in his head—had to struggle to recognize words, or at least parse their meaning. Mycroft placed his violin gently in his hands, though, and that, that made sense. He could manage that.The next half-hour was a blur, after the fact. He could remember flashes—tuning to the great black piano on one side of the stage, while Mycroft looked on in ill-concealed concern; hearing the distant murmur of the audience as the curtain rose; noting a distant roar, as if from far away, when the music ended. Hands on his shoulders, leading him away.He surfaced in the same back-stage room they had occupied before, Mycroft leaning over him and rubbing his hands briskly as if trying to start a fire. Mycroft peered into his eyes. “There you are,” he crooned.Sherlock shoved his brother’s hands away, his own still somewhat uncoordinated. “Did it go well?” he asked, his voice sounding strange to his own ears. “I can’t—it’s just not there,” he managed finally.“It did,” Mycroft said smugly. “Very well.” He looked back over his shoulder towards the door. “Mr. Taubman would like to congratulate you, if you’re ready?”Sherlock had to think about that momentarily, to remember who “Mr. Taubman” was, before nodding. Izzie bustled in, an exuberant grin on his face. “Ah, that was lovely!” he exclaimed, coming to rest a warm hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. But his mien changed abruptly as he felt the fine tremors running through Sherlock’s body.He knelt beside Sherlock’s chair, one hand forcing Sherlock’s chin up so he could see his eyes. “Are you quite well, child?” he asked. “Do I need to call someone for you? Where is your sister?” It took Sherlock a moment to remember that Izzie thought Mycroft was just the hired help.“M’fine,” Sherlock muttered, forcing his chin free. “And, um, Carmen was…she said she’ll be here shortly.” Sherlock had no idea if that was true, but needed to divert Izzie from concern about Sherlock’s current state. Being angry with Anthea would likely provide that diversion.Her timing was excellent, as it happened—a clatter of heels tripped down the hallway outside, and Anthea blew in, trailed by an “embarrassed” Ollie. She skittered forward on her ridiculous heels, grabbed his shoulders, and kissed the air on either side of his face. “I’m so sorry I was late!” she exclaimed, grabbing one of his hands. “I heard it was lovely, though. I’m sure you’ll win.”She looked at Izzie, standing stone-faced behind Sherlock. “I’m so glad you were here to support Will,” she said sweetly. She reached vaguely in his direction, and the man visibly stepped back.“What a shame you couldn’t be here as well,” he said, in a cold voice that seemed out of character for his normal sweetness. Ollie flinched; Anthea blinked, then visibly pulled “Carmen” back around her.“I intended to be,” she said stiffly. “Will knows how much I love his playing. I’ll make sure I’m there for the next round.”“If there is one,” Ollie added helpfully. Both Mycroft and Anthea turned a glare his direction. He flinched again and sidled out the door.“The results are to be announced in an hour,” Mycroft said. “Might I suggest we head to the reception to wait? The tables are already set up in the hall, I believe.” And that was a very smooth way to break up this little standoff. They could all go, have some expensive nibbles (well, everyone else could—the very idea of food made Sherlock’s stomach shrivel at the moment), and indulge in mindless conversation until they found out whether Sherlock had done his job or not.Sherlock wished he could find a very deep hole in a dark corner of the room, but if that couldn’t happen, the reception hall was a reasonable compromise. The others could make themselves useful and keep people away from him until he could manage it for himself. The reception was sparkling with overdressed patrons, excited and overtired children, and a sumptuous buffet. Sherlock appreciated none of it, bar the fact that Mycroft had steered them to a table in the farthest corner from the dais, an area less bustling and somewhat less brightly-lit than the rest of the hall. Izzie gave Sherlock an apologetic look and headed off to his required position at the staff tables.Sherlock took the chair furthest into the corner and tried to become invisible, while everyone around him ate, and drank, and chattered, in several cases about him. That made it all the harder to ignore, but he certainly tried.After an indefinite time period (most of which Sherlock could spend with his eyes closed, thank God), someone stepped up to the empty dais and announced the herd of Peeps staff responsible for this particular portion of the proceedings, as if any of the participants cared. Finally, though, all of the empty chairs were filled, an earnest-looking woman had taken over the microphone, and the lights dimmed as a large screen dropped down from above and behind the officials.The screen lit, and slightly-blurry film began to play—the contestants’ performances throughout the day, from terrified 12-year-old singers through near-adult timpanists. Bundled in there was a brief clip of Sherlock, swaying to music as the audience clapped along. Interesting—he hadn’t been aware of that, at the time. He sent a smirk Mycroft’s way—told you so.Sherlock forced himself to focus now—this was the bit that mattered, after all. The announcer began a round of awards, with clips of the appropriate winner flickering behind her. They had introduced a Junior League, this year—those technically old enough to compete and showing exceptional promise, but judged not yet ready for the overall competition during the earlier rounds. These winners, aged 12-14, received special smaller prizes, and seemed appropriately grateful to receive them.Then the major awards began. They started with the placements for voice, with medals for Honourable Mention (three of those), then third place, then second. The ultimate winner was a thin, brown-skinned boy with an improbably deep voice for someone who couldn’t be more than 16. He picked up his certificate, and his travel documents for the next round, with tears in his eyes and a smile on his face.Next was the “all other” category—the Honourable Mentions went to an array of specialists, including percussion, a flautist and a french horn player. Third and second places went to trumpeters; the ultimate class winner was an intense-looking percussionist whose taped performance on marimba was mesmerizing to watch.Finally it was time for strings, and Sherlock sat up a little straighter in his chair. Anthea silently reached over and took possession of one of his hands; it wasn’t necessary, but wasn’t worth tugging away.Honourable Mentions were three very young players, a cellist and two violists. He’d seen one of the violists with Izzie in the hallways; apparently another one of his charges. Third place was a boy Sherlock had heard practicing; someone to watch for the future, he thought, but had apparently had a sub-par performance this afternoon. Second place went to a fox-faced girl who attacked her cello as if it were trying to get away from her. Flashy, but not sufficiently talented to take the big prize. And then, then—the screen moved to more film of Sherlock’s performance, as the table erupted around him. Anthea, using her grip on his hand, tugged him out of his chair and shoved him towards the dais, and he accepted his certificate and package of travel papers in a daze, noting Izzie’s beaming smile from the end of the dais as he went.There was a blur, then—photographs with those on the dais, with Izzie, with the other winners. And then finally they were released, and gathered up their things to head back to the hotel. Sherlock was aware, distantly, that he was pleased; anything more would have to wait until he recovered from his focusing efforts. But it was enough, for now. By 11:30, Ollie and Anthea had wandered off to bed (Ollie opting to share with Sherlock, rather than try to turf the others off the couch long enough to pull it open). Mycroft spent time on a quiet conference call regarding one of his other teams, pacing slowly around the suite, while Sherlock tried, and failed, to read, the increasing pain in his head making comprehension difficult.At midnight, Mycroft came and dropped into the chair next to Sherlock. “You need to go to bed,” he said quietly. “Tomorrow will be a long day of travel—9 hours, roughly--and will require you to stay ‘in character’ the entire time. You know how difficult that is, especially after a day like this one.”“I am very unlikely to sleep,” Sherlock sighed finally. “You know this. Adrenaline takes a very long time to wear off, and has currently set up shop in my frontal cortex, adding to my imminent migraine. I am open to suggestions.”Mycroft gave him a matching sigh, and fished the small bottle of prescription antihistamines out of his inner jacket pocket. “The nuclear option again, I think,” he said. “I know you don’t especially care for it, but we must be able to travel tomorrow, and the migraine could make that impossible if we let it get fully entrenched. I don’t believe the competition would allow for a delayed arrival in Paris.”Sherlock nodded, carefully—the pain was starting to amp up, and rapid movements were inadvisable. “Just give me the damn thing. The sooner I’m unconscious, the happier all of us will be.” The next morning was difficult; resorting once again to a dose of antihistamine meant that Sherlock slept, but was left headachy and lethargic for several hours after he woke. Mycroft eyed him closely as he picked over a croissant at breakfast—well, lunch, since he couldn’t bring himself to eat before noon—and sighed. “I think we must restrict the use of medication to help you sleep,” he said. “It seems to have a cumulative effect if used for more than one day at a time.”Sherlock couldn’t argue. “Agreed,” he said. “Next time we’ll just get me really drunk, shall we?” He wasn’t feeling especially reasonable, after all.The train left at 4, and they very nearly missed it—discovered, just as they were leaving the hotel to head to the station, that Mycroft’s bundle of musical scores had been inadvertently left at the venue last night, necessitating an additional white-knuckle taxi ride to grab it before heading back to the train. Mycroft was embarrassed but determined not to show it; Sherlock couldn’t stop himself from prodding his brother the entire time. Anthea looked like she wanted to shake both of them, which added a certain piquancy to the whole situation for Sherlock and Ollie.Once they dropped off their luggage with the porter and boarded the train, Ollie, Anthea and Mycroft headed towards their assigned compartment. Sherlock settled instead in one of the rear observation carriages, promising to come along shortly—he wanted, needed, some time to himself before landing back in a crowded environment, as he expected the passenger carriage would be. Mycroft frowned. “Ten minutes, no more,” he said sternly. Then they all strode off, allowing Sherlock to heave a sigh of relief.Just as he was settling in to read a surprisingly interesting review he’d found of a recent series of court cases regarding human trafficking in the territories of the former Soviet Union, the compartment door opened and a short, red-haired boy, roughly Sherlock’s age, stepped inside. He leaned forward, checked Sherlock’s Peeps nametag, and broke into a broad grin.“I’ve heard about you,” the boy announced in slightly Germanic-tinged English as he dropped into the seat beside Sherlock. “My aunt is one of the proctors in Munich, and taped part of your performance last night. She played it for me over the phone—you’re very good, aren’t you?” There was no animosity in his tone—if anything, a hint of hero-worship was in there.“Yes,” Sherlock said, not interested in false modesty, nor particularly interested in continuing this conversation.The boy laughed and stuck out his hand. “Claus Graham,” he said, when Sherlock reluctantly took it and muttered “Will Scott”.“I’m very good as well,” Claus said. He chuckled again. “Hopefully just a little bit more ‘good’ than you are, actually. I play violin as well. Won my section in Stockholm, so we’ll be going head-to-head. I flew into Munich this morning; I was lucky enough to make this train so I could meet you.”Sherlock gave a noncommittal hum. The boy frowned.“Oh, come on,” he said, “don’t be like that. You know as well as I do that it’s best to scope out the competition ahead of time in this kind of contest. We talk, feel each other out—each of us will assume we get the better of the other, and then we’ll listen to rehearsals and be sure of it. And, when you come right down to it, most of it’s out of our control anyway—we’ll do our best in performance, but in the end it comes down to personal preference on the part of the judges, doesn’t it?”Sherlock stared. “Not in my experience,” he said slowly. “In general, standards of excellence are fairly obvious and relatively uniform.” Sherlock spoke as someone who had won every competition he had ever entered, though, granted, he hadn’t entered all that many; excellence was obvious. Wasn’t it?Claus made a dismissive noise. “If that was the case they could just listen to tapes everyone submitted. Why do you think it’s all done through public performance? I mean, yes, they want to note your stage presence, your ability to perform under pressure. But in the end, they want to see, and hear, how marketable you are. Particularly for Peeps—they want someone who can demonstrate that whole ‘clean-cut’ image, you know. Talent is required, of course, but I for one have no doubt that, if it’s a choice between an awkward, unattractive player of talent, and a pretty, well-behaved but slightly-lesser talent, ‘pretty’ is going to win every time.” He raised a challenging eyebrow, daring Sherlock to disagree.And that, that was interesting, Sherlock thought. As well as surprising—it had never occurred to him that all of his fellow competitors wouldn’t be idiots, or children, or both. But Claus was likely not even quite a year Sherlock’s junior, and sophisticated beyond his age. Their conversation continued until the mobile that Mycroft had insisted Sherlock carry rang, and he was summarily ordered to present himself at their compartment post-haste. Sherlock disconnected the call, resisting the urge to throw the phone the length of the carriage, and nodded a jerky farewell to his companion.He stomped down the length of the train until he reached the passenger compartments, forcing himself to take deep breaths, to adopt a surface calm. For some reason this journey was proving exceptionally trying; some noise he was subliminally aware of, perhaps, that was grating on his senses. Something he could handle much more easily if his travelling companions would just leave him alone.Unfortunately, as he discovered on reaching the correct compartment, that wasn’t likely to happen. “We’ve been waiting for you,” Mycroft said stiffly. “I have some information to pass around, for your reading pleasure. It may have a bearing on our current endeavour, though it’s too early to be certain. And we would do well to discuss your upcoming competition—I have an informative dossier prepared by our people in the other venues, so they can tell you who will—”Sherlock could feel his last nerve snap, an almost physical sensation in his head. “I. Don’t. Care,” he snarled, not especially caring if he was heard. “Unless one of these contestants is the Second Coming of Paganini, I have every expectation of remaining in the competition. I will simply do my usual—”“We have the piano room reserved for after dinner,” Mycroft said, talking over him. “There’s no reason to spend the entire 9 hours idle. Anthea has your instrument, since you left it with the porter rather than keeping it with you as I suggested. We can—”“You can LEAVE ME BE!” Sherlock near-shouted, startling all of them (including himself). And at that point there was nothing for it, but to take off on his own, near-running out of the forward door before any of the others had gotten to their feet.He moved fast—wanted to be out of sight before his pursuit—since he was sure one would come—had an idea of where he was going. It was hard, on a train—the only directions were linear. But it was a simple matter to step into one of the storage lockers found at the end of a near-deserted carriage and let Mycroft and Ollie rush by him. He made himself count to 30, then stepped out and walked briskly in the other direction, back towards their booked accommodations. He was betting on Anthea having set off towards the rear, assuming he might have been crazy enough to climb up on top of the carriage—if she’d stayed, he would…he wasn’t sure, honestly. But he could not bear company right now.Two-thirds of the way back to the baggage car he found what he had noted on the way up earlier—another observation car, closed either for cleaning or repair. Passengers were allowed to pass through, but all of the seating was blocked off by ropes. And, at each end, there were small steps leading up to the upper viewing area.The staircase, as expected, had a “no entry” chain across it. He unclipped the chain and headed up the stairs, stopping to re-clip it in his wake. True solitude at last.“Solitude” lasted roughly two hours—Sherlock was sure part of that time had been intentionally wasted, allowing him to “cool off”, as Anthea was known to condescendingly describe it. (It was true, which made it all the more hateful). He heard the compartment door open, followed by the tiny clink of the chain being removed, before footsteps came firmly up the steps, coming to a stop just behind him.“What on Earth were you thinking, going off like this?” Anthea said, irritation clear in her tone. “We’ve been looking all over. You missed dinner, you didn’t answer the phone, and you were supposed to be at the practice session in the piano car half an hour ago. Here’s your schedules and sheet music, by the way—you left them tucked in Ollie’s rucksack. You can’t afford to be like this; we can’t afford your being like this.”“Just drop everything with Mycroft and go away,” Sherlock said, not bothering to look her in the eye. “If I still need sheet music we’re doomed. Though, come to that, we may already be. One false step on my part and we all go home. Would you like to keep talking, and make that more likely?”“Look, I know you’re drowning in anxiety,” Anthea said, in that “reasonable” tone that made Sherlock want to slap her. “But you need to get up and come join the rest of us, so we can plan. It’s not wise to—"“Stop acting like you actually have authority over me,” Sherlock snapped. “There’s no one to convince at the moment, so drop the act. I am tired and want to be left alone, so please pack up your concern and your street-corner psychoanalysis and go.” He turned his chair completely around, leaned his head back and closed his eyes.Anthea gave an offended huff and slapped the papers down on the counter beside him. “I’ll pass on your comments to Mycroft, shall I?” she snarled, and flounced off to the forward staircase.Sherlock sighed in relief; despite knowing he’d have to apologize later, it was worth that contretemps to get another hour’s peace. Otherwise he was likely to start throwing things. He allowed his thoughts to drift; he didn’t sleep, but he did lose track of what was going on around him in the empty carriage.That included the sound of the door at the rear closing, very, very quietly.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Bhoot—
Sanskrit ghost, considered to be perturbed and restless due to some factor that prevents them from moving on (to transmigration, non-being, nirvana, or heaven or hell, depending on tradition).
Anthea
Sherlock came to the carriage and apologized, with reasonable sincerity, at 10. The rest of them had eaten, “relaxed” (read: fidgeted—Mycroft; fumed—Anthea; snored—Ollie) for an hour or two, and finally moved to their sleeping compartments shortly before, so the annoying boy had to make three stops (since Sherlock and Mycroft were to share, Ollie had his own digs for a change) before they could finally settle for the night. Anthea debated bringing up the fact that Sherlock had had virtually nothing to eat all day, but caught Mycroft’s slight headshake as he stood up the corridor from her and subsided. They’d have to stuff him like a Christmas goose tomorrow, then.They pulled into the Paris station at just past 1 in the morning, and huddled with the other Peeps contestants and staff on the platform until a rather splendid bus arrived to take them to their hotel. The performance venue for this round of the competition was the opulent 19th-century Palais Garnier; their hotel was the Hôtel Balzac, another historic property. Anthea’s sole impression, gathered through a haze of exhaustion, was of overstuffed beauty. They staggered to their two connecting rooms, one a suite for Sherlock and Anthea, the second a single room for Ollie (Mycroft, once again, delegated to a lesser room on a lower floor—Sherlock managed a snicker as his brother sighed and left the lift), went to their respective beds and collapsed into them gratefully.They had planned a leisurely morning; after the rigours of yesterday it seemed advisable. Anthea was totally on-board with this approach, and, judging by the lethargic characters she observed over breakfast, so was everyone else. The competition didn’t renew for three days, though rehearsals with the full orchestra would begin later on this morning.Their sedentary plan, however, was interrupted by a preemptory knock on the door at nine, just as Sherlock came sauntering in from the shower, hair in damp coils and a towel draped around skinny hips. At the knock, he darted back into his bedroom, while Ollie raised his eyes to see if he was the designated door-opener. Anthea thought about it for a moment, then nodded, and her “bodyguard” opened the door.Outside stood an official-looking, rather stern gentleman in a fine blue suit, another man that Anthea was quite sure was connected to the French police somehow, and Izzie, looking uncomfortable. “May we come in?” the stern man asked, not waiting for a reply before elbowing his way inside.“What’s this about?” Anthea asked, as Ollie went into Sherlock’s room, presumably to let him know there was a problem (and, hopefully, to call Mycroft).“There is to be a meeting downstairs shortly,” the stern man said. “Your attendance is required. You may prefer that William not be there, but that is at your discretion.” He looked at the other man. “Monsieur Bordelon will be there to protect William’s interests regardless.”Anthea could feel her eyebrows crawling towards her hairline. “His ‘interests’?” she said cautiously. “What might those be, exactly?”The stern man was going to refuse to say; Anthea could tell. Izzie, though, forestalled that (and received an offended glare from the man, which he blithely ignored). “There have been serious questions raised about your relationship with William,” he said, not making eye contact. “Concerns serious enough that documentation of your temporary guardianship must be secured before he is allowed to continue in the competition.” Blue suit prepared to open his mouth, and Izzie quickly continued. “Serious enough that he would need to be in the custody of Child Protective Services until they are resolved.”Anthea was distantly aware of her jaw dropping open—not something she’d ever experienced before, honestly. “But…what on Earth---” she began, just as Sherlock and Ollie came back in, Sherlock now dressed in an oversized hoodie and skinny black jeans and looking, at most, 13.Izzie, lovely man that he was, immediately moved to place a protective arm around Sherlock’s shoulders. “It will be well, William,” he said soothingly. “These gentlemen just have some questions that must be answered, and then all will be well.”Sherlock’s brows furrowed. “What kind of questions?” he asked suspiciously.“Important ones,” Monsieur Bordelon said, and handed an official-looking document to Anthea. “Now, you must come with me, Guiliame, until time for the meeting.”“Half an hour, no more,” Izzie interjected. “And I will stay with you the whole time.”And, just like that, Sherlock was bundled out the door, protesting all the while, as Ollie and Anthea blinked after him. As the door closed behind him, Ollie reached for the paper held limply in Anthea’s hand. “Mycroft’s on his way up,” he said as he glanced at the paper. “And what the Hell is this about?”“They’re accusing us of exploiting a minor,” Anthea said, still stunned at the turn this day had taken. “Someone has claimed that I am not his sister, nor his guardian.”“Well, you’re not,” Ollie said reasonably.“As far as Peeps is concerned, I am,” Anthea said. “But what I really want to know is, where do these ‘questions’ come from in the first place?” The meeting was held in a small meeting room off the main lobby of the hotel—clean, bright, but utilitarian at best, the furnishings well below the calibre found in the rest of the building. As Anthea and Ollie entered, the official (“Monsieur Hebert”, according to the business card he flipped onto the table in their general direction) they had met earlier stood and gestured to seats at the long wooden table. “Please,” he said, politely if not especially warmly. “The others will be here shortly.”“And who will these others be, exactly?” Anthea asked.“Mr. Taubman and your…William, so long as you still wish him to attend,” the man said stiffly. “M. Bordelon. And others as may be required.”“Well, that’s not ominous at all,” Ollie muttered in Anthea’s ear.Sherlock was ushered in by Izzie, looking mutinous and uncomfortable. Izzie tutted and ushered his charge to a chair, then sat close beside him. Monsieur Bordelon trailed in after them and moved to stand sentinel at the end of the table. “What’s the point of all of this?” Sherlock said, sounding more upset than Anthea would have expected—playing to the crowd, then. “I have practicing to do.”Izzie patted his hand. “Be calm, dear.” Sherlock scowled but fell silent.M. Hebert cleared his throat, with a repressive look at both Sherlock and Izzie. “If the boy can not be quiet, he may be more comfortable back in the room,” he said. Sherlock looked death at him momentarily, before forcing himself to lower his eyes and shake his head.Once assured of quiet, the Peeps dignitary continued. “We have received credible information that you are not, in fact, the guardian for William,” he said bluntly. “This is a serious violation of the Peeps requirements, as well as potentially representing a threat to his safety. It has not escaped our notice that he has been left to his own devices more often than is wise, but Mr. Taubman assured us that he never felt William was really at risk, and that he was willing to provide additional support. In light of this recent testimony, however, we must ask that you submit formal documentation proving your relationship, and your legal authority to act as his guardian. His participation in the competition depends on your compliance, and he will be prohibited from continuing until such documentation is produced.”“But I have my first practice with the orchestra at 11,” Sherlock said hotly. “You can’t—”Hebert jerked his head, and M. Bordelon moved over to take Sherlock’s arm and force him, protesting all the while, out of the room. Izzie looked indecisive momentarily, but opted to stay.Anthea finally got her wits about her. “May I ask the source of these allegations?” she said, as politely as she was able to manage. “I mean, seems like we have the right to confront our accuser, doesn’t it?”M. Hebert gave her a stony look, arms crossed. Izzie, however, had no such compunction. “Another contestant came to us after overhearing a conversation,” he said, as Hebert raised a disapproving eyebrow. “I can’t tell you who, obviously. But the conversation seemed to indicate that William was not actually subject to your authority; and if not for you, who does he have, since I understand his parents are currently in Saudi Arabia?”“He has me,” Anthea said firmly, wondering madly who could have overheard them—it had to be their conversation on the train, which rather limited the pool of candidates. She needed to talk that one over with Sherlock, once they got him out of care. “What is needed to resolve this?” Behind her, Ollie was rapidly texting on the mobile phone—Mycroft, she hoped.“We will need certified copies of his birth certificate and your own, and some form of formal documentation confirming your legal guardianship in your parents’ stead,” Hebert said. “And please understand—lacking confirmation, William will stay in our care until your parents can be notified and someone with the appropriate legal standing is able to physically present themselves.” He paused. “But, sadly, William can not continue in the competition while awaiting that resolution. I know he will be greatly disappointed. But we must assure the safety of our participants.” He didn’t sound especially sad. Evidently Sherlock had made a nuisance of himself while in care.“How long do we have?” Anthea asked, thinking rapidly of possible solutions, all of which revolved around creative forgery. She realized that they should have addressed this issue in advance—an oversight which would be corrected in any future missions, certainly. Solid-looking documents for every eventuality.“Certainly by the end of today,” Izzie said, and Hebert glared but didn’t contradict him. “William needs his practice with the orchestra to have any hope of competing. I believe we can swap his 11am time with one of the other contestants; I have already made an inquiry. But that slot is at 4pm, and it is the last of the day. So…”“So we need to have everything resolved before then,” Anthea said. “Thank you, Mr. Taubman. Do you need me for anything else, or can I go now? I have people to call, obviously.” She was aware she was sounding a little too businesslike for “Carmen”, but now wasn’t the time to worry about that.“No, dear,” Izzie said soothingly. “I will go sit with William. I will see if he is allowed to call you—”Hebert frowned behind him and shook his head firmly.“Well, then, I will tell him you would do so if allowed,” Izzie continued. “And I will make sure he knows that you are working quickly to get all of this resolved.” He walked over and gave her an unexpected hug, which made her heart give a tiny lurch. “I know you are concerned about him. I will do my best to keep him calm.” He released her, nodded, and left.M. Hebert opened the door, preparing to take his leave as well. He didn’t sneer. Quite. “You have my contact information. I will be waiting to hear from you.” His tone made it quite clear that he didn’t expect that to actually happen. Out in the hallway, Ollie turned to Anthea as they hurried back towards the lift. “Mycroft says he shouldn’t have a problem providing what we need. It’s a matter of procuring high-quality forgeries quickly enough. We already have Sherlock’s fake birth certificate because we had to submit it with his entry packet. So all we need is one for you, and guardianship papers that have been signed by a judge. That’s the bit that will take some time, according to him.”“What I want is to talk to Sherlock,” Anthea replied, and she did. She would be willing to bet her friend would know immediately who had been responsible for this, and if they had any reasonable recourse in response. Beyond that, though, she felt the need to get the poor boy out of custody sooner rather than later—in addition to the difficulty of staying completely in-character in such difficult conditions, she knew he would be obsessing about missing his practice session with the orchestra, or, God forbid, having to withdraw from the competition completely, after all this effort.Mycroft met them in the hallway as they stepped out of the lift on their floor. “I have the paperwork issue in hand,” he said. “The birth certificate for you should be here within the hour. The guardianship papers have been referred to London—they have the necessary base documents readily in hand, and can walk them to an accommodating judge as soon as they’re complete. Then they’ll send the originals by air courier, and fax copies of each directly to M. Hebert and the Peeps proctors’ offices. Even if the originals don’t arrive until this evening, the copies should be adequate to prove our case.”He stepped forward and opened the door as they reached their suite. “There’s more, though I’m quite sure it’s not related to our current predicament. We have interesting intel hinting at a link between one of the long-term donors to Peeps, and certain unsavoury practices in the Middle East—smuggling, human trafficking. Our mandate has now been expanded, to attempt to establish any link between these individuals and our missing children.”“Because we don’t have enough to do already,” Ollie sighed. They settled in to work, and wait. As per Mycroft’s expectations, “Carmen’s” birth certificate showed up forty minutes later. “Carmen” appeared to be two years older than Anthea, and born in Saudi Arabia, where her father was an oil company executive for a British firm. Her baby brother was born in London, presumably while the family was on their annual visit home. Anthea had memorized this general background, but they’d never really gotten into much about “Carmen” besides her current activities as her brother’s keeper.They finally received a call from Izzie at almost 3. “Your paperwork has come through, and M. Hebert is satisfied,” he said warmly. “I will be bringing William to you shortly—he’s extremely anxious to make his 4pm practice session.” He paused, while Anthea waited curiously. “May I ask a question, dear?”Anthea blinked. “Um…of course,” she said. “Is there some other problem?” God, she hoped not. Sherlock would be bouncing off furniture as it was.“Why didn’t you let me know he was autistic?” he asked quietly. She wondered suddenly if he was making sure Sherlock didn’t overhear him. “I would have reassured him that I wouldn’t be in any way upset or concerned if he needed to stim. I have several students who are—”“He’s stimming?” Anthea asked, very concerned indeed. If Sherlock was openly doing that, they were in deep trouble as far as this afternoon went.“He was,” Izzie said. “He didn’t know I saw. Went into the back room—to lie down, he said, because he was bored. But I pushed the door open a bit to ask him if he was hungry, and he was working his fingers. I tried to calm him, but he was quite upset I had seen him. Please let him know, when he’s calmed down a bit, that I truly don’t care, won’t you?”“Oh, um, of course,” Anthea said. And she would. She just hoped things weren’t as dire as they sounded.True to his word, Izzie showed up less than 10 minutes later, Sherlock in tow. The boy all but shoved his mentor out the door, while Anthea tried to express their gratitude for his help. Izzie, though, just smiled, waved, and walked back towards the lift as the door swung closed.“Claus Graham,” Sherlock snapped, as he paced frenetically around the room. “It was Claus. He heard us last night, and decided this was an excellent way to ensure he placed first.” He looked around. “Where’s my violin? I have to be at warm-up in twenty minutes.” His speech was so quick as to be almost incomprehensible.Mycroft stepped in front of him, forcing the pacing to come to an abrupt halt. “Enough,” he said, in a surprisingly gentle tone. “We have ample time. How do you know it was Claus?”“He was in the hallway outside the offices when they brought me in,” Sherlock spat. “Gave me a nasty smile, then sauntered off whistling.” He paused. “Let’s kill him, shall we?” He set off pacing again.“Maybe later,” Anthea said, feeling the need to intervene. “Why don’t you sit down for a minute, have a biscuit and some tea? Get settled before the practice. You seem a little—”“If you tell me I need to calm down I may strike you,” Sherlock snarled. “I have just spent several hours in a small room with an officious bureaucrat who does not like children and especially doesn’t like ‘spoiled, rich children’, of which I am apparently one. I had to remain in-character as a 15-year-old, which meant I couldn’t tell him what he could do with his assumptions, and I couldn’t leave the room. I couldn’t even go to the toilet without an escort. And, to add to the joy, Izzie decided that I should ‘rest’, and insisted I go into the back office where there was a sofa, and then he—” he cut himself off abruptly, a dull flush rising up out of his collar to flood his face. “Never mind,” he said. He hurtled into his bedroom, coming back out with his violin case in his hand. “I’m going. I should be done by 6.” As Mycroft reached out a hand to forestall him, he dodged, jerked the door open, and pelted out.In his wake, the rest of them looked at each other, with varying degrees of foreboding. Ollie finally voiced what they were all thinking. “This isn’t going well, is it?” he said plaintively.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Bogle—Scottish ghost or spirit Goblin-esque ghostly beings who delight in messing with humans, usually to annoy, perplex, or simply frighten (rather than inflicting serious harm)
Sherlock
The orchestra rehearsal went a long way towards calming his nerves. Not perfect, of course—he was all too aware that the pressure of competition wasn’t going away. But the interplay of instruments, the brisk mathematical progression of notes, the thrill of weaving his own playing into the whole, soothed the raw edges of the day and allowed him, briefly, to forget the myriad humiliations he’d been subjected to. Izzie’s interruption while Sherlock had succumbed to his nerves and stimmed had been the icing on the cake. The old man’s stumbling apologies had only exacerbated the situation.Now, though, he was more reconciled to this whole process. He could forget about the aggravating aspects (pretending to be 15, for example) while engrossed in the music. And it was, in some ways, an embarrassment of riches to be surrounded by a group of other performances of such staggering calibre. Virtually every hour of the day he could step into any of the performance spaces and hear vocal or instrumental contestants giving it their all—more like being backstage at a professional symphony hall than the orchestral space at uni.Over the next two days they (“We Spies”, as Ollie insisted on referring to them, despite Mycroft’s moue of distaste) fell into a slightly more relaxed routine than the high-pressure atmosphere of Munich. Izzie even commented on Sherlock’s less-stressed outlook, which was a bit mortifying—Sherlock would have liked to believe that Izzie knew nothing of what went on outside of the performance halls.In keeping with their original plan, Anthea and Mycroft continued to “neglect” Sherlock, failing to meet him after rehearsals, running twenty minutes late to collect him for dinner, missing meetings with Izzie. Izzie’s face grew longer and longer with each instance, but he said nothing to Sherlock about it, just continued to offer friendship and warm support. Sherlock realized, midway through a conference over tea and biscuits, that he genuinely enjoyed Izzie’s company. In retrospect he wasn’t sure how he felt about that.The true “spying” aspect of the operation was beginning to yield fruit, though it was too early yet to know how much. Mycroft’s lead on the major donor had led to a very small group of similar investors, characterized by both their devotion to Peeps and their attachment to some highly suspect operations in other arenas. Nothing concrete yet, though many hours were devoted to looking for something, anything, to make a connection between the two areas. The biggest likelihood was some form of smuggling; Peeps’ moving of large quantities of equipment and people across borders made that an obvious possibility. But what, exactly, was being smuggled, and what relationship that had, if any, to the missing children remained unclear. Mycroft grew progressively more irritated, which meant they collectively spent far too much time reviewing the same information with no results. Thursday afternoon, the day before final rehearsals, Sherlock finished up his own practice time with the orchestra with a triumphant flair, enjoying (though he’d never admit it) the applause the ensemble gave him as they finished. He bustled offstage, cased up his violin, and headed to his mentoring session with Izzie, feeling his shoulders relax as he went. Izzie (who had been a silent observer throughout the rehearsal) met him at the door with cocoa, and they settled in to rehash every aspect of the performance. By the time they finished, Sherlock was surprisingly hungry, and left Izzie with a handshake and a smile.The smile faded quickly as he turned into the hall leading to the lifts—standing just at end of the corridor was Claus Graham, looking sober and apologetic. They stared at each other silently, while Sherlock tried to stomp down his initial fury. The other boy waited, wisely not approaching any closer until Sherlock moved.“What do you want?” Sherlock finally managed. “You can’t possibly think I want to speak to you.”“No, I’m sure you don’t,” Claus said soberly. “I wouldn’t want to speak to me either. But, um, I wanted to apologize. I made it clear to the Board that I had made a mistake, though they said things had already been cleared up. It was a dick move, I know, but I really thought, from what you said, that you weren’t—”“From what you eavesdropped and overheard,” Sherlock snapped. “And hoped would place me out of the competition.”The other boy gave a rueful grin. “I can’t deny that your departure would make my life easier,” he said. “But I did think it was a legitimate issue. So why wouldn’t I bring it up? Be fair—anyone would.”Sherlock reflected, not for the first time, that he would never understand how some people thought. “No,” he said finally, “I wouldn’t. I would prefer to advance in the competition on merit, not on manipulation.”Claus was silent for a long moment. “Well. I guess you’re a better person than I, then,” he said, still with that rueful look. “But…I would like to atone, I guess. Even if we can’t be friends, I want to make things better. So let me buy you dinner. I have a lot of information I can share on the judges’ preferences that I think you’d find really helpful.” He saw Sherlock’s face, and held up his hands. “Nothing unfair, I promise! Just some evaluations of their past decisions, and trends. That kind of thing. So maybe you could make some small tweaks that would be helpful.”Now it was Sherlock’s turn to stand silent. He had no desire to spend any time with Claus Graham, ever. But he had to think of this in light of what a real 15-year-old contestant would do when approached by an “older” boy like this. Particularly when that boy offered a substantial olive branch in return.“You’ve got nothing to lose here,” Claus said. “Free food, in a really nice restaurant in the Montmarte. And maybe some good music afterwards.”And Sherlock, against his better judgment, nodded.
Anthea
They first became aware that something might possibly, maybe, hope-to-God not, be wrong at about 8. Sherlock hadn’t shown up for dinner; not alarming in and of itself, but annoying, since they generally used meals as planning-and-briefing time. He was supposed to finish up a quick session to review his practice with the orchestra with Izzie at 5, and then head back to the hotel suite. But when Anthea rang Izzie at 7:30, acting the blithely oblivious “Carmen”, the old man seemed perplexed. “But he left here at not quite 6,” he said. “He was planning on meeting you for dinner, I know; he mentioned wanting to convince you to take him to a local restaurant one of his new friends had mentioned.”“What friend?” Anthea had said snippily before she thought about it, and heard the voice on the other end of the line cool noticeably.“One of the ones he made while waiting for you to arrive to collect him, I expect,” Izzie said. “It sounds like he’s done rather a lot of that.” But, because he was a good man, and because he clearly cared about his charges, he continued in a somewhat softer tone. “Would you like me to ask around, to see if anyone has seen him?” he said. “I can tell you he was not upset when I saw him last, so you needn’t worry about that.”“Um…yes, please,” Anthea said, feeling curiously guilty. She had to remind herself that making Sherlock seem neglected was rather the point. But it really didn’t sit well, nonetheless.In the end, it wasn’t Izzie’s help that made a difference—it was those same junior agents, watching their loops of surveillance tape, that gave them their starting point. The call came in at almost nine.Anthea listened attentively, passing on information as it came. “They have him, out front,” she relayed. “Getting into a taxi at a little past 6 with a red-haired boy. Presumably Graham.” She waited, then continued. “We have the taxi number, and the surveillance group has also used a little initiative and made some phone calls—strong-armed the taxi company into giving up the destination. They were dropped off together at a restaurant in the trendy area of the Montmarte district; according to the maitre d’, stayed about ninety minutes, then walked away together up the street.” She hung up, disturbed by this whole scenario.“So we at least know a street?” Ollie asked. “Where the last sighting was, I mean?”“But how long ago—and who’s to say they didn’t take another cab later?” Mycroft said, sounded both cross and concerned.“Not a thing,” Anthea said. “But we have to start somewhere.”“Agreed,” Mycroft said. “We should split up. Anthea, I believe you should stay here and interact with the surveillance crew—have them start checking any remote cameras that may be in use in the district. There may be a few. And that way you can contact us if Sherlock comes back on his own. Ollie and I will head in opposite directions and check the various nightclubs along the way—it’s a logical destination for them, since we know they already ate.” He frowned. “I’m still mystified by what Sherlock hopes to accomplish with this boy—unless he thinks the child is involved somehow.”“In which case, going off alone with him is likely not the best idea ever,” Ollie replied.“But perfectly in character,” Anthea sighed, as the other two headed for the door.
Ollie
When he entered the fourth club on his route, Ollie didn’t see him, at first. The room was crowded and hot—several hundred bright young things, collectively drunk and/or stoned, gyrating like they’d been hit with cattle prods. The music was a physical pulse against his skin; not bad music, exactly, just far too loud. Under other circumstances he might have actually enjoyed himself here, but at the moment he was far too sober and much too concerned. He knew just enough of Sherlock’s atypical “wiring” to wonder how the boy could tolerate this kind of aggressive overstimulation—lights, sound, touch, all bombarding the participants at once.The answer became apparent as soon as he saw Sherlock—some form of chemical assistance, clearly, and not a subtle one. Sherlock was dancing—no partner, just caught in a jumble of men and women moving with varying degrees of rhythm and skill. Sherlock stood out for a host of reasons—height, physical beauty, extreme youth, but most of all ability. The boy could dance—and he was attracting an audience, though he was clearly blind to the attention he was drawing.Ollie needed to think about this—he had to extract Sherlock without doing anything memorable. While he was thinking about that, his gaze swept the room—and caught the eye of Claus Graham, sitting casually at a ringside table. As Ollie realized what he was seeing, the ginger raised a glass towards Sherlock and winked.Ollie was moving before he realized it, slamming up in front of the redhaired boy in a fury. “What did you do, you little shit?” he snarled. “What did you give him?”“Nothing you can prove,” the violinist said with a smile. “And who’s to say he didn’t take it on his own? Or that someone here didn’t give it to him? He’s very pretty, you know—attracting quite a lot of attention.” Those red brows drew down dramatically. “How dreadful it would be if someone from Peeps stopped by and saw him, though. I mean, he’s fifteen.” He shook his head woefully.Ollie shot out a hand and grabbed a handful of Claus’ shirt. “If that happens, I’m coming after you,” he said coldly. “And then my employer will likely take a turn as well. And before you mention Peeps’ reaction to that—you should have thought it through, mate. Once he’s out of the competition, why should I care what Peeps thinks?”He was quite pleased at the look of frank alarm on the boy’s face as Ollie walked away. Ollie sidled out onto the dance floor, gyrating his way gradually nearer until he finally established himself in front of Sherlock. It said volumes about the younger agent’s mental state that it took him more than a minute to recognize his partner. When he did, though, Sherlock’s face morphed into the smile of a 5-year-old on Christmas morning.“Ollie!” Sherlock chirped, reaching out and clasping Ollie in a tight hug. “I’m so glad to see you. Dance with me!” Sherlock let go and started dancing again, holding out one fine-boned hand invitingly.Ollie obliged by jiggling gently to the music, trying to avoid causing a scene while simultaneously extracting Sherlock. “We really need to go, Sherlock. Everyone’s been looking for you.”That happy face clouded over a little, looking around anxiously. “No they’re not. Are they? Why are they?” The smile was gone now.“Because no one knew where you were,” Ollie said, “and we were worried. So now we need to go back, yeah? So Mycroft and Anthea can see that you’re OK.” He gave the hand a firm tug.“No,” Sherlock bleated, yanking his hand away hard enough that he came perilously close to falling over backwards. “I’m dancing.” His eyes were all pupil, surrounded by a thin silver ring. He shivered abruptly, looking alarmed, before returning to his gyrations. Whatever drug he was on was working its way more firmly through his system, apparently. And if collapse was imminent, Ollie had to get him out of here.Ollie moved closer and put a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. “No, we really have to go, Sherlock. I’m sorry. But we have to go.”Sherlock tried to back away. His eyes filled, lower lip wobbling. “But I don’t want to,” he said with a quaver. “I want to dance.” He gestured loopily back towards the writhing herd of dancers.“Yeah, I know,” Ollie said sympathetically, tugging him towards the edge of the dance floor. “Maybe we can come back. But right now we need to go.”Sherlock tried, in an uncoordinated way, to pull away again, then burst into full-fledged tears. “No,” he said. “No, I…why can’t I dance?” he wailed.People around them were beginning to take notice. Ollie tucked Sherlock firmly against his side, then made a motion of chugging a drink with his free hand. The faces around them relaxed and turned aside. It felt shockingly cold outside the steam bath of the club, with chilly, damp fog drifting around. As Sherlock continued to sob, Ollie pulled him determinedly towards the curb, hoping to spy an open cab quickly. Beside him Sherlock began to shiver. “Cold,” he moaned.It took several tries before a cab would stop; apparently Parisian cabbies weren’t any more enthusiastic about driving drunks than London ones were, and seeing one potential passenger leaning against the other and weeping threw up one too many warning signs. The man that finally stopped opened the door and gave Ollie a long, long look before nodding for him to enter.Ollie carefully bundled Sherlock in first, while the boy sniveled and shook, then scooted in himself and closed the door before giving the address of the hotel.“What is wrong wis heem?” the cab driver asked. There was some suspicion in his voice—understandable, once Ollie thought about it. Here he was, a large, somewhat older male, forcing a cold, wailing “child” to get in a cab with him.“He slipped out to see the sights,” Ollie said, keeping his tone sympathetic. “But someone put something in his drink, and it made him ill.” Sherlock gave another violent shiver. “And he lost his coat.”“Ah,” the can driver said, “pauvre petit.” He rummaged around on the seat next to him and handed back a bundle. “A blanket,” he said, in that heavily accented English.Ollie took it gratefully, wrapping it tightly around the shivering, weeping boy. Sherlock calmed somewhat—perhaps the pressure from the wrapping helped, or the warmth. Either way, the sobbing softened, and the shivering gradually slowed. By the time they reached the hotel, he had listed over until his head was in Ollie’s lap and he was nearly asleep, thank God.Ollie managed to get Sherlock out of the cab and on his feet, still grizzling, and they staggered in the revolving doors and into the lift without encountering anyone other than professionally-concerned-looking staff. Once they reached their floor, though, their luck ran out. Just as the doors opened Sherlock’s knees gave out as he slumped in Ollie’s arms. Ollie crouched, flopped the boy over his shoulder and headed towards the suite. Just as he turned the last corner, though, he heard a soft noise ahead, and looked up to see Izzie staring back at him.“Please don’t tell,” Ollie blurted, before Izzie could say a word. “It’s not his fault, I swear.”Izzie stared, brow furrowed in deep concern. Finally, though, he nodded, very slowly, then turned on his heel and went off down the corridor.
Anthea
The door slammed open at half-eleven, startling Anthea enough that she dumped part of her tea in her lap. Ollie stood in the doorway, Sherlock draped over his right shoulder.“Help me with him,” Ollie commanded. “He’s skinny but heavier than he looks. And I don’t want him puking down my back if I can help it.” Sherlock let out a shivery little sob, which got Anthea moving quickly to open the bedroom door and throw back the duvet on Sherlock’s bed.“What on Earth happened to him?” she asked, observing the half-closed eyes, the tear-damp cheeks, the general air of despair clinging to those narrow shoulders.“That little bastard Claus slipped him something,” Ollie bit out, sliding Sherlock’s shoes off as the boy moaned and flopped one skinny arm up to cover his eyes. “Can’t prove it, of course. But all he had to do was wait until Sherlock was good and under, and then drag him to a bar where he knew someone from Peeps would see him, or a picture would make it back to them. Poor kid was dancing around and having a great time, but if he was seen…”“Dancing,” Sherlock whined, then hiccupped ominously.“If he was seen, in a bar, clearly intoxicated,” Anthea sighed, moving over to grab the bin from beside the desk and place it next to the bed, “he’d be out—disqualified, while Claus presumably snares First Place, Strings.”“I want to end that little bastard,” Ollie snarled. “But we can’t prove it, at least not till Sherlock wakes up enough to remember. And by that time it would be too late. Even if we have him piss in a jar and get it tested, there’s nothing to prove he didn’t take it himself. It would be his word against Claus’s.”“And Claus, interestingly, is one of the few multi-year contestants,” Anthea said. “He competed last year. Makes you wonder how he made it to the finals then—Peeps would have suppressed any news reports of a competitor being disqualified, since the contestants are all minors. Presumably he couldn’t manage to get at the ultimate winner for one reason or another—maybe she was too closely chaperoned, maybe she just didn’t like him.”“Doesn’t matter now,” Ollie said, reaching to bat Sherlock’s hands aside and strip off his clothes. “We’ve got to get him sober and able to compete.” He looked at his watch while Sherlock moaned again and curled into himself. “We’ve got 9 hours until his final rehearsal. Go get the shower started.” It was a horrible night, punctuated by (initially) more tears, copious vomiting (especially after Mycroft arrived, a bottle of ipecac in hand), and, finally, groans of pain as Sherlock dealt with the worst hangover of his life. “Just shoot me,” he begged Ollie, as the headache went into its third hour. “I’ll make it worth your while.”Come dawn, things were finally quiet. Mycroft gave his brother an injection of a mild sedative at four, after consulting by phone with an MI6 physician familiar with Sherlock’s particular neurochemistry. The boy’s eyes crossed, then closed, and didn’t reopen. Ollie laid down on the far side of Sherlock’s bed with an exhausted sigh; Mycroft and Anthea set alarms and staggered off to their own rooms.The alarms went off, sadly, just as expected. Come eight a.m., then, they were assembled back in the suite, picking at room service breakfast and waiting for Sherlock to stagger out of yet another shower. When he did, face somewhere between grey and green, hair wet and dripping, Anthea winced in sympathy. “Do you think dry toast would help?” she asked.“No,” Sherlock said, and put his damp head down on the tablecloth.
Mycroft
By 8:30 they were bundled in a taxi, on their way to the venue. No one had suggested walking; no one thought Sherlock was capable of it, frankly, and the boy certainly didn’t object.It had been decided that Anthea (and, as her “bodyguard”, Ollie) would attend part of this rehearsal. It probably wasn’t advisable, but Anthea’s face, when Mycroft raised that issue, was enough to stop that conversation in its tracks. Mycroft technically wasn’t needed either, given that the rehearsal was with the orchestra, but it never occurred to him not to attend. His brother would need every support they could possibly offer to get through this.In an effort to distract his brother, Mycroft tried to initiate conversation. “How did Claus drug you?” he asked.Sherlock, head back and eyes closed, sighed. “In my tea, I assume,” he said. “He insisted on going to dinner, to ‘apologize for being a dick earlier’; said he had tips on the judges that I would find useful, and I could think of no rational reason why the real ‘Will’ would refuse such valuable insight. And we need for everyone to think me poorly chaperoned. So I went. About halfway though dinner I made the mistake of going to the toilet, which is presumably when he applied the drug. I began to feel odd as we left the restaurant; I remember starting to walk up the street, and then nothing more.”Mycroft thought about that. “Most likely some form of mild hypnotic,” he said. “I suspect he was pleasantly surprised by how effective it was on you.”“Or maybe he’s just an evil little shit that never even thought about how it would work, as long as it put Sherlock out of the competition,” Ollie said tartly.Sherlock suddenly gagged, at which the rest of them froze in place, Mycroft about to signal the driver to stop. After a long moment, though, he swallowed again, hard. “Can we be quiet now?” he rasped. There was silence for the rest of the trip. Mycroft had deep misgivings about the coming session, but felt the need to keep them to himself.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Pocong-- Indonesian/Singaporean ghost that is said to be the soul of a dead person trapped in its shroud
Mycroft
It wasn’t the best rehearsal Mycroft had ever heard, but it wasn’t the worst, either.The credit for most of that went to Izzie—Mycroft had to admit, if only to himself, that the older man had grasped the situation immediately, and taken decisive action that it hadn’t yet occurred to Mycroft to ask for.Their group entered the performance hall through the rear stage door, to avoid the largish group of contestants buzzing about in the main corridors. As they reached the wings, Izzie came up from behind them. The mentor took one look at Sherlock’s grey face and set shoulders, and stepped forward to place his palm gently on Sherlock’s cheek. “I will do what I can,” he said. “Go get your instrument ready, and come onstage when you can manage. We can wait a few minutes if necessary; don’t fret.” And with that he bustled off towards the front of the stage.Mycroft blinked after Izzie’s disappearing figure; Sherlock just stood in silent misery, as if awaiting instructions. After a moment Mycroft gave himself a mental shake, directed Anthea and Ollie to the far side of the wings, and got Sherlock moving towards the tiny equipment room at the rear of the stage to open and tune his violin.By the time Sherlock gave a curt nod and they headed on-stage, Izzie’s efforts had borne much-needed fruit. The venue as a whole stood in near-darkness; the house lights had been turned to their lowest settings, so the audience were a mere distant rustling mass rather than a constant distraction. Similarly, the small orchestra arrayed on the stage had tiny lights on their stands to view their music—that had allowed the bar lights overhead to also be turned to the slightest illumination, just enough to allow Sherlock to pick his way to the front of the stage, and for the musicians to see him (and the conductor) clearly. Mycroft, who had stayed at the edges of the left stage wing, saw Sherlock’s shoulders visibly relax as Izzie came from the far side of the stage to check in with his protégée. Izzie murmured something; Sherlock nodded, then lifted his instrument to his shoulder, and they began. They worked for a little over an hour; by the end of that time Sherlock was swaying slightly where he stood, though he continued to produce sound that was at least acceptable, if not his typical stellar tones. The conductor, who had been eyeing Sherlock worriedly for the past ten minutes, lifted his chin inquiringly at Izzie, hovering just at the edge of the stage. “We are done, I think,” he said, not unkindly. Izzie nodded, and came forward to take Sherlock’s arm and lead him unprotestingly to Mycroft.Izzie cleared his throat significantly as they walked to the equipment room and placed the violin carefully in its case. “Will he be ready for this evening?” he asked gently. It was a fair question, given the previous hour.It was unclear which of them was being addressed. Mycroft responded, since his brother had apparently subsided into mutism. “We will all do our best,” he said diplomatically.Just at that juncture, however, Sherlock suddenly gave a lurch towards Mycroft and gasped “Toilet!”, and in the ensuring dash down the back corridor Izzie was left behind.Fifteen hideous minutes later, Sherlock finally felt able to leave, now leaning against the wall, pale as buttermilk and covered in cold sweat. Mycroft had already called Anthea and directed her to have a taxi waiting by the back door. “Can you walk?” he asked Sherlock, and was answered by a scowl as his brother jerked away and stalked down the hallway. Mycroft sighed and followed.By unspoken agreement, the silent cab ride was followed by a quick march to their beds, given that none of them had had adequate sleep the night before and Sherlock, at least, needed to be at his best this evening. Ollie took charge of getting Sherlock tucked in, then tottered off to his own small room; Anthea and Mycroft headed to their own respective spots with a grateful sigh. Mycroft dropped into his own bed, set an alarm for 1 pm, and tumbled into darkness.
Anthea
Anthea was startled, when she yawningly left her room at just short of 2, to find Mycroft already ensconced on the sofa, with Ollie flipping through a large sheaf of papers at the table in one corner of the room.“Did I miss something?” she said uncertainly. “I thought we were just going to wait until Sherlock woke, and then have an early dinner.”Mycroft shook his head. “Nothing planned,” he said. “I have been reviewing some recent intel that was dropped off in our absence. And considering cancelling the mission, at least in its current form.”Well. That was…unexpected.“But why?” she asked, dropping gracelessly onto the far end of the sofa. “I mean, we’re already in place—perfect covers. Assuming Sherlock can rally enough to perform tonight—”“That is rather a large assumption, at this juncture,” Mycroft said. “But there are now other, more serious considerations.” He gestured at the papers Ollie was rummaging through. “It has now become apparent that the involvement of the suspect donors is actually tied to gun-running. But not your typical, thuggish trade of handguns or the occasional shotgun. No, this involves pilfering from NATO weapons depots via planted personnel, and shipping hidden crates of high-tech and highly illegal arms to the Middle East and Africa once the Peeps tour ends.” He looked pensive, and somewhat guilty—not a very Mycroft Holmesian look, Anthea thought wryly.“And?” she said, when nothing more was forthcoming.“And that is far, far beyond the normal purview of such junior agents,” Mycroft said with a sigh. “I would never have allowed any of you to become involved in such a potentially lethal operation, had I known the true extent.”“But the kids,” Anthea said. “We can’t just drop it.”“We can, if I come to the conclusion that we are overmatched in our current configuration,” Mycroft said, with deceptive coldness. “It does those children no good if we ourselves are overcome by hostile forces.”“But there’s no indication of any violence,” Ollie chimed in from the table. “These are businessmen, when you come right down to it. Evil businessmen, granted, but still. The dangerous folks are the ones on the receiving end, certainly.”Mycroft scoffed. “Naiveté is so charming in the young,” he said coldly. Anthea was suddenly aware how tired he was; he would never loose that sometimes-vicious tongue on any of them under normal circumstances. “I do not find their status as ‘businessmen’ in any way reassuring. Given the nature of their ‘business’, it would be criminally negligent to assume that they were incapable of the same kinds of casual brutality as their customers, if circumstances warranted. And I think it’s safe to assume that threatened exposure and/or incarceration would meet that threshold.”“Fair enough,” Ollie said calmly, though his cheeks were a little pink from the implied reprimand. “But can’t we just enlist some additional resources to work that aspect of the case? I mean, we don’t know that the missing kids case actually relates to the smuggling at all, when you come right down to it. Not based on anything I see in these papers, anyway.”Mycroft looked thoughtful, which Anthea viewed as marginally positive. “It’s true that nothing yet indicates a connection. It is possible that the discovery of the smuggling operation is simply an unexpected result of our efforts, and the two are not in any way linked. It does, however, seem unlikely somehow.” He stretched, grimaced, and laid his head on the back of the sofa, closing his eyes with a quiet huff. “And it may all be a moot point: there is a strong likelihood that Sherlock will be unable to perform this evening, or, if he does, it will go poorly. In which case the discussion of your collective involvement in a weapons smuggling case becomes also moot, as I will have all of you on a plane back to England in very short order.”And of course, Mycroft’s luck with his brother being what it was, a deep, offended voice chose that moment to enter the conversation, as Sherlock appeared in the open doorway to his room. “Well. Thank you so much for the vote of confidence, brother. Just what I needed to hear.”While the tone was acrid and cool, Anthea could tell that underneath that was a layer of true hurt. Sherlock, for all his determined self-assurance, was anxious for Mycroft’s approval, and terribly vulnerable to criticism. Ironically Mycroft, normally so terrifyingly observant, was largely blind to those facts, and often did what Anthea thought was unintended damage simply through his choice of words.Now, at least, Mycroft was aware of the potential impact, and wrenched himself off the sofa to face his brother. “That’s by no means a criticism, Sherlock. You were drugged, and are struggling with the after-effects. It would in no way be your fault if you—”“Failed,” Sherlock snapped. “Because that’s what it would mean, for this entire operation. I would ask you to trust me to do my bit, but I see that’s not going to happen. So let’s just reserve judgment, hard though I know that is for you, and see how it goes, shall we?” He yanked a packet out of his pocket. “I’ll be on the roof; I need a cigarette or three, and I don’t particularly want to encounter any more ‘interested parties’ while I do. I’ll be back in time for dinner.” And with that he stalked to the door of the suite and slammed out.Mycroft blinked, then turned to follow. Before she thought about it, Anthea reached out a hand and caught his arm. “Let me go,” she said. “He’s angry and hurt and sick, and you’re the target right now. I’m neutral.”The spymaster looked at the hand on his arm, and Anthea wobbled just a bit, afraid she may have overstepped. After an uncomfortable pause, though, he nodded, and Anthea sighed with relief and headed out the door. Sherlock must have been particularly anxious for that cigarette—Anthea found him by following the scent, even though he’d had no more than a two-minute lead. She had spent the time in transit trying to come up with the right words to start this conversation, but Sherlock, predictably enough, took the lead instead.“Let me guess: I misunderstood, he never intended to imply I was incompetent, he’s simply—” he spat.“He’s concerned about the effect this is having on you,” Anthea said calmly. “As am I. And the part you missed—he fears the information delivered while we were gone may indicate that we’re potentially in danger if we continue investigating the smuggling operation, regardless of whether you succeed or not. So it’s only peripherally related to your performance, in the end.”Sherlock was silent momentarily, considering that. “Danger?” he said finally, sounding somewhat unsure.Anthea walked through the information Ollie had reviewed, including Mycroft’s worry about involving “baby agents” in a potentially lethal scenario. “To top it off, it’s not at all clear if the missing contestants in any way relate to the smuggling operation,” she concluded. “So there’s even less justification for us to remain involved, if not.”“It defies logic that it’s not,” Sherlock said. “The reason we started seriously digging into the people and organizations that support Peeps was because there had to be some reason the children were disappearing. Just because we can’t immediately see what that reason is, and how it intersects with the criminal enterprise we’ve found, doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist.”He took a contemplative drag on the cigarette, and Anthea huffed and yanked it out of his hand before twitching it over the edge of the roof. “Stop that,” she said. “You already feel ill; don’t make it worse.”Sherlock’s temper flared briefly. “You’re not my mother, you know,” he snapped.“I’ve met your mum,” Anthea shot back. “She’d be completely on-board.”Sherlock continued to glare at her momentarily, then deflated like an old balloon. “I can’t spare the energy to fight,” he sighed. “But, for the record, nicotine does help.”Anthea reached out and tucked her arm through his, drawing him gently back towards the stairs. “Until it makes your headache worse,” she said. “Let’s go get some tea and dinner, and maybe something chocolate to finish. Chocolate always helps.” She caught his one derisive raised eyebrow and tossed her head. “Well, it certainly won’t make it worse. And it’ll make me feel better”And with that Sherlock couldn’t argue. They ended up having dinner in the suite, rather than making the effort to go to the dining room; Anthea suspected Mycroft was most concerned about Sherlock having to deal with a social setting on top of everything else. Regardless of the reason, though, it made for a relatively relaxed meal, sprawled around the suite in their bare feet. Sherlock didn’t eat much, even though his meal consisted only of tomato soup and cheese toast. No one had really expected he would.Ollie enlivened the proceedings with excerpts from the surveillance reports Mycroft had ordered on Claus Graham. The best part was that the older man had instructed the “shadows” to be blatantly obvious about their jobs, so that their subject always knew they were there. “There’s no special reason for the surveillance beyond pure spite, is there?” Anthea asked, and was warmed by Mycroft’s slight smile.“Oh, this is classic,” Ollie hooted. “He went into the toilet outside the orchestra hall, and one of the team parked himself outside. So he climbed out the window,” he concluded, dissolving into howls of laughter that they all joined into.Once they had calmed slightly, Mycroft cleared his throat. “We will have to decide what, if anything, happens with Mr. Graham after this evening,” he said. “If he does poorly in his performance, likely nothing, beyond a word in the ears of the appropriate persons to ensure he is not allowed to complete next year, even if he’s able to squeak in under the age limit. Or perhaps a very subtle communique to the major European universities, suggesting he is not the best choice for a lead slot in their orchestra, when he applies. If he does well—”“You mean if he beats me,” Sherlock snapped.Mycroft looked at him calmly. “Yes,” he said, “that.” The difference in this conversation and the last was the lack of any evidence of concern about Sherlock winning. It had the effect of clearing the air, oddly. Sherlock blinked, then sat straighter in his chair.“I can do this,” he said. “My head is clearing; my hands aren’t shaking anymore, and I’m no longer nauseous. I’ve not heard any of his practices, but I’ve also not heard any devotees raving about his prowess. He’s good—very good, likely. But I believe, if I am able to present my best performance, I will win.”“Then let’s do what we can to make that possible,” Mycroft said, and stood, projecting an air of calm command. “The sooner we get dressed and ready, the sooner we can get started on preparations at the venue. Anthea, I’d like for you and Ollie to go ahead now and sit in on Mr. Graham’s performance—he’s scheduled for roughly 30 minutes from now. Sherlock and I will go directly to the practice space at the venue, and you can meet us backstage before Sherlock’s call time.” He looked expectantly at the group. “Any questions or comments?”“Just, um…a reminder,” Sherlock said, looking anywhere but at the rest of them. “When you come back, before the performance, I would prefer that you not speak to me. I’ll be…I likely won’t be able to respond at that point.” His cheeks flushed; he spun on his heel and marched back into his bedroom.“Well that’s not alarming at all,” Ollie said into the resulting silence.
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Mononoke— Japanese vengeful spirit
Anthea
Anthea and Ollie settled into seats in the 3rd row, waiting (somewhat impatiently) for the performance to begin. There was a fairly large crowd—200 souls, roughly, composed of finely-dressed adults intermixed with the occasional clump of spotty teen contestants. The latter were surprisingly well-behaved—lots of chatter, but nothing truly disruptive. Ollie had noticed that as well. “I keep waiting for someone to throw gum, or yell something rude,” he said under his breath. “They’re scarily polite, aren’t they?”Anthea snickered. “The word you’re hunting for is ‘swots’,” she said, “and I mean that in the most-flattering way possible. The orchestra and choir types were just the same at my school. In addition to being obsessive about music, they’re all too aware that, at this kind of competition, someone is always watching.”“Speaking as a former chorister, I resemble that remark. I was talented and focused; I was not a ‘swot’,” Ollie sniffed, then paused. “But you’re not wrong. Five minutes later the house lights dimmed, and the chattering died away. Then the conductor came out, introduced Claus, and the concert began.Anthea tried, quite hard, to be objective. She knew Mycroft (and, under normal circumstances, Sherlock) would want specifics about the younger boy’s performance, but she felt a little out of her depth—she hoped Ollie understood the technical nuances better than she did. Claus was clearly technically proficient—she didn’t recognize the piece he played—Bach, perhaps? Sounded the right period, anyway—and he progressed through the notes smoothly, with the occasional “professional” smile to the audience. But there was something, something—All too quickly it was over, and the audience rose in applause, though to Anthea it seemed enthusiastic but not particularly excited. As soon as they were outside the performance hall she turned to Ollie. “Well?” she said. “What do you think?”Ollie’s brow furrowed as he thought about it. “It was—he knows his stuff, certainly. High level of technical expertise. But I’m not sure—I mean, Sherlock would sneer at me, but I think it lacked heart, for lack of a better word. A bit mechanical, a bit too precious. Lots of precision, not much feeling.” And Anthea realized, hearing it out loud, that he’d put his finger on exactly what had bothered her about the performance.“Will it be enough to make the difference, if Sherlock plays well?” she asked. They were both familiar with Sherlock’s playing—technically brilliant, but also, on some level, quite emotional, though the boy would be scandalized to hear that said aloud.“No way of telling,” Ollie sighed. “It’s all down to the judges, and their personal taste. That’s why I never tried to sign up for this madness myself, y’know—I always thought they were too prone to choosing style over substance sometimes.” He stopped, and grinned up through his lashes. “You know—like the Eurovision judges.”Anthea rolled her eyes. “God, I hope none of them are here. Sherlock would have an aneurysm,” she said, as they both dissolved into helpless laughter. By the time they made their way backstage to the instrument room being utilized as warm-up and holding space for upcoming contestants, the laughter had been replaced by anxiety—as they entered, Anthea saw Sherlock, violin and bow held loosely in his hands, near the back wall, looking pale and near-vacant.She turned to Mycroft, who stood nearby, a frown on his face. “What’s wrong?” she asked, as Ollie sidled closer to Sherlock but didn’t touch or speak to him.“Nothing,” Mycroft said with a sigh. “Well, nothing beyond the obvious. We have gone through a number of rounds of calming exercises, and Sherlock has attempted to distance himself insofar as he is able.” He shot his brother a troubled look. ”It is, at best, a necessary evil. But he assures me it will enable him to perform.”Ollie looked troubled, standing near the silent Sherlock. “And what will it cost him?” he asked, very quietly.Mycroft sighed again. “Migraine, almost certainly. A certain amount of hypersensitivity. Very occasionally, a day or so of mild synesthesia. It’s a form of...rebound, I suppose you would say. A violent cascade of the sensations he’s forcibly suppressed.”“Jesus,” Anthea breathed, before she could get her mouth under control.“Just so,” Mycroft said.
Mycroft
This was a bad idea. This was a bad idea. This was…
Mycroft’s conscience was being spectacularly unhelpful. While normally he could enforce an iron control over all unnecessary thoughts (including any uncharacteristic misgivings), they were now breaking through, sending vivid flashbacks of his brother’s last foray into this arena. It was both troubling and frustrating—as was typical of such musings, they served no purpose, and diverted energy from managing the current situation.He was relieved, as he and Sherlock stepped to the right-hand wings in response to the chimes indicating it was time, to see Izzie hurrying towards them from across the stage, ruffling the closed stage curtains as he passed in front of the orchestra.The old man took in Sherlock’s silent stance, blinked, and turned to Mycroft. “Is he alright?” he asked, brow furrowed in concern.“Yes,” Mycroft lied. Well, exaggerated. “He…for performances like this one, he uses certain mental disciplines that are effective but require him to attain mental distance. I hope you understand.” And he did, honestly—the last thing they needed was for this caring man to decide that Sherlock was physically or mentally incapable of continuing.Izzie nodded, still looking unconvinced but giving them the benefit of the doubt. “Is his sister here?” he asked, looking around as if Anthea were lurking somewhere unseen.“She is,” Mycroft said. “Out front. I stayed backstage to help William prepare.”Izzie reached out and fretfully petted Sherlock’s tuxedo-covered shoulder; the sleeves of the jacket were cut ever-so-slightly too short to heighten the impression of extreme youth. “I will be here, William,” he said softly. “Right here. I know you will do your best.” Then he nodded to Mycroft and turned back to speak with the conductor, both of them frowning but taking no adverse action.Sherlock seemed to rouse slightly; evidently the movement of the conductor was one of the cues he was still able to respond to. He looked dazedly at Mycroft momentarily before turning and slowly walking to the front of the stage to begin the tuning phase with the orchestra. Mycroft could do nothing more but step back into the wings and wait, arms wrapped tightly around himself. Izzie drifted back over to silently stand at Mycroft’s side.Too soon thereafter, the conductor nodded to the stagehands. The curtain rose, and Sherlock lifted his bow into place. It was time.
Anthea
The house lights dimmed as the stage curtain lifted. Anthea had to suppress a sudden surge of nausea; she was torn between wanting to see Sherlock do well, and wanting to sweep him back to the hotel and wrap him in a warm duvet for a week or so. Because, as the rising curtain exposed him to view, her friend looked like someone on his way to the gallows: deathly pale, those pale eyes the only hint of colour on his face, an unfocused look that nonetheless held a hint of fear. She was very, very afraid this wouldn’t end well, especially after hearing Mycroft’s tale of Sherlock’s last attempt.Beside her, Ollie gave a tiny little moan. “He looks like crap,” he whispered. “Terrified crap.”That, oddly enough, helped. “I’m not sure how you can terrify crap,” she snorted.“Then give me a better description,” Ollie muttered, crossing his arms huffily across his chest.Just then, the television cameras to each side whirred into motion, additional sets of searingly bright lights illuminating the stage. Sherlock gave a tiny, visible shudder but turned his head determinedly towards the conductor and nodded sharply. The conductor raised his baton, gave a sharp look across the orchestra, and waited. Sherlock nodded once again, set his bow on the strings, and they were off.Anthea realized, as the slower, lyrical portion of the introductory sequences flowed on, that she was holding her breath. Sherlock was swaying with the music; it was beautiful, a trifle wild, almost floridly romantic. Anyone who thought of Sherlock as cold needed but to see this to know how wrong they were. And then he launched into the flaring, dancing, rapid-fire section, as the orchestra rushed to keep up, the sound echoing across the hall. The players were swaying in their chairs, leaning into the music for the pure joy of it. The conductor, when Anthea could see flashes of his face, bore a broad grin as his arm swung almost violently to keep pace.And then suddenly, almost shockingly, it was over. Sherlock held his bow in place momentarily before his arm dropped bonelessly to his side. The audience erupted into cheers around Anthea and Ollie, who belatedly launched to their feet with their neighbors. On stage, the orchestra joined them, as Sherlock gave a quick, jerky bow, then another. Then Izzie came out of the wings, held Sherlock’s hand while they both bowed again, and the old man gently steered Sherlock off-stage as the audience continued to clap.Anthea poked Ollie, clapping still. “Let’s go,” she hissed. “We need to get backstage so we can get Sherlock out of here.”“Oh,” Ollie said, looking oddly guilty. “Sorry—got a bit caught up there.” Then he grinned. “He’s really good, isn’t he? Very passionate. I’ll never let him live it down.”“Brat,” Anthea sighed, as they headed quickly down the aisle.
Mycroft
Relief had rendered Mycroft momentarily weak in the knees. His brother had managed it, and not devolved into mental and emotional chaos.Well, not yet anyway. Which thought was the impetus that got Mycroft moving to intercept Izzie as the two came offstage.As he met Sherlock, the house lights suddenly came up, and the boy gave a visible flinch, his eyes closing to slits involuntarily. Sensation returning back online, then. Which would be followed, all too quickly, by hypersensitivity. They needed to be gone from here, quite quickly.As Mycroft smiled diplomatically at Izzie and gently wrestled Sherlock’s unprotesting arm away from the man, he was gratified to see Anthea and Ollie enter from the back entrance.“Will!” Anthea said with exaggerated glee, trotting up to clasp Sherlock to her chest. “That was glorious!” She ignored the fact that Sherlock was looking at her dazedly while beginning to try to edge backwards—he never liked to be touched when he was like this. Ollie had picked up Sherlock’s instrument case from the storage room, and reached out to take the bow and violin from the boy’s loose grip and tuck them carefully inside. Anthea ruffled Sherlock’s curls before releasing him, ignoring his unfocused gaze in favour of latching her attention onto Izzie.“It was great, wasn’t it?” she chirped, as behind her Ollie handed the violin case to Mycroft and went back to the storage room for their coats.Izzie beamed, rubbing Sherlock’s now lightly-trembling shoulders. “Yes, it was,” he said. “You should be very proud of him.” He paused, a frown moving over his features. “Is he—is there something wrong, Will?” he continued, trying and failing to catch Sherlock’s eye.“No,” Mycroft said, taking Sherlock’s coat from Ollie and starting to wrestle the boy’s uncooperative arms into the sleeves. “He undertakes some mental disciplines to manage the stress and stimuli, and it takes a while for him to throw it off. I understand you have other autistic students; I’m sure you understand.”Sherlock had begun to tremble harder, his hands noticeably shaking. “Yes,” Izzie said uncertainly. “But…this seems rather extreme,” he said, trailing off.Mycroft gave him an austere smile. “Yes,” he said, “but it’s the only way he can perform. He’ll be fine tomorrow, I’m sure,” he concluded, turned his brother gently but firmly towards the door, and herded them all out. By the time they reached the taxi Anthea had dashed out to get, things were devolving quickly. The light trembling Sherlock had been exhibiting was now full-body tremors, rattling his teeth and shaking his hands like leaves in a high breeze. Anthea climbed in first, as Ollie flipped down the rear-facing jump seat. Mycroft carefully guided his brother in, the other two tucking arms and legs in as he went. Then Mycroft climbed in, closed the door, and they were off.If wasn’t far, thankfully, but traffic was quite heavy with the departing audience members, as well as the typical evening Parisian traffic. As Sherlock surfaced more and more, he became increasingly distressed—the lights and noise assaulted him, and he flinched and jerked repeatedly, finally moving his trembling hands to twist into his hair and closing his eyes. Anthea, in a moment of inspiration, fished her soft cashmere scarf from around her neck, folded it quickly into two connected pads, and pushed them onto Sherlock’s ears, moving his hands to hold them in place. The boy froze at the contact momentarily, but then slowly listed over, hands still in place, to lean against her shoulder. “Hurts,” he moaned, very quietly.Mycroft winced and resisted the urge to tell the driver to hurry; they were, at most, another 5 minutes to the hotel, and he had already made sure he had Sherlock’s migraine medication at the ready in his traveling medical kit. By the time they pulled up in front and Ollie paid the driver, Sherlock was ashen, pupils slightly uneven and balance minimal at best. He managed to walk as far as the lift, but then slumped heavily against Mycroft, who laced an arm around his waist and held on.They staggered through the door of their suite; Mycroft didn’t stop, just hauled a near-inert Sherlock all the way to his bedroom and laid him carefully on the bed. The boy moaned at the sensation but laid still, as if afraid to move. “Go get ice,” Mycroft told Ollie, very quietly. Then he turned to Anthea and gestured for her to follow him back into the lounge. “Go get a flannel or two from the en suite and run the coldest water you can over one of them, and put it over his eyes,” he told her. “I’m getting his medicine—I want to get the injection done before he starts vomiting, if possible.” Anthea grimaced and went.It was, in the end, rather better of a night than Mycroft had expected. Ten minutes after Sherlock was injected and tucked under a flannel-wrapped ice pack, he was largely asleep, the trembling subsiding, muscles relaxing. After a further ten minutes of sitting on the bed listening to his brother’s breathing go slow and steady, Mycroft rose, stretched, and went to the lounge, leaving the bedroom door ajar just in case.“Well?” Anthea asked from her place draped across the sofa. Ollie, hearing the noise, popped his head out of his bedroom as well.“He’ll be fine,” Mycroft said. The others looked as relieved as he felt. Ollie wandered over to a room service cart that had materialized in Mycroft’s absence, picked up a glass of something dark and alcoholic and pressed it into his hand. “He won’t be at his best tomorrow, but it’s a rest day anyway.” He dropped onto the sofa, let himself lean back and close his eyes.Ollie waved a hand towards the cart. “Nibbles, if you want any,” he said, and plopped into a comfortable armchair. “So what happens next?"Mycroft sipped what proved to be a very good whiskey before answering. “The results will be announced tomorrow at noon,” he said, rising to go look over the offerings on the cart and carry a packet of crisps back to the sofa. “If…well. Assuming Sherlock wins, we will have two days off in Paris, then travel on to Interlaken, in Switzerland, on Wednesday. If not, we will have to decide whether to continue on this case or turn it over to an outside team. We would have no reason to remain here either way--we could hardly operate undercover, under the circumstances.”“I’m not sure if I hope he wins or not,” Anthea said, and Ollie nodded in agreement. “This was…it can’t possibly be good for him to do this.”“No,” Mycroft said, “I suspect it is not. It’s likely one of the few wise decisions he ever made, to not continue as a professional musician.” He took a ruminative sip of his whiskey before continuing. “It’s nonetheless a pity. He loves it so.” And caught himself up abruptly, feeling his face heat—he was not given to such flights of fancy. He must be more tired than he realized. He stood, straightening his clothes and dropping the unopened crisps on the coffee table. “Let’s go to bed. I think we could all use an early night.” And with that he gathered the remaining shreds of his dignity about him and headed off to his solitary room downstairs.
Ollie
All things considered, Ollie figured they had come through rather well. Sherlock had been startlingly good; though the aftermath had been unpleasant, once he was dosed and tucked into bed he stayed there, quiet as a lamb, all night. Ollie had volunteered to stay on the sofa in the living room just in case, but never heard his “patient” stir.He definitely “stirred” come morning, though.“What are you doing there?” snapped an irritable voice, coming from somewhere above Ollie’s head, currently snuggled comfortably into one of the soft pillows at the end of the couch. Before he could stop himself, Ollie had rolled briskly off and into a fighting position, hearing Anthea snicker from the doorway of her bedroom.“I was asleep, after standing watch all night over your delicate form,” Ollie snapped back. “You’re welcome.” Sherlock looked tired and sounded, well, cranky, but seemed otherwise unharmed.“No one asked you to stay on the couch,” Sherlock sniffed. “I don’t need a childminder.”“Says who?” Ollie said darkly, and went to order breakfast. It was, to use the technical term, a crap morning. By the time eleven rolled around, Ollie wanted to strangle everyone, including himself. Mycroft was anxious but wouldn’t allow himself to show it, which meant he spent three hours obsessively reading through their intelligence reports and asking the same questions seven different ways, acting offended when the answers didn’t change. Anthea was shirty because Mycroft had snapped at her when she suggested that he take a break and eat breakfast, leading to her stomping into her bedroom and staying there. Sherlock was mildly ill, wouldn’t eat, but whinged every thirty minutes that he was hungry, requesting some new food item for him to reject once it was produced.It reminded Ollie of minding his many siblings, only without the authority of being the oldest.Finally, finally, it was time to get dressed and go to the awards session, which would be followed by the winners’ luncheon. Sherlock, still whinging, trudged off to get dressed. Mycroft would meet them there; he wanted to go badger the surveillance team one more time. Anthea finally came out of her room, dressed to the nines and still shirty. Ollie sighed and went to get a taxi ordered. The venue, when they arrived, was crowded and noisy, camera crews at the ready and lights glaring. Sherlock shuddered and curled into himself, edging over to keep the others between himself and the bulk of the crowd. Mycroft huffed and used his height and long arms to push a bit of open space around him, enabling their group to sidle forward through the performance hall doors and into seats near the front. The stage curtains were closed, but motion and rustling behind them indicated the crew were prepping for the announcements to be made shortly.After what seemed like far too long, the curtains slowly opened, revealing long tables arranged on either side of a podium. Seated at the tables were the mentors, officials, and spokespeople for PEEPS, the latter group wearing rather aggressive smiles, like telly announcers. As the audience rustled in anticipation, a tall, distinguished-looking man strode onstage from the wings and stepped up to the podium.“Welcome,” he boomed, in a voice that indicated to Ollie he’d had considerable operatic training. “After an exciting few days of performance, PEEPS is now ready to announce those contestants who have qualified to progress to this year’s competition finals in Switzerland. One reminder: immediately following this presentation, we will all progress to the competition luncheon, which is open to all contestants and their families. The winners will be placed at special tables; please meet up with your mentors for information about that before proceeding to the banquet hall.”Anthea leaned over to speak softly in Ollie’s ear. “Because God forbid any ‘loser’ sits in a winner’s seat.”Ollie snickered. “Cold, Holder,” he said. “Very cold.”Mycroft turned and gave them both a minatory eye; Anthea rolled her eyes and turned her attention back to the stage.The awards began with the less-critical trophies: Best Young Artist (under 14); Audience Favourite, chosen by votes polled by phone (and never one of the grand champions, who were removed from the vote totals—the winner’s face fell accordingly, since this was basically a consolation prize). Soon enough, though, the category winner announcements began; Ollie noticed Sherlock, on the other side of Mycroft, stiffen and lean forward with an intense look on his face.Voice came first, and went to a thin blond boy who dashed up to the stage and tripped over his feet on the way up the steps. A ripple of laughter ran through the audience and the boy visibly flushed, but the beaming smile remained firmly on his face.The next award, the “all other” class, went to a tiny little girl who looked twelve. “Oboe,” Anthea whispered. “Very, very good. Heard her practicing the other day.”The Strings winner was last. Ollie was aware of Sherlock essentially vibrating in his chair, to the point where Mycroft reached over and put a hand firmly on one jerking knee. When the announcer looked at his list, smiled, and said “William Scott,” Sherlock shot to his feet, white as bleached linen, before jerkily working down the aisle to head up to the stage.Ollie had assumed that was the final announcement; Sherlock had joined Izzie and the other winners and mentors on-stage, and Ollie was hoping they’d shortly be on their way to the promised lunch. He was amused to notice that Sherlock had a broad grin that he would almost certainly later deny, and was planning to dig around for photos for future blackmail use. He was surprised, then, to see the announcer step back up to the podium and hold up one other slip of paper.“As our final award, PEEPS always designates a First Alternate competitor, a very top performer among those who didn’t quite reach the level of the Grand Class winners but are nonetheless eminently qualified to compete in the event one of those winners proves unable to continue in the competition. This Alternate will travel with us to Switzerland, and stand ready to step in at need,” he said. “And this year’s First Alternate is… Claus Graham.”
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Mogwai—Vengeful Chinese spirit or demon
Anthea
“Well, fuck,” Ollie breathed beside her, and flinched when she elbowed him viciously.“Children,” she hissed, jerking her head at the crowd of juveniles around them.The tips of Ollie’s ears were suddenly pink. “Oh,” he said, looking around furtively. “Um…crumpets,” he said, somewhat louder, and scowled when Anthea laughed.“Shut up,” he said. “I panicked, all right?”Mycroft leaned over, eyebrows lifted high. “Can we go now? I would prefer to get settled at our table before they serve dessert.” Anthea, still feeling a little miffed with him from the morning, just nodded and pushed Ollie towards the aisle.They headed up towards the foot of the stage, where Sherlock stood, still beaming, next to Izzie and the other winners. At last, the last photo was taken, and the contingent on-stage headed down the steps to meet with their families and supporters who would be joining them for lunch.By the time he joined them, Sherlock had managed to contain the smile, and was now overcompensating in reaction. “Can we go now?” he said, frowning. “Izzie told me where our seats are. I’d just as soon get this over with; my head still hurts.”And it probably did, Anthea thought, but it also gave Sherlock an excellent excuse for being unsociable. Which meant the rest of them would likely have to do most of the “meet-and-greet” that went along with this kind of event. The only “up” side was that, since Peeps believed him to be 15, their expectations of his social skills probably wouldn’t be all that high.They went through the large open doors at the rear of the performance hall and directly across the walkway into a richly-decorated ballroom, set with large round tables at one end. Izzie, standing by one of the tables at the farthest point, waved cheerily at their entry.They hurried over and located the name cards beside each plate; someone, possibly Izzie, had ensured that even Ollie had a place, which was nice of him—Ollie had half-expected to have to spend the meal standing along the back wall in a threatening pose, and banging down a belated lunch afterward. That was the good side.The bad side was sitting on the far side of the table, a self-satisfied smirk on his face. Sherlock, just ahead of Anthea, visibly stiffened. He didn’t say anything, but whatever appeared on his face must have alarmed Izzie. “Claus’ placement entitles him to a spot at the winners’ table,” he said hesitantly. He clearly saw that something had occurred between the two boys, though he was unsure of the details.“Rules are rules, one supposes,” Mycroft said stiffly, and sat down next to Claus so that Sherlock was forced to move to Anthea’s far side. Mycroft picked up Sherlock’s place card and exchanged it for the one at Sherlock’s new seat. Ollie blinked but said nothing more.It was an agonizing meal. Sherlock said nothing unless directly addressed. He managed to respond politely enough to the chatter of the Peeps officials also seated at their table, but volunteered nothing on his own. Anthea would have claimed he was concentrating on his meal, but for the fact that he actually ate virtually none of it. Mycroft managed to maintain cordial conversation with the table at large, and Anthea herself put in her bit. Ollie, though—Ollie sat and glared daggers at Claus, while the younger boy smiled and acting wholly unconcerned.Under the circumstances, that was a mistake on Claus’ part. Ollie took it as a challenge.They had no sooner settled in, waiters dropping salads in front of each diner, when Ollie went on the attack. “So, Claus,” he said, “how’s it feel to lose two years in a row? I mean, this is your last year of eligibility, right? That must hurt.” He capped that little speech off with a condescending smirk, which had Izzie frowning from the far side of the table.Claus made a dismissive moue. “Ah, well,” he said, “I gave it my best. And there’s still an opportunity here—I mean, what if Will has another migraine? Or Annabeth”(the oboist, Anthea’s subsconscious supplied) “comes down with a chill?” He looked earnestly at Sherlock, who ignored him in favour of picking at his salad plate. “Not that I would want that to happen, you understand.” An unidentified older man sitting to Claus’ right frowned, but said nothing. Anthea thought she’d seen him once before; perhaps his uncle? That sounded familiar.There was a brief pause in the conversation as the waiters removed the salads and replaced them with plates of roast beef and potatoes, with one staff member following slowly behind with a gravy boat to sauce each plate. Ollie, though, wasn’t prepared to let it go.“But it wouldn’t break your heart, if you got back into the competition that way, right?” Ollie sneered, once all of the plates were in place. “I dunno, though—if it were me, I wouldn’t want to win if it wasn’t on my own merits.” He dropped his chin and looked up through his lashes. “And, well, it’s now been proven twice that you can’t do that, after all.”Both Claus and the older man bristled. Mycroft had had enough; he poked Anthea briskly in the side under the table, since in his current role he couldn’t very well order Ollie to do anything publicly.Anthea sighed but complied, turning to her “bodyguard” and looking down her nose. “I think that’s enough, Oliver,” she said stiffly. “You can go back to the room now; I won’t need you until later.”Ollie nodded and stood willingly enough, murmuring an inaudible “apology” to Anthea. He turned to walk away just as the waiter with the gravy boat came up behind him; Ollie moved slightly to the side, stumbled (theatrically, Anthea realized)—and dumped the waiter, and the sauce, directly into Claus Graham’s lap. Mycroft was livid, though he couldn’t say anything aloud. Oh, Ollie had apologized (again, theatrically), of course, and “helped” the waiter off of Claus before the uncle roughly shoved Ollie away, cursing in German that at least half of those at the table unfortunately understood. Sherlock snickered and received a chastising look from Izzie, which proved surprisingly effective. Anthea sent Ollie back to the hotel in disgrace, while the rest of them finished off their lunch in near-silence. Claus, after wiping himself down with a handful of serviettes, devoted himself to delivering occasional subtle digs at Sherlock that the boy completely ignored, while Izzie frowned at both of them and Claus’ uncle scowled.Their subsequent return to the hotel wasn’t anywhere near as quiet. “What on Earth was he thinking?” Mycroft fumed in the taxi. “He’ll be lucky if they don’t file a formal request to have him removed from the premises. And, annoying though he is, we need him to complete this mission.”Anthea reluctantly answered. “I…he told me he had a run-in with Claus at the club when he collected Sherlock,” she said. “I think he’s still rather angry about it.”“I don’t understand,” Sherlock said irritably from the far corner of the taxi. “What’s he trying to do? Protect my honour?” His headache was still an issue, clearly.That, for some reason, had the effect of making Mycroft deflate a bit. “No,” he sighed. “He’s your friend, and dislikes the boy’s machinations against you. I can sympathize, I suppose, but indulging in this way is counter-productive at best.”“He’s my fellow team member,” Sherlock grumbled. “It’s not his responsibility to deal with Claus. Claus is now largely irrelevant.” But Anthea noticed that he didn’t actually deny that Ollie was also his friend.“Be that as it may,” Mycroft continued, “Oliver and I will be having a conversation about this. But I will also expend some resources in investigating what led to the Alternate winner traveling to the final competition venue. While such a designation has always been in the competition’s structure, historically the Alternate simply remained potentially ‘on-call’. They would be summoned to the final venue if needed, which has only happened once in the past 15 years. So it is curious that Mr. Graham will be travelling with us; why the change? Considering what we know about his…inclinations in attempting to manipulate the results, I have to wonder if he’s been assisted by some insider. He’s a child, after all. An intelligent, devious child certainly, but still a child, who would normally have no influence on the adult officials of the competition.” He frowned; Anthea glanced over at Sherlock and was amused to see the identical expression on the other Holmes. When they opened the door to the hotel suite, they found Ollie pacing back and forth, wearing a rather shame-faced look. Before Mycroft could say a work, Ollie spoke.“I’m sorry, alright?” he said. “I know I shouldn’t have, and it won’t happen again. But he’s an evil little shit, and there’s something about him that just sets off all sorts of alarm bells in my head.” He paused, then gave a brief, sly grin. “Next time I’ll just arrange for him to have an ‘accident’. One that can’t be traced back to me.”Mycroft, surprisingly, was caught out in a tiny smirk. “Tempting, certainly,” he said, before wrestling his face back into a stern mien. “But if we have any further similar issues I will send you home, Oliver. And you will find yourself transcribing field reports, in longhand, for a very long time indeed.”Ollie gave a jerky little nod. “Fair enough,” he sighed. The evening passed quietly enough for Anthea’s taste, after the drama of the preceding days. A large quantity of surveillance material had been dropped off, as well as investigatory material that had the team’s eyebrows rising as they read. Over a room service dinner, they compared notes and speculated.“It’s clear that someone has thrown a great deal of money at this competition—money that isn’t visible in the organization’s standardized books,” Mycroft said as he picked at his salad. “I have noticed that the travel budget has increased by 30% over the past five years, but in reviewing the actual ‘consumables’ involved—hotel rooms, train tickets, venue bookings—the actual hard expenditures have only increased 15% in the same period. It’s perplexing for two reasons: first, that no one is apparently auditing the organization’s books from the ground up, and second, that there is no indication of any of the funding sources. Everything is accounted for as if the funds are coming directly from the Peeps’ main operating account, but that’s clearly not true—when you check the money trail, you find that what is being disbursed from that dedicated account represents only about 85% of the whole. And the money going into the Peeps coffers is simply indicated as ‘donations’, with only minimal documentation of the donors—and then only when such donors require a receipt for tax purposes.”Anthea thought about that. “So neither side of the transaction has any kind of cross-checks in place—the vendors only care about their particular bailiwick, and the accountants only track the Peeps operating account, and the only people looking at the overall profit-and-loss statements are the CPAs who do the final engrossed financial statement a year or so after the fact. None of the individuals involved have any reason to compare notes, since from their respective viewpoints nothing major has changed—the influx of ‘new’ money has been relatively gradual and could be explained, if anyone asked a question, as an expansion of the number of participants and officials. There’s no one actually reviewing the total amount of money changing hands and calling attention to the fact that there are other, unidentified accounts moving money around under the aegis of the competition, because no one told the public auditors that there was only one official authorized account, apparently,” she said, working through the issue in her head as she spoke.“Which is both stupid and lazy,” Sherlock said from his position on the sofa, an icepack over his eyes.“But not entirely unexpected,” Mycroft said. “Peeps has a long-term reputation for being above reproach. There have been no indications of any kind of fiscal mismanagement, and no one appears to be enriching themselves directly from the charity’s coffers. It’s likely no one would ever notice the discrepancy in the number of accounts referenced, or the amount of money flowing through, unless a specific question was raised.”“So, do we have any data on the source of these ‘other accounts’?” Ollie asked. “Anything on what that extra money is being used for?”“Not yet,” Anthea, said, flipping through the many pages of financial printouts next to her plate. “The only transactions we can find have money exiting the ‘extra’ account and moving to one of several accounts in Switzerland. Which are, of course, anonymous and protected by the Swiss’ obsessive devotion to secrecy.” She closed the packet and tossed the papers on the floor in disgust. “And no indication of who was receiving the money, or for what.”“But it’s clear that someone in the Peeps organization is ‘dirty’, for lack of a better word,” Sherlock drawled, sitting up and pitching the icepack onto the floor. “And the one thing that occurs as a means of identifying that person is checking when the ‘new’ account first appears in the financials, and seeing who entered the Peeps hierarchy at the same time. Seems quite straightforward to me.” He rose and walked stiffly towards his bedroom.Anthea and Mycroft looked at each other. Mycroft, after a minute, sighed and nodded. “And of course he’s absolutely right, but that hadn’t occurred to me before he said it. I am occasionally convinced my parents conceived Sherlock in order to keep my ego in check.”“Someone has to do it,” Sherlock called, before closing the bedroom door with a thump. Thankfully, no formal notice was taken of Ollie’s faux pas, though Izzie did bring a strongly-worded verbal caution by the following morning, when he stopped by to check on Sherlock’s plans for their two “off” days before the trip to Switzerland.“He must not have any further interaction with Claus Graham,” Izzie said to Anthea, while Ollie stood, stone-faced, behind her chair. “I don’t know what happened between the two of them, which is probably as well. But I will also do my best to kept Claus and Will separated as well.” He shot a glance at Sherlock, who sat on the sofa, pretending to take no notice. “I’m aware that something happened there. I wish you would tell me, Will, but I understand if you feel you cannot. Just understand that, if Mr. Graham oversteps, I’m on your side, all right? I know Claus can be…aggressive. I have told him I will not tolerate his bullying of younger competitors, and that includes you.”Sherlock nodded without looking up. Anthea felt the need to step into the breach after the silence had stretched just a bit too long. “Thank you,” she said, and she meant it. She felt better at having to continue to “neglect” Sherlock, knowing Izzie would be there.They put that neglect into play later that morning, with Anthea making a point of letting the old man know that she was leaving “Will” to his own devices while she and Ollie went shopping. “I mean, he’d be bored to tears, and he’s perfectly safe in broad daylight,” she said blithely. “And I’ll never turn down a chance to shop in Paris.” She blew an air-kiss at Sherlock, glowering from the door to the suite as Izzie watched from the hallway, where she’d encountered the mentor on their way out.
Mycroft
In reality Sherlock and Mycroft had other plans—they spent an enjoyable day at their grandmother’s pied-a-terre in a fashionable quarter of Paris, carefully ignoring all of her pointed questions on what exactly they were doing in Paris. The old lady was rather forceful about it—she was all too aware of the family “business”, and her eldest had told her all about Sherlock’s enlistment the previous year.“Rudy wouldn’t fuss if you gave me a synopsis,” she coaxed. “He trusts his mother.” The implication being, of course, that her grandchildren were not affording her the same treatment.Mycroft rolled his eyes at such blatant manipulation. “And I can only imagine his reaction if I were foolish enough to follow his example,” he said tartly. “Or did he ask you to test me, Grandmère?” Because that was entirely possible, after all. Likely, in fact.His grandmother pinkened, but smiled. “Ah, well,” she said. “You know me too well, petit. I told him it wouldn’t work.” She smiled and turned to Sherlock, currently attacking a plate of his favourite iced biscuits. “I should have used Lockie instead.”Sherlock raised himself up in offense. “So, I’m an easy mark, then?” he snapped.“Compared to your brother, mon ange, of course you are,” Grandmère said fondly. “It will be years before you are able to resist me, if I truly wish to cozen you. Remember this, the next time we meet, and we’ll test it, oui?” She laughed at Sherlock’s resultant scowl. They had quite a good dinner; Grandmère rarely cooked herself, but was on a first-name basis with the maître d’ at any number of fine restaurants, all of whom would cheerfully (and illicitly) deliver offerings to Madame’s flat at any time. “I’ve ingratiated myself enough that I do believe I could get the meals for free, if I had a need to,” she said, sounding justifiably smug.They left at half-nine, Grandmère’s driver waiting patiently at the kerb while they made their goodbyes. After the brothers each enveloped her in a hug, she kissed Mycroft’s cheek, and pinched Sherlock’s just to get a rise out of him. “You’re so easy, child,” she chuckled, as Sherlock hissed and backed away. She waved fondly as the car spun out into traffic.Mycroft confessed silently to himself that he adored his grandmother. It was quite inconvenient at times. They let themselves into the suite quietly; it wasn’t all that late—just a bit past ten—but that didn’t mean that no one had opted for an early night.As it happened, though, their caution was unnecessary. Ollie met them in the lounge, a sheaf of printouts in his hand. “So, good news: we have some information on what’s really going on. Bad news: well. The information is, um, bad news. So to speak.”
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Lemures—Spirits of the unburied dead exorcised from homes in early Roman religious rites
Mycroft
Sherlock dropped onto the sofa with a thump, as Anthea came out of her room to join them, looking concerned.“Define ‘bad news’,” Mycroft said, taking a seat at the table.Ollie waved the papers again. “In the sense that you’re not going to be happy about our continued involvement, based on what you said before,” he said. “Because this is not something safe and boring.”Mycroft felt his eyebrows rise of their own accord. “Do tell,” he said, looking to Anthea for confirmation, while Sherlock reached out and took the sheaf of printouts from Ollie.“Someone is running guns using Peeps’ resources, the analysts think,” Anthea said. “But not in the conventional sense. I mean, we’re not talking illicit handguns or assault rifles.”Mycroft repressed a sigh. “Because that would be too easy,” he said. “But if not that…”Sherlock picked up the thread, flipping rapidly through the papers. “Someone is lifting weapons from NATO and other ‘dark site’ weapons research facilities,” he said, as Ollie nodded. “Cutting edge, dangerous things. And someone within Peeps is, if not helping, at least looking the other way when these items are blended in among the Peeps paraphernalia being shipped between venues.”Mycroft could see the pieces fall into place in his head. “The competition venues are within major cities that have weapons sites, very secret weapons sites, within transport distance. It’s possible, depending on the people involved and the influence they can bring to bear, that the venues are actually chosen with that purpose in mind—many European capitals have such sites relatively nearby, after all. When the competition begins to move between sites, the thieves bring their gleanings to a warehouse, presumably one that’s near the main train station, and shift them into shipping containers with Peeps labels, in addition to some form of identification for their own people on the receiving end. They then shift them to the appropriate station platforms, where everything gets loaded onto the Peeps baggage cars along with the larger instruments—harps, pianos and the like. The crates, because of the Peeps labels, get minimal Customs examinations at best--at most, they would be sniffed by drugs dogs. Certainly not opened and examined, unless the agents had some reason to do so. They cross the borders unnoticed, so even if the secret facility has noticed the pilfering and raised the alarm, no alerts are triggered. And, once the train reaches the next venue, the crates’ special markings mean they will be off-loaded onto specific equipment trucks and driven to the buyers’ warehouse, rather than the performance hall.” He paused. “It’s actually both simple and quite low-risk.” He looked to Ollie. “How was the scheme identified, then?”Ollie looked uncomfortable. “Um…that’s the ‘bad’ part, honestly.” He reached over to take the papers back from Sherlock, who scowled but released them. Ollie flipped towards the back. “We happened to get a heads-up from one of the other MI-6 teams, from Harriman’s group. They were tracking some Ukrainians who had made off with a batch of munitions prototypes from a Russian dark ops site, and noted that their targets had suddenly started being involved in sporadic turf wars with another group.”“Not surprising,” Mycroft said. “There’s certainly no honour among thieves, and theirs is a highly competitive field.”“Yeah,” Ollie said, “But here’s where things get sticky: one of the heads of that ‘other group’ just popped up on our own surveillance two days ago, here in Paris.” He tossed over a page of photos. “And they happened to be at lunch with two Peeps employees. Ones who manage shipping and the like.”That put rather a different perspective on things. Ollie was quite right: that made the situation rather more alarming, given the youth and lack of experience in Mycroft’s current team. International arms thieves/smugglers tended to be lethally dangerous—inclined to shoot first and ask questions never. They were ruthless, smart and paranoid, well aware that they were constantly at risk from a host of national and international enforcement agencies. To add competition between two such groups just added to the potential for disaster.Into the ensuing silence, Sherlock huffed and stood up. “So where do we go from here? Enlist another team or two? Consolidate our operation with Harriman’s team? And what, if anything, do we need to do before boarding the train for Switzerland tomorrow afternoon?”“I am currently trying to decide if we should immediately withdraw,” Mycroft said, aware he was letting annoyance thread into his tone but unable to stop it. “I will not put any of you at risk.”“But we still don’t know how the missing kids fit into the picture!” Ollie said heatedly. “Or even if they do. I mean, it would be a hell of a coincidence if it wasn’t somehow related—how likely is it that a charity organization would have not one, but two, criminal sidelines at the same time? What do we do, if we leave and let Harriman’s folks solve their little arms issue, but then another kid goes missing? We’re going to look both stupid and lazy, and pretty damn callous when you come right down to it.”Silence fell again. Finally Anthea spoke. “He’s not wrong,” she said carefully. “I mean, if it were only one or two children, we could assume they saw something they shouldn’t have, or just genuinely went missing on their own. But there are just too many for that, and it’s happening in virtually every competition.”Mycroft had the uneasy feeling that there were no “good” choices here. “I don’t believe anyone is suggesting that the search for the source of the missing children would be abandoned,” he said.“But not pursued any further during this competition,” Sherlock snapped back. “And we have no way of knowing if one of the competitors hasn’t already been chosen as this year’s ‘selection’.”And that, too, was an uncomfortable truth. One that Mycroft found himself unwilling to sweep under the figurative rug.He sighed, and looked at his group. “Though this is most certainly not a democracy, I find myself unwilling to make a unilateral decision. On that basis, then, what would be your individual ‘votes’, if you truly had one: continue with assistance, or withdraw?”Ollie, of course, spoke first. “Continue,” he said firmly. “Carefully, and with help where it’s needed. Without doing something stupid, ideally.” He paused, then grinned. “Though we know that’s sometimes harder for me than others.”Anthea smiled back. “Agreed,” she said. “We can perhaps help Harriman’s people from the inside, in trying to identify who the rotten apple within Peeps is. But let them handle the heavy lifting.”Mycroft turned to his brother, standing silently beside Ollie. “So?” he said. “You’re the one most affected here; you will have to continue with the competition, despite our involvement in the larger scheme. Are you prepared to do that?”“Nothing has changed, from my perspective,” Sherlock sniffed. “I knew all along that our ability to complete this investigation rested on my staying in the ranks of the competitors, and we’re already past the point where that’s a problem—the finals await. I think I can manage to continue for another week, after all. Just realize that my availability for anything else will be somewhat limited by the practice and rehearsal schedules.” He looked down his nose at Mycroft. “Continue,” he said. “Obviously.”Mycroft nodded. “I’m not opposed, precisely,” he said. “But I reserve judgment on the final decision until I’ve had a chance to speak with Harriman’s team. Let’s set up a call with the team leader for this evening—I don’t want to delay.”Anthea, recognizing that “let’s” was directed at her, nodded and went off to send an encoded message. Mycroft found the ensuing conversation somewhat reassuring. While it was extremely likely that Harriman’s original targets were linked with the arms sales, they were currently still ensconced in Munich, the original starting point of Peeps for Mycroft’s team. While Harriman wasn’t positive, he didn’t believe that any members of the cell had left the area. While it was unsettling that their rivals had followed the Peeps progression to Paris, there was no solid evidence that the two groups were currently engaged in active conflict. The situation was worrying, but not yet critical.After nearly an hour of discussion, Mycroft and Harriman had come to an agreement. Harriman would divide his team: half would stay in Germany and maintain surveillance on the known arms group; the other half would come to Paris early in the morning and, if the new targets left France to follow the Peeps progression to Switzerland, go there as well and maintain “eyes-on” status throughout. From Mycroft’s group, Mycroft would take the lead in a deep dive into the Peeps hierarchy—staff, liaisons, mentors—while Anthea would alternate between acting her part as Sherlock’s lackadaisical chaperone, and looking into the donors’ background. The “rat” almost certainly came from one of those two groups.Ollie was to be a “floater”—acting, as needed, as a liaison between the Harriman team members in France and, potentially, Switzerland, as security for their own team, and, much to the disgust of both of them, an “adult presence” for Sherlock on occasion. “There’s a sweeping assumption there,” Sherlock said nastily.By the time they all staggered, exhausted, to their beds, it was well past midnight and they were all longing for sleep. Sherlock had a practice session scheduled for the morning—his first run-through of the Mendelssohn. Mycroft could feel his brother’s anxiety about it, but recognized it as a necessary evil. Hopefully he could help calm things down in the practice—a room with just the two of them, a piano and Sherlock’s violin meant that neither of them could effectively hide from the other.
Sherlock
God, Sherlock was sick of pity. Well, sympathy, condescension—whatever you chose to call it, that “sincere” look from the rest of the team that said, quite clearly, that they considered him “delicate”. Which was simply a more-polite term for “defective”.The day had started well enough. With the required departure for Switzerland at 1 in mind, Mycroft had scheduled the practice session for 9, giving them plenty of time to do some real work before they needed to come back and load up for the trip. They’d opted for the main stage at the Palais—now that this phase of the competition was completed, it was currently unbooked, and the lovely Steinway grand piano on the corner of the stage had Mycroft petting its glossy black finish as if it were a particularly nice cat.The rehearsal went quite well; Mycroft knew the piano accompaniment for the Mendelssohn well enough that he didn’t really have to think about it, and could concentrate on observing Sherlock’s technique. Though not as musically gifted as Sherlock, Mycroft was nonetheless very skilled and was an invaluable source for unbiased critiques of Sherlock’s performance.They had gone through several run-throughs, fine-tuning the performance in line with Mycroft’s observations, when the back door to the wings opened, and Izzie stepped around the curtains. “I’m so glad I caught you,” he said, with a concerned look on his face. “I was…understand, William, that I had nothing to do with this, and objected rather strenuously, but was overruled.” He looked miserable—not a good sign.Mycroft stepped into the ensuing silence, since Sherlock was struggling to come up with a socially acceptable response. “What is ‘this’?” he asked, rising from the piano bench to stand beside his brother.“This evening, at the welcome dinner in Interlaken,” Izzie said. “The competition heads have been approached by the television producers. They have decided that they will be doing live, on-camera interviews with the finalists. Including William.” Now he looked apologetic. “I tried to change it—asked them to pre-record the interviews, so that everyone would have a chance to, well, re-think if they said something amiss. I even tried to force them to confirm with the contestants’ chaperones that they were OK with this, but it was pointed out that the entry paperwork specifically includes the possibility of this kind of thing, though it’s not been done in the past.”Sherlock found himself frozen in place. Because, of course, Izzie’s thinking was absolutely correct: this was Sherlock’s own personal idea of Hell, potentially played out in front of an audience of millions. In addition to the concern that he would be recognized (not that he thought that any of his school or uni compatriots actually watched shows like this), having to stand in front of the glaring production lights, play his role, act the aspiring child musician while attempting to ignore the lights, the noise, the equipment…His mental exercises allowed him to perform under these conditions, since he narrowed down his focus solely to his instrument and the orchestra. But to be able to speak spontaneously and naturally under that discipline just wasn’t possible. He would have to do this without such preparation.Sherlock was aware of Mycroft stepping into the breach again, throwing out arguments which proved to be things Izzie himself had already suggested. Sherlock, meanwhile, was standing frozen in place, trying to think of some way, short of injuring himself or withdrawing from the competition, to avoid this requirement.Soon enough Izzie, still apologizing, left them, and Mycroft bundled Sherlock into a taxi to head back to the hotel. The trip was largely silent, barring Mycroft’s huffs of irritation at the traffic. They had reached the doors of the hotel before either of them spoke.“I have to do this?” Sherlock finally asked. He knew the answer, but found himself compelled to say it nonetheless.“I fear so,” Mycroft said. “We can ask for a limited engagement—the competition already knows about your sensory issues, after all. But we’re going to have to come up with a ‘script’ for you to follow.”And that, right there, was what set Sherlock’s teeth on edge. The idea that, despite years of work to learn how to mask some of his less neurotypical traits, he would still be unaware of the potential pitfalls of this kind of public speaking, and need Mycroft’s help to get through it. By the time they walked into the hotel suite he was seething, and not bothering to hide it.Izzie had apparently come there first, since Anthea and Ollie met them at the door, with That Look on their faces. “He found you?” Anthea said, avoiding eye contact with Sherlock. Which was somewhat ironic, under the circumstances.“He did,” Mycroft replied, in a subdued tone that rasped on Sherlock’s nerves like sandpaper. “He did his best to overrule the television people, but was apparently outvoted.”“So, what do we do?” Ollie asked the room at large, as if Sherlock wasn’t empowered to decide for himself. “I mean, the chance he’ll be recognized alone is—”Sherlock had had enough. “Minimal at best, though some minor precautions are likely in order,” he snapped. “And I fail to see how you all find this so concerning. I will, as always, do what I have to.”In retrospect, that probably wasn’t the best thing to say, but Sherlock only realized that when Anthea spoke. “Can you, though?” she said. “What price will you pay?”And that, right there, was the final match to the fuse of Sherlock’s temper. “Will you stop?” he snarled. “All of you?” He turned to Mycroft. “I don’t need your help to deal with this. I don’t need a ‘script’, and if I did I’d write it myself.” Then to Ollie. “I won’t be recognized. I already have two minor modifications to my appearance in mind that will make that profoundly unlikely, which I came up with all by myself, thank you.” And finally to Anthea. “And yes, I can do this. And any price I pay is mine alone, and this mission is something I chose with my eyes open. Because, as I apparently keep having to remind each of you, I am not a child.”He stomped to his bedroom and yanked the door open, hands shaking in fury. “Now, I suggest you all stop wringing your hands and go finish packing, because we have a train to catch.” And he flung the door closed with all his might, making a satisfying crash as one of the tasteful paintings on the rear wall clattered to the ground in punctuation.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Spectre—a visible, disembodied spirit
Anthea
The train trip, surprisingly, wasn’t horrible. By the time they’d actually made it to their assigned carriage and stowed their carry-on things, Sherlock’s irritation had lulled to a minor sulk, and Mycroft had temporarily put aside his obsession with rechecking the data that had been evaluated dozens of times already. They settled quickly into their comfortable first-class compartment, thankfully empty but for them.“So, have any of you been to Interlaken before?” Ollie asked, flipping through the informational brochure that had been part of Sherlock’s travel packet. “It looks really…quaint.” That was not a compliment.Mycroft nodded. “We have,” he said, gesturing towards the silent Sherlock. “As children. Our grandmother took us one summer. It’s beautiful, but not particularly busy. The main industry is extreme sports: paragliding, paraskiing, water sports on the lakes. And of course their annual Young Performers music festival, which is, this year, replaced by Peeps.”Ollie’s eyes lit up. “Will we have time to—”“No,” Mycroft said repressively. “We will stay very close to ‘home’, for reasons that should be obvious. Fine dining is as ambitious as we will get, aside from the two scheduled activities sponsored by Peeps. My hope is that our stay here will be relatively short; I don’t know that we will even attend the finals.” He ignored Sherlock’s tiny sound from beside the window.Anthea found that surprising, honestly. “You really think this will resolve that quickly? That we’ll expose the inside man-or-woman, and the gunrunners?”“I do,” Mycroft said serenely. “On reflection, I realized two things: first, given that the Peeps transport mechanisms end at Interlaken, any further movement of instruments will break up into the contestants’ and orchestra members’ private travel arrangements back home, wherever that may be. Second, given that fact, this is likely to be the final stop for the stolen arms as well—while we can’t say for certain, it seems reasonable to assume that the buyer, or buyers, are already here, awaiting their shipments. The baggage carriages are under both physical and electronic surveillance, and will remain so. While we don’t know which crates out of roughly one hundred in the carriages are designated for the smugglers, we should be easily able to sort that out by reviewing the surveillance reports once we reach Interlaken. Our team has been instructed to track any ‘outlier’ trucks—any that pick up crates but don’t go to the music hall—to their final destination, and report back to us. If nothing else, we will shortly know ‘where’, even if we don’t yet know ‘who’.”“And you think we will be able to identify the culprits within Peeps, and find out how the missing children intersect with all of this, that quickly,” Sherlock said, making it clear he disagreed.“It’s five days,” Ollie pointed out helpfully. “Not counting today.”Mycroft sighed. “That part remains to be seen,” he said. “Once the danger from the gunrunners is removed, we can rethink our approach on that issue, unless another child goes missing in the interim.” He caught a glimpse of Anthea’s face at that—she wasn’t sure what it had done, but suspected it wasn’t pleasant. “And yes, I am aware how unfeeling that sounds. It was not meant precisely that way; simply an acknowledgment that we still have virtually nothing to go on in that area.”Anthea thought, unhappily, about what that implied. “Does that mean that we may well leave here, having solved the smuggling part of this case—a part we didn’t know about when we started--and never resolve the missing kids? I mean, what happens then?”“We can’t,” Sherlock said flatly. “We will never have another chance to infiltrate as we have this year. What are the odds that we could put together another team like this one next year? Are there other agents at or near our age? Because I strongly suspect the answer is ‘no’. And we know, because it was demonstrated exhaustively before we were tapped for this project, that a further external investigation will turn up exactly nothing. Again.”And he was, of course, quite right. Mycroft, after a moment’s pause, nodded slowly.“I can’t disagree,” he said. “The best thing we can do is to redouble our efforts to identify the smuggling participants quickly, so that we can then give all of our time to the missing children.” He looked at them soberly. “It may not be enough. I fear we must be prepared for that eventuality.”“And just consider anyone that goes missing this year a sacrificial lamb, then?” Sherlock sneered. “What a pity.” And with that he rose, yanked open the compartment door, and stalked off down the corridor.Mycroft closed his eyes. Anthea reached out and touched his shoulder briefly, then nodded to Ollie, who gave a mocking salute and headed off after Sherlock. The rest of the train trip, once Ollie had soothed and retrieved a still-testy Sherlock, was uneventful. They reached Interlaken, after a longish stretch of gaping at glorious mountain valleys and cascading waterfalls, by just before 6, and were hustled to waiting buses to take them to the hotel. They were booked into the Victoria Jungfrau, a decadent Victorian confection of a building that positively screamed “opulence”—a combination of historical charm and modern convenience. They were pleased to see that their accommodations this time consisted of three linked suites, the largest of which included a beautiful parlour and dining table area.“I could get used to this,” Sherlock sighed, as he sank into a plush velvet couch. “A room for everyone, no Ollie constantly on the sofa, and no less than four restaurants.” He paused. “Well, two of them are bars which serve food. But very good food, apparently.”“I’m just imagining the budget office staff, when they receive the bill,” Mycroft huffed. “Accommodations for you and Anthea are picked up by Peeps, but the ‘add-ons’ for Ollie and I will not go over well.” He smirked over at his brother. “I did warn them, you know, so they can hardly claim it’s a surprise. I suspect they were hoping, in their heart of hearts, that you wouldn’t make it this far.”“They’re accountants. They have no hearts,” Sherlock shot back.“Touché,” Mycroft said. They didn’t really have very long to wallow, sadly; the welcome dinner was at 8, and they needed to help Sherlock prepare for his interview afterward. Anthea watched Sherlock slowly spiral into anxiety the closer the time came for their departure. By the time they stood in the lift on their way down to the lobby, he was indulging in his tiniest of stims, rubbing his index finger repeatedly down the length of his folded thumb.“You could make yourself sick,” Ollie offered from the rear of the lift. “I mean, it’s a dinner. You hurl on the table, I guarantee they’ll let you off the hook.”Sherlock gave a nervous little bark of laughter, but said nothing. They rode the rest of way downstairs in glum silence.They were met in the lobby by a smiling Izzie. “So, are your rooms acceptable?” he asked. “I must confess, the hotel is rather above those I typically stay at.”“I want to take the shower home to meet my mother,” Ollie said with a grin.Izzie laughed. “I’ll take that as a ‘yes’, then.” He looked over at the pale, silent Sherlock. “I know you are nervous, William. I don’t know yet when the interviewers will get to you; as soon as I know the order I’ll come tell you, yes?”Sherlock gave a hesitant nod without making eye contact. Izzie, thankfully, was neither offended nor surprised. “Go on, find your table,” he said, making shooing motions towards the ballroom. “I will join you after I speak with the journalists.”The ballroom was an explosion of flowers, gilt, Rococo frescoes and rose velvet wall hangings. They looked around as they entered, blinking. “How…colourful,” Mycroft finally managed. Anthea struggled not to laugh; Ollie didn’t bother, and tittered away until she poked him roughly in the side.“Behave,” she hissed. “It’s pretty, even if it is a bit over the top. And you’re just the hired help, remember? Look awed and grateful.” Ollie obligingly put on an appropriately puppy-eyed look, gazing around in a manner that implied he was either impressed, or mildly concussed. Anthea sighed and let it go.The dinner started well enough. The Peeps elite gave a few thankfully short speeches, then retired to their reserved table for the meal. The finalists and their chaperones and mentors were sorted between two separate round tables; Claus, thankfully, was not at theirs. They were served platters of tiny starters, followed by a progression of dishes ranging from rich soups to glazed chicken to fruit plates.Izzie returned midway through the starter course and settled into his chair with a relieved sigh. “The interviews will be held after the meal,” he said as he draped his serviette across his lap. “Angelique (the tiny oboe player, Anthea’s memory supplied) is first; Claus is next, then Phillippe (“voice”, Mycroft said quietly), “and William is last. None of them should last more than 10 minutes.” He glanced over at Sherlock, whose hands had clenched in his lap. “I will go with you, William, if you wish.” Sherlock managed that jerky little nod again, then carefully loosened one hand to pick up his fork.The food was superb. It was just a shame that none of their group actually enjoyed it much (well, except Ollie, who had taken Anthea’s admonition to be “awed and grateful” to heart, and shoveled food in like he feared it would be snatched away). The rest of them pushed little bits around their plate and flinched at every loud noise, while Sherlock gave up all pretense of eating early on and just sat, hands once again clenched, as if awaiting execution.His tension visibly ratcheted up as dinner wound down, additional speeches began, and the other contestants were led away, one by one, coming back either embarrassed or (in Claus’ case) smug (though that was his default expression, as far as Anthea could tell).As Phillippe, the tall, thin vocalist, stumbled back to the far table, Izzie stood up and gestured towards Sherlock, who shot to his feet. He was startlingly pale but outwardly calm. Anthea and Mycroft stood as well; they’d decided in advance that Ollie would stay in the ballroom to observe, just in case anything unusual happened in their absence.Izzie led them down a service corridor to a small, plain office, likely normally used for storage. They were met by a host of cameramen, makeup people and journalists. Before the makeup people could pounce on a blanching Sherlock, Mycroft held up a small bag he’d brought along and took Sherlock’s elbow. “We’ll be right back,” he said smoothly, and they swept back into the corridor, while everyone else in the room looked on in confusion. Well, everyone except Anthea, of course, but she wasn’t going to mention that.They were back before the film crew had a chance to get testy, and Anthea could now see the effectiveness of Sherlock’s “disguise”. He had really only made two changes: his curls, normally blowing freely around his head, were now ruthlessly swept straight back from his brow, held in place by the liberal application of shiny oil. It had the odd effect of making him look both older and younger: older because of the more-sophisticated styling, younger because of the contrast with his still childlike features. To add to that, he also now wore largish, very on-trend sunglasses, large enough that they dominated his face.The combined effect of these two alterations was enormous; Anthea couldn’t have guaranteed that she, herself, would have recognized him unless she saw him walk or speak.The film crew blinked. Izzie looked a little uncertain. “Are the glasses…?” he began hesitantly.“The lights,” Mycroft cut in. “William finds bright lights quite distressing.” “William” stood silently by; Anthea knew he’d gone through several iterations of the calming exercises his brother had taught him, but that wasn’t enough to make this a comfortable exercise.Izzie, though, took that response at face value. He took the journalists and cameraman aside for a quiet word, which ended with nods on all sides. Anthea released the breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.Sherlock, after the makeup people dusted the few features still exposed with powder, was ushered to a tall upholstered stool set against one wall, a dark blue velvet cloth tacked up behind it as a backdrop. It suited him; his paleness stood out, while his sleek dark hair acted as a frame for his face. He sat stiffly, posture perfect, hands still in his lap. Mycroft moved over to stand beside Izzie and Anthea, and the questions began.“So, William,” the interviewer, a tiny, intense dark-haired woman, began, “are you excited to be here?”“Yes,” Sherlock said, in a flat voice. The interviewer waited for more, then frowned slightly.“What’s been your favourite part of Peeps so far?” she offered, in an enthusiastic tone.“The music,” Sherlock offered, then stopped again. Anthea stomped on her impulse to laugh; it really wasn’t funny, and she thought he wasn’t doing it on purpose, not entirely. But she could feel the interviewer’s frustration from across the room.Sherlock’s hands, until now clasped in his lap, came apart, and his right index finger began sliding down his folded thumb. Izzie gave Anthea a concerned look, and made a “move along” motion with his hands towards the interviewer.The woman, now looking a bit flustered, gave Sherlock a tense smile. “Tell me about how you got here.” She leaned forward encouragingly. “What was your journey?”Sherlock frowned around his sunglasses. “The…train?” he said, in a confused tone. Anthea had to swallow a laugh again; this time he was doing it on purpose. She glanced over at Mycroft and caught a tiny smirk on his face before it vanished.The interviewer made a frustrated noise. “Now, really, William, you know that’s not what I meant,” she said in a chiding tone. “How did you make it this far in the competition? What did you have to overcome?” Her eyes gleamed with exaggerated sympathy.And just like that, Anthea was furious. Someone had suggested, or this bitch had decided on her own, to get Sherlock to talk about his autism, likely in a naked grab for telly ratings and attention.Sherlock, thankfully, was having none of it. “I…a great deal of practice,” he said stiffly. “And beating many other competitors.”The woman wasn’t giving up. “But we both know you faced some extra challenges—” she began, before Izzie marched over and took the microphone out of her hand.“I believe William is done now,” he said sternly. “Thank you.” He put his hand under Sherlock’s elbow and urged him off the stool. And Sherlock, with a bemused look at Mycroft, went.Five minutes later they were clustered back in the hallway. Izzie, still angry, had stomped back in to “have a word” with the interviewer. Anthea reached over and poked Sherlock firmly in the ribs. “You were having her on,” she said accusingly.Sherlock gave her a Look. “It was Mycroft’s idea,” he sniffed. “I was just following my instructions from my team leader.”Mycroft sighed. “It was,” he said. “We spoke about it while fixing his ‘disguise’. It occurred to me that, while he was required to give the interview, there was nothing to require him to be very good at it.”“And after that last stunt, she sort of got what she deserved,” Anthea said, after thinking about it. “So well done, you,” she told the brothers, and gave them a mocking thumbs-up. “Can we get Ollie and go back to the room now?”“Once Izzie comes back,” Mycroft said, pinching the bridge of his nose in exhaustion. “And then I hope to do nothing whatsoever the rest of the evening.”
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Fetch—the visible ghost or spirit of a person yet alive
Anthea
Information filtered in continuously, from their own surveillance teams as well as various agencies across Europe. The volume was unmanageable; they had been investigating literally hundreds of names, people associated with the competition and the Peeps organization, over the past weeks, while simultaneously managing Sherlock’s practice and rehearsal schedules and the missing children investigation. Sherlock was by turns bored and volatile; his nerves were strained to the breaking point, but none of them could afford for him to actually “break”. They expended a fair amount of effort to keep things calm, which, of course, invariably made things worse—Sherlock despised being “managed”. Anthea considered any day of this mission in which there was only one explosion of temper a victory.One of those explosions was that first night in Interlaken; surprisingly enough, it came from Mycroft. They had been waiting all evening, since their arrival at the hotel, for results on the surveillance of the crates from the Peeps baggage cars. They assumed that tracking the trucks that picked up the crates would lead directly to their smugglers, or at least the warehouse from which the smugglers planned to operate.They were wrong.The call came in at just past 11, after they had staggered back to their hotel suite following the interview, but before they’d actually gone to bed. Mycroft answered, while the rest of them hovered in anticipation. They were shocked when Mycroft’s face flushed and he barked a very, very rude word before launching the phone violently across the room, where it bounced on the couch and clattered to the floor.Into the ensuing stunned silence, their leader turned, sighed, and closed his eyes. “They were seen,” he said sourly. “Seen, before the crates were collected, and then lost the truck which might otherwise have led us to the smugglers. So now the crates have gone with all the others to the venue, and we must invest in fulltime surveillance to watch for their departure from the storeroom. Without being noticed by the smugglers, or by the hoards of competitors, officials and press.”Ollie flopped down onto the couch. “Well, that’s not awkward at all,” he said. “Any ideas about how that’ll be accomplished?”“Not a one,” Mycroft said bitterly, and stomped off to bed in disgust. The next morning, the beginning of their “rest” day, none of them were feeling especially ambitious. Sherlock was booked for two long practice sessions with Mycroft, which took up more than half of the day; Anthea and Ollie went out to tour the town, and, of course, feed “Carmen’s” shopping reputation. They all met back up for dinner in the suite.Anthea decided it was time to address the elephant in the room, before Mycroft went off in a strop and started searching for the smugglers personally. “Have we heard anything new?” she asked delicately. She knew the answer was likely “no”, but needed something to start the conversation.Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Can’t you tell from the air of angry gloom?” he said. “We came out of our second practice session, he checked in with the surveillance crew and shouted at them on the phone. In the middle of the hotel lobby.” He paused. “I do admit, it had a certain entertainment value, if nothing else.”“Enough,” Mycroft barked, and Sherlock flinched marginally before raising his chin in defiance.“Am I not supposed to tell the truth now, brother?” he asked icily. “I would think that will become problematic.”Mycroft, spots of pink evident on his cheekbones, sighed. “Apologies,” he said, ducking his head briefly. “It has been a less than stellar day, but that had little to do with you. I am simply concerned at the amount of time it is taking to get this operation back on track, and alarmed at recent developments. Evidently our smugglers, in addition to their skill at routing their ‘special’ crates, also had an agent operating within the warehouse staff. He was apprehended by building security early this morning while moving a progression of crates to a smaller holding area in a far corner of the warehouse, and taken to the local police station for questioning.”Anthea blinked. “Well, that’s a good thing, surely. Have our people been able to question him? I would think the local authorities would be glad to help out an Interpol-related operation.”“Perhaps,” Mycroft said. “Unfortunately, when our agents arrived at the station to undertake an interrogation, the man was found dead in his cell. The locals insist it must have been suicide.” The curl of his lip gave his opinion of that theory.“And the crates?” Ollie asked. “Did they open them?”“Let me guess,” Sherlock said. “They were gone, when the locals returned to look at them.”Mycroft nodded.“Well, damn,” Ollie said. The next morning, their second full day in Interlaken, Sherlock had his first rehearsal with the orchestra at 9. He clattered up and out of the suite on his own; Anthea was “neglecting” him again, and Mycroft wasn’t required as an accompanist. The boy was back for lunch, though, and they were all due at 2 for the first outing—a trip to the “Funky Chocolate Club”, where everyone would go through a workshop to learn to make fancy chocolates.It was safe to say that all of them (well, with the exception of a sneering Mycroft—“I refuse to cross the threshold of any establishment with the word ‘funky’ in the name”) were rather looking forward to this particular trip. Especially (surprisingly enough) Sherlock, though he would never, ever admit to it.What he would admit to, though, was a fascination with the process of chocolate making—to the point where he spent several hours researching, and then several more regaling the rest of them with his gleanings. He dropped these little gems into their lunch hour like gunshots in between spoonfuls of soup.“Cacao beans were once so valuable in Mesoamerica that they were used as currency. And Spanish royalty used to include cakes of cacao in dowries.”“Cacao is actually a fruit tree; the beans are seeds. And each tree will produce around 2500 beans per season.”“Chocolate has more than 600 flavonoids, three times as many as red wine.”“The scientific name for the cacao tree is Theobroma cacao. It means ‘food of the gods’.”“Well, I can totally get behind that,” Ollie chirped. “Can we go now? I noticed it said that we can eat as much chocolate as we want while we’re there, so I want to maximize my opportunity, ya know?” It was only a ten minute walk to the shop; several of the Peeps contestants, mentors and chaperones (though not Izzie, who begged off as he was allergic to chocolate) met in the lobby and strolled over together. It was a lovely day, cool and sunny, and Anthea reveled in the scenery as they went. She considered this kind of thing one of the perks of doing what Sherlock snidely called “Secret Agenting”. Ollie had started up a conversation with the little oboe player, Angelique, who was one of the other finalists; Sherlock stayed locked to Anthea’s side, doing his own version of chatting, which consisted mostly of more rapid-fire factoids about chocolate and chocolate making. It was informative, if not exactly entertaining. But it kept him calm(ish), so that was a plus.The shop door opened with a cheery jingle of sleigh bells (Sherlock cringed momentarily beside her, but recovered quickly). As they stepped inside, a wave of scent—warm chocolate, hints of fruit, nameless spices—wafted out and overwhelmed them. Anthea could feel her cheeks creasing in a broad smile, and looked around to see a similar expression on the face of all of the participants.A tall, hefty man in a long white apron matched that look. “Good afternoon!” he boomed, waving for the group to follow him. “A few are here already, but we waited until all were present.” His English was very good, but bore just a hint of the formality of a non-native speaker.He ushered them into a huge, high-ceilinged room, with whitewashed walls and a vast open hearth on the far wall, currently with a low fire burning in it that gave off light but not a great deal of warmth. The room was almost chilly, likely to ensure the chocolate set easily.At the far end of the room stood a few more people, including, unfortunately, Claus Graham and his uncle. Beside Anthea, Sherlock stiffened but had no other outward reaction. Ollie, still chattering with Angelique and her chaperone, gave a mocking little wave, which Claus returned with a smirk.The big man (“Call me Matts”) directed them to a very long marble table that ran the length of the big room. “Find a place,” Matts said. “You’ll be standing most of the time, but the stools are there if you need them. You’ll need to put on the gloves—don’t want any contamination.” He bustled out of the room briefly, coming back with a large box that he set down on the end of the table.They moved quickly into position. Sherlock chose to stay by Anthea; Ollie settled in as far from Claus as was possible, thankfully obeying his brief to be nonconfrontational. Claus had apparently not gotten the memo on that one, taking a spot immediately across from Sherlock. His uncle settled in at the foot of the table with a group of Peeps dignitaries.“All set, then?” Matts asked, and beamed when the table collectively nodded. He picked up the box he’d carried in earlier and began walking down the line of participants. “Take a paddle each,” he said. “You’ll need it shortly.”“For tempering the chocolate,” Sherlock said suddenly. “The marble provides even cooling as we spread the chocolate with the paddles.”Matts smiled, clearly impressed. “Someone has been reading up, I see. Yes, that’s it exactly. We’ll go through that process a couple of times—make the mixtures smooth and shiny, get rid of any graininess.” He continued his walk, until each of them had what looked like broad, flat stainless steel spatula blades, roughly 8 inches across, with a wooden handle on top.Anthea noticed Claus’ sneer at Sherlock’s interjection. She rather hoped Sherlock hadn’t seen it as well.Matts, now that everyone had their paddles and had donned their gloves, nodded to a flock of assistants hovering in the doorway. They began carrying in an array of stainless steel bowls, placing them in a line down the center of the long table while the participants looked on curiously. Once the bowls were all set out, the assistants then fetched cups of tiny paintbrushes and what looked to be small airbrush sets, hooking their trailing hoses to outlets set into the side of the table.“Now,” Matts said, picking up one of the bowls and upending it onto the clean marble in front of him, “does anyone know what this is?”“Cocoa butter,” Sherlock said instantly. “Must be tempered, just like the regular chocolate mix. Typically used to enrich the chocolate mixture but can also be coloured and used for decorating fine chocolate shells.”Matts beamed. “I can see you prepared well, young sir. What’s your name?”Sherlock’s ears pinkened. His eyes dropped to his hands. “William,” he croaked.“He’s what they call a ‘swot’ in Britain. Someone who likes to memorize things to show off,” Claus piped up with a teasing laugh, and several of the young contestants laughed as well. “As you may have noticed earlier. He does it a lot.” A smaller group tittered again, but the adults looked a little uncomfortable. Ollie, at the end of the table, looked as murderous as Anthea suddenly felt.Matts was in the ‘uncomfortable’ group. “It makes me very happy to see our guests so interested,” he said earnestly. “To know that what we do is worth learning.” He smiled at Sherlock, though Anthea knew the boy wouldn’t see it, with his eyes riveted to the table in front of him.Matts proceeded with the lesson, letting the class choose their colour of cocoa butter to work with, showing them how to work the material on the table until it was smooth and glistening, then replacing it in the bowl before deciding how to use it to decorate the individual trays that had been waiting on a shelf under the table top. “You must decorate the ‘outside’ first, in chocolate making,” he told them. “Remember that chocolates are essentially made upside down, so whatever you do here is what people will see first.”Anthea set herself the task of working with Sherlock, who seemed to have retreated into himself. She chose a lovely rose-coloured cocoa butter mix, poured it onto the marble in front of them, and shoved Sherlock’s spatula into his hand. When he turned to look at her with a scowl, she raised her eyebrows and gestured imperiously towards the dark pink mass on the table. “Go on, then,” she said. “You don’t want it to cool before you finish working it. I want to try the airbrush when it’s ready. Maybe borrow another colour as well.”There was a long, silent pause, while Anthea held her breath. Then, slowly, Sherlock reached for the spatula and shoved it experimentally into the rosy mass on the tabletop. Anthea smiled, picked up her own tool, and went to work as well.By the end of the session, they had all made and decorated their shells, chosen and mixed concoctions of fruits, flavourings and spices, filled the shells and coated the bottoms with a last layer of tempered chocolate before handing the trays back to Matts and his assistants. “Now,” Matts said, “we wait. Your candies must chill for 2 hours. In the meantime, two things will happen: first, you are welcome to follow our tour of the rest of the factory, and sample as many chocolates as you wish. And second, while you are doing that, I and a chosen group of my staff will sample your wares, without knowledge of who they belong to, and choose a winner. The chocolatier chosen will win a very substantial prize.” He smiled and leaned forward conspiratorially. “It may contain chocolate,” he said, in a theatrical whisper.The tour was fascinating (as well as redolent in every good smell imaginable). Anthea noticed that Sherlock’s eyes darted everywhere, taking in every detail, but he never said a word. She had a nasty feeling that she was seeing a recreation of his school days. She caught herself glaring at Claus several times and forced herself to stop. The fact that the little prick smirked every time she caught his eye didn’t make it any easier. By the time they finished the tour, Anthea had reached the point where she cringed at the idea of eating chocolate, something she would have previously denied was possible. The coolers of delicately-made candies had been everywhere, and the attendants seemed thrilled when one of the group picked one of “theirs” to taste. That was lovely, the first four or five times. After six or so it lost its appeal entirely.The only consolation was that almost everyone seemed in much the same state. Even Ollie, who had scarfed down two to every one chocolate Sherlock or Anthea ate, finally reached his breaking point, holding one hand up in surrender. “I yield,” he moaned, clutching his stomach. “Kill me now.”“Tempting, but no,” Anthea said. “If you’re gone I’d have no one left to carry my packages when I shop.” That, of course, was largely for the benefit of their audience, who had likely heard of “Carmen” and her love of retail therapy—she’d worked fairly hard to impress that narrative on the Peeps staff and contestants.At a signal from their guides, the participants moved back into the large kitchen area they’d started in and lined back up in their original places. Matts was there to meet them, backed up by his smiling aides. Once everyone had settled, he laid out four small stainless steel trays on the marble table, each topped with a small towel.“We have selected several winners, in different categories,” he began. “As you know, we were unaware of who made which chocolate before we opened the envelope with the listing you had each signed.” He held up the small brown envelope, opened it, and pulled out the folded sheet. “So each winner is identified by the number you were assigned. You will see that number on the winning trays, and I will read off the names.”He folded open the paper, then reached out to the first towel-covered tray. “Our first category is the best coloured chocolate—white or tinted, as opposed to milk, dark or bittersweet chocolate. And the winner is,” he flipped off the towel, “Number 7, by Valeria Pazzi.” There was a round of applause. A round little Italian woman, one of the docents, stood with a squeak and bustled forward, smiling, to claim the small basket of treats one of the aides held out.Matts stepped forward again. “Our next category is the best nut-based chocolate,” he said, reaching for the second towel. “And the winner is…Number 21, by Guillaume Dubois.” The tall vocalist shot from his chair, clapped his hands in delight, and darted up to claim his basket, hugging it to his chest while his mentor continued to applaud.Matts, still smiling, moved to the next place. “Our final special category is the best mixed confection—one that incorporates such things as fruit, nuts, or special spices into one chocolate. And the winner is…Number 11, by Elise Maes.” A tiny, wizened old lady at the end of the table, her face wreathed in a smile that made her look like a dried apple, tottered forward, trailed by an equally old man pushing a wheelchair which she had apparently forgotten. Matts handed her the basket himself, and received a kiss on the cheek in return, to a renewed burst of applause from the audience.There was but one towel-covered tray remaining. Matts stopped in front of it, his slip of paper at the ready.“Our final category is for the best overall creation,” he said. “This category is judged on very stringent standards: appearance, consistency of the chocolate, technique, innovation, and, of course, taste. There were several strong candidates, including each of the winners previously announced. But this particular chocolate stood above the others primarily because of the combination of appearance and taste—both were superb, especially so for amateur work. The winner should be very proud.” He beamed again and opened the paper, nodding when he read the result.“And the winning confection is…Number 11, by Will and Carmen Scott!” he boomed, waving his hands theatrically in Sherlock’s direction.There was a boisterous round of applause and cheers, while Sherlock blinked and Ollie thumped his bony shoulder. Anthea noticed Claus scowling across the table; it gave her a happy little glow inside.Matts came around the table, their winning chocolate in one large palm. “The thickened raspberry liqueur, with the little flecks of freeze-dried raspberry inside—a stroke of genius, children.” He popped the confection into his mouth and smiled as he chewed, then swallowed. “With your permission, we would like to add this to our shop offerings going forward.” The audience cheered again—well, everyone but Claus, who looked like he smelled something bad.Sherlock blushed like a peach, while Ollie looked on in amusement. Anthea finally answered when it became apparent her “brother” couldn’t. “Of course,” she said. “We’d be delighted!” She gave Matts her best dimpled smile. Behind Matts, two aides came in with a mammoth basket, easily containing more than ten pounds of various kinds of chocolates and candy, and slid it across the table to Sherlock. Matts made little shooing motions. “Take it,” he said. “You’ve earned it.”The rest of the group applauded once more, then expanded it to include Matts and his crew, who stood in a row and bowed as if ending a stage play, clasped hands and all. Then the attendees waved and headed back to the hotel, in a smiling, happy herd. Anthea, Sherlock and Ollie took turns carrying the enormous basket back to the hotel. “It’s just wrong,” Ollie whined. “Here we are with a basket holding almost a stone of the best chocolate in the world, and I don’t want any.” He mock-gagged, shoving the basket back to Sherlock.“That’ll change,” Anthea said. “Well, hopefully.” She couldn’t get very enthused either. She hoped this experience didn’t put her off chocolate forever, but she couldn’t rule it out. No wonder psychiatrists used aversion therapy to break bad habits.“All the more for me,” Sherlock said smugly, popping one of their own prize-winning candies that had been included in the basket into his mouth. Unlike the rest of them, he’d only picked lightly at the chocolate array while they toured the factory. Anthea presumed that he’d been wary of encountering a filling his sensory issues made problematic. As it was, as soon as they left the factory he had examined everything in the gift basket and briskly sorted in into (smallish) piles for him and (much bigger) piles for everyone else.As they entered the suite, they were surprised to find it empty—no Mycroft, no piles of paper, just a well-tidied set of rooms, and a folded note on the dining table.Off to see the surveillance teams, it said, in Mycroft’s tiny, precise handwriting. Order whatever you wish for dinner, but do not leave the rooms.Ollie finally broke the ensuring silence. “Well, that’s a bit rude,” he said. “I mean, we haven’t had a chance to really go much of anywhere yet, and certainly not to any of the restaurants. I was kind of looking forward to it.”Anthea thought about that. “I think we’ll have to get used to it,” she said slowly. “A man is dead. If Mycroft was worried about us being here before, he’s now really concerned. Justifiably, I guess.”Sherlock sighed and flopped onto his back on the couch. “Oh well,” he said, dropping his shoes on the carpet. “We can make up for it by ordering the most expensive things on the menu. And getting something disgusting for him. Pig’s feet. Tripe, maybe.”“That’s assuming I ever want to eat anything again,” Ollie grumbled, and staggered off to his room.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Ch’į́įdii—Navajo ghost that leaves the body with a person’s last breath, containing everything that was bad or unharmonious in their spirit. After death, the dead person’s name is never spoken and their remains and possessions are avoided in order to avoid ch’į́įdii-inflicted “ghost sickness.”
Anthea
Mycroft got back at just past 9pm, exhausted, rumpled, and in an unsettled mood. Anthea herded the boys out from underfoot and tucked him into his chair at the table, taking the lid off his plate of schnitzel and noodles that was still thankfully somewhat warm. She had managed to out-maneuver Sherlock on that front, as the brat had initially ordered heringssalat—an alarming pinkish-lavender jelly consisting of salted herring, beetroot, gherkins and mayonnaise—by dint of yanking the phone out of his hand and speaking very firmly to the confused room service clerk.She offered Mycroft tea, and was surprised when he shook his head and pointed towards the sideboard against the wall, where a discreet drinks cupboard lived. “Wine, please. The Chardonnay,” he said, and nothing more. As she opened the bottle and poured a glass, he picked up a fork and ate at a speed that indicated a day spent without food.Ollie and Sherlock, surprisingly, were quiet, perhaps alarmed by this flattened version of Mycroft. Anthea feared some sort of explosion if anyone interrupted this unnatural silence.Mycroft didn’t speak until he finished the meal, and placed his fork carefully beside the empty plate.“The dead guard was a boy not much older than Sherlock, with no criminal record of any kind,” he said softly. “He was shot from close range, by someone standing directly in front of him. He had evidently begged for his life, having spent at least some time on his knees, going by the state of his trousers. There were tear marks on his face.” He closed his eyes again. “And I have no idea who did this. Other than the fact that they are very, very good.”There was an appalled silence, broken by a subdued Sherlock from the couch across the room. “There were no cameras?” he asked, in a neutral tone.Mycroft shook his head. “There were, for the warehouse itself, the one the crates were taken from,” he said. “But they had been very expertly subverted. It’s unclear how long ago that happened, but they were still broadcasting scenes of an entirely different warehouse at the time the body was discovered in the holding cell at the station—a warehouse where mock crates had been carefully arranged to mimic those at the venue. The tampering was electronic rather than physical; some form of re-routing through the controlling software.”He took a large sip of the wine. “The venue is investigating, to see if they can backtrack to an outside source. But it is just as likely that someone on their staff is responsible; they use temporary workers in their security force on an ongoing basis. It’s not like they regularly have anything sensitive to protect; their greatest potential liability is the loss of a valuable harp or piano.” He took another sip. “And the police station has no cameras; the two policemen who were on-duty at the time of the murder were called away by a fraudulent emergency. They left the prisoner unattended, and returned to find the cell door open and the boy dead. A gun was clasped in his hand, but in looking at the photos, it’s clear that he could not have shot himself in such a way, regardless of the locals’ opinion. They were also unable to explain how he could have opened the cell door. Nor where he found the gun.”“So our smugglers are either associated with a larger group, or are willing to hire ‘outsourced’ labour for that kind of job,” Anthea said. She was gratified to see Mycroft coming back to himself a bit, now that he’d had a meal and managed to relax briefly.“Did they manage to identify the other warehouse? The one the cameras were linked to?” Ollie asked. It was a good question; it was possible that ownership of that facility could have some bearing on who had set up the hijacking of the signal.“Our people did, without the venue’s knowledge,” Mycroft said. “It was a vacant building. The crates were empty, and had been stolen several days ago from a nearby recycling facility which ships off wood items to be repurposed into particle board. The theft wasn’t reported since the value of the crates was virtually nil.”“And the recycling facility didn’t have cameras,” Sherlock said.“Just so,” Mycroft said, nodding. “As I said: these are well-conceived, well-executed plans, leaving nothing to chance and no workable trail behind.”Something about that statement bothered Anthea, though it was a moment or two before she realized what it was. In the interim Mycroft had seen her face, and raised his eyebrows enquiringly.“Oh,” she said, when she noticed his expression, “I just…it seems rather out-of-character for a gun-running operation, is all. I mean, those type of people are normally very good at stealing the arms, and finding buyers, and, oh, taking out the opposition, if need be. But, um. This just seems…”“Too sophisticated?” Ollie asked. “More like some sort of MI6 operation than a group of smugglers?”Mycroft thought about that. “You’re not incorrect,” he said slowly. “The intelligence we have on the smugglers doesn’t indicate anything exceptional as far as their capabilities. Which does beg the question of the source of that kind of expertise, that level of planning. Whoever they have partnered with, whoever is operating within the aegis of Peeps, is a professional of some kind. Has to be.”“A spy, then?” Sherlock asked. “A real one? As opposed to a garden-variety greedy socialite or minor peer?”“If they are, they’ve hidden their background very, very well,” Mycroft said. “Well enough that nothing shows up in our already-extensive research, which, now that I say that, speaks even more firmly of someone accustomed to hiding in plain sight. But it does mean that we can’t afford to let up on our research. I’ll ask for another batch of printouts to be delivered in the morning.”“Can’t wait,” Sherlock said with a groan. They worked for two hours after Mycroft’s dinner, bouncing theories off of each other only to discard each in disgust. They finally went off to bed still disgruntled, still (in Mycroft’s case) reproaching themselves for their lack of progress.In the morning, Sherlock had his rehearsal with the full orchestra again. Mycroft went along, not because he was really needed but because he likely needed to clear his head from the events of the previous evening. Anthea wished she could go as well; she had yet to hear Sherlock perform his major piece, and had begun to dread the reproachful looks Izzie gave her when he thought she couldn’t see. But continuing in her “benign neglect” pattern was part of the plan, so she collected a whinging Ollie and commandeered a car to go sightseeing up through the mountains and ski lodges above the town.There was another “expedition” planned for after lunch—this one Anthea was glad to pass on to Ollie and Mycroft. She was booked into an afternoon at the in-house spa, and was looking forward to it.
Mycroft
It was not, truth be told, Mycroft’s cup of tea. Barreling down whitewater passages in a chilly, damp raft for “fun” would never fit into his definition of the word. But he recognized the necessity of continuing the charade of being a simple tutor/accompanist, offered a chance at activities such a person would never be able to normally afford.Both of the boys were looking forward to the outing, Ollie vocally so, Sherlock more subdued but still vibrating a bit when he thought no one was looking. Izzie had mentioned that he, too, was attending this event, though he pointed out ruefully that someone might have to help him in and out of the raft. Ollie laughingly volunteered, which brought a smile to the old man’s face.An elegant maroon bus was waiting under the porte cochere as the participants strolled out from the lobby. The group filed dutifully on board; Sherlock and Ollie dropped into the first two available seats, while Mycroft walked down the aisle a bit before choosing a bench randomly. He was somewhat surprised when Izzie slid onto the seat beside him.Mycroft gave a polite smile and a nod. Izzie took that as leave to speak, apparently.“I saw you at William’s rehearsal this morning,” he said. “He’s doing very well, isn’t he?” He beamed fondly at the back of Sherlock’s head.“Yes, I think so,” Mycroft said. “He has been working very hard.”Izzie looked at him cautiously. “I would…it’s unfortunate that his sister was unable to attend as well.”Mycroft thought about a vague, yet diplomatic response. “It is a heavy responsibility for such a young woman,” he said finally. “She does care for him.”“Oh, I can tell,” Izzie hurried to assure him. “But I think that, sometimes, William feels rather…alone. He is very young, and this kind of thing is stressful for adults, let alone children. I think he would find her presence reassuring.” He paused. “I thought to speak to her myself, but I wasn’t sure it would be welcomed.” He looked up at Mycroft expectantly.Mycroft gave an internal sigh. “I will endeavor to speak with her about it,” he said reluctantly. “You must understand, though: I have tutored William for several years, but I am essentially Carmen’s employee at present, in the absence of her parents. My ability to influence her behaviour is strictly limited by that fact.”Izzie patted Mycroft’s knee in a comforting fashion. “I understand,” he said soothingly. “I’m sure you’ll do your best for William.” Then he calmly turned to watch the dramatic scenery through the bus windows. The bus pulled into a paved parking lot next to a brightly-painted hut, around which were stacks of large inflatable rafts and mounds of paddles and other equipment. As he stepped off the bus, Mycroft could see the river, running blue-green and clear, just feet from the edge of the pavement. Though it was nominally summer, this high up the temperature was still on the cool side despite the bright sun; they had been warned to wear long-sleeved jerseys and full trousers with boots. Mycroft looked at the water warily—if the air was this chill, he hated to think what the water, derived from snow-melt flowing down the higher altitudes above them, felt like.A series of six inflatables were tied up along the bank, seating between 6 and 15 people each. A stack of lifejackets lay at the ready on the dock, with several staff members waiting to help the participants don them properly.In ten minutes, everyone had been lined up, fitted with lifejackets and helmets, and counted off into rafts. Their group, including Izzie, ended up in the large lead raft. Sherlock and Ollie headed to the front, with one of the docents sitting initially on Sherlock’s far side. Mycroft was irritated to see Claus Graham elbow his way past several other people to wriggle in between the docent and Sherlock, but there was nothing for it at present. Ollie gave the boy a look that promised pain, but said nothing.Mycroft and Izzie settled in the rear, with Mycroft ending up next to their guide and Izzie on Mycroft’s left. As the raft filled it settled further into the water, splashing up little waves that made Mycroft jerk with displeasure. He had a lowering feeling that he would spend much of this trip shivering in his boots. He picked up his paddle with a resigned sigh.Once everyone had settled into a spot, helmets on and paddles in hand, their guide, a tall, sturdy man, smacked his paddle against the side of the raft for attention. “My name is Axel,” he said. “I will be your guide today. I have been doing this for more than 10 years; if you have any questions about anything at all, you need only ask.” He sat back on the rounded lip of the raft’s side wall, resting his paddle across his thighs.“Our trip will be roughly 3 1/2 hours; perhaps slightly less, if the river is running fast,” he continued. “We will be traversing large parts of the Lütschine River, whose waters originate from the north face of the Eiger.” He lowered his voice to a confiding tone. “It’s very cold,” he continued, with a grin and a mock shiver. “And very rough. Most of the way will be in category III or category IV rapids, just a step below those only attempted by true adventurers. Your number one rule is ‘stay in the boat’. Please repeat that for me.” He looked at them expectantly.“Stay in the boat,” they said dutifully.“Very good,” Axel said. “I will remind you of this once or twice, just in case. Beyond that, you must paddle when asked, and move as I tell you—there will be times when you will need to help us balance. We do not wish to flip over, as that would be unpleasant, cold and very wet. But remember one thing: if that happens, you will not drown. You are wearing helmets to protect your heads from the rocks, and the best flotation vests around. You may swallow water; you may end up with a nasty cough. But you will not drown.”Mycroft worked very hard at keeping his face calm and even. He, probably alone among the other participants, knew that Interlaken had had a tragedy several years before that had taken the lives of nearly 20 tourists. Not while rafting, thankfully, but “canyoning” down some of the narrower passages along the river—a sudden downpour had swept a 10-foot wall of black water barreling through the canyon, sweeping all before it. They had indeed drowned, every one of them.He reflected yet again that he was not cut out for this.Axel ran them through some basic exercises with their yellow paddles. Izzie grinned when he realized his arms were too short to allow him to do more than skim the surface; Mycroft found himself smiling back.As they pushed gently away from the dock, the guide had one more piece of advice for them. “If you do fall in, lift your legs and arch your back, to bring you to the surface quickly. Look around you; if another boat is close, see if you can swim over to it; they may be able to pull you in. If not, make your way to the bank. A following boat will almost certainly be able to get to you quickly, but I will also radio for help at the first slow spot we hit just in case.” He smiled, and gestured downstream. “Now, put your paddles in the water and push!”It wasn’t what Mycroft had expected. He’d seen the videos, of course--torrents of frothing water, rafts tumbling in every direction, lots of shouting people. And there was all of that, even from very early on. He, they, were soaked within five minutes, and numbingly cold thereafter. But there was more to it than that.It was startlingly beautiful: sudden curves in the river revealed stunning views of the Jungfrau or the Eiger, while the next turn might show an alpine meadow aglow with wildflowers, or a waterfall cascading down a rocky tumble. When they reached the first stretch of rapids, Mycroft leaned against Izzie to steady him, and dug in with his paddle. It was indeed exhilarating; the water, bubbly and white, churned like a washing machine on every side, and they hurtled along as the raft slithered in one direction after another. They were rarely pointing directly downstream, which meant that one side of the raft might suddenly be three feet below the other, with the startled occupants gasping as icy water churned across their laps.He glanced up forward at his brother and Ollie from time to time, and saw both wearing broad grins that Sherlock, at least, would be mortified about under normal circumstances.In the last half-hour of their journey they reached the strongest run of rapids they’d yet seen. Axel had them all move to sit on the edges of the raft, rather than down in the wells. “You need to be able to paddle hard,” he said, dipping his own paddle deep in illustration. “And lean far back over the water to balance us as needed. Just try to keep your feet down in the wells as much as you can.”It was brutal; terribly fast, rough, and very, very wet. At times it was difficult to be sure where the edges of the raft were, as water flowed over parts of it every time they moved. Izzie had given up trying to paddle and simply clung to the continuous rope line that ran along the top of the raft walls; Mycroft found himself working his paddle very hard indeed, helping Axel steer. He saw Ollie and Sherlock lurching back and forth as the front of the raft bounded over the water; they weren’t doing much paddling as their paddles were often unexpectedly in mid-air. They continued to wear excited grins; Mycroft suspected his face was doing the same. He was glad for the absence of cameras.Between one moment and the next, though, everything changed. They came around a sharp turn, and the raft canted abruptly as the river level dropped in a series of rocky pools, the water shooting up and around the submerged boulders and shoving the raft like a toy. Suddenly the front of the raft dropped until those sitting on that rim were swamped with icy water. And, as if in a film, Mycroft watched, powerless, as Claus Graham dropped with a cry to the floorboards, and his brother and Ollie flipped over backwards off the raft, to instantly disappear under roiling white foam.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Rusalka—Slavic female spirit often associated with water. Often malicious towards mankind.
Mycroft
Mycroft, without being aware of doing so, had stood and prepared to follow his brother into the water. He was startled when an iron grip latched onto his belt and yanked him to one side.“Sit DOWN,” Axel roared, letting the raft briefly spin as it would while his paddle was unavailable for steering. “The last thing we need is one more body in the water. Remember what I said: they will not drown. One of the other boats will pick them up, most likely, or they can easily let themselves be pushed by the current to shore and picked up from there. We will be at our landing site in twenty minutes, and we will take you straight to them.”While Mycroft stood, undecided, Izzie spoke behind them. “He is correct, I believe,” he said. “Unless you are an exceptional swimmer, I doubt you could catch up with them regardless, given you would be going against the current.”Mycroft found himself, much against his will, subsiding slowly back to the side of the raft, still craning his neck to scan the roiling water behind them until they swept around the next curve of the banks. As soon as they reached the dock, Axel turned to Mycroft, walkie talkie in his hand. “The boys have been taken to the first aid station back at the launch area,” he said. “The bus will drop you off there first, before taking the other patrons back to the hotel.”Mycroft was both grateful and annoyed; he still half-wished he had managed to jump in, however ill-advised it might have been. Seeing Sherlock and Ollie’s heads submerge, without being able to see them pop safely back up again, had been…well. It was something he would have preferred not to experience. But he had to temper his reactions; Izzie, standing beside him, would expect his response to be that of a concerned caretaker, not a brother.The old man, unsurprisingly, offered his help. “I would be happy to come with you,” he said, one hand on Mycroft’s arm. “I’m sure William is fine, but it will be reassuring to see him, I know.”Mycroft thought about that, then shook his head. The last thing he needed was this sharp-eyed, wise man picking up on the real dynamics among their group; he wasn’t sure they would be able to guard themselves at the moment, while stress and anxiety were this prevalent. “No, thank you,” he said, giving Izzie his warmest smile. “William is very sensitive about being around others when he’s upset; I suspect he would be unhappy to see anyone other than me or his sister.”“Boys,” Izzie said, and rolled his eyes. “At that age, they’re so protective of their dignity.” He paused, then continued. “Could you, though, call me when you return to the hotel, and reassure me as to his welfare? I will worry, otherwise.”Mycroft felt a wave of unaccustomed fondness, in no small measure because he could read Izzie’s sincerity in every word. “Of course,” he said. “If he feels up to it, I will ask William to call you himself. If not, I am sure Carmen will be happy to do so.”The bus trip back to the launch complex took only a little over 30 minutes; the route by road was much quicker than their meandering trip down the river. The driver pulled into the parking lot and opened the doors; Mycroft thanked Izzie for his concern once more, then trotted down the steps and headed towards the small white building at the far side of the tarmac.As he pulled open the door, an attendant looked up from the counter. “Are you here for William and Oliver?” she said, in German-accented English.Mycroft nodded, anxiety sparking again.The attendant smiled. “They’re in the back. Don’t worry—nothing too serious, though William has had an unpleasant time of it.” She pointed to a door set in the back wall.Mycroft was surprised, on entering the back room, to see Anthea sitting in a plastic chair, pulled up next to a cot containing his damp, miserable younger brother. Sherlock was basically nonresponsive, wrapped in a bundle of blankets, eyes closed and bottom lip caught between his teeth.“I just got here. They called me at the spa,” Anthea said, both her voice and her face reflecting an uncomfortable past hour. She reached over and pushed Sherlock’s damp curls off his forehead carefully, while the boy ignored her, breathing raspily through his nose. “They wouldn’t give me any details; just said there’d been an accident, and ‘William’ had minor injuries, and could I come collect him, basically.”Ollie, equally damp and wrapped in two blankets, glowered from a second chair, next to a bucket placed strategically by Sherlock’s head.“They had a doctor examine him,” Ollie said. His calm voice belied the fury in his eyes. “He’s around here somewhere; he’s got some paperwork he needs signed.” He pointed his chin at Sherlock, who suddenly lurched up and heaved miserably into the bucket, while Anthea flinched out of the way. “Basically he can leave once he stops doing that. I’ll tell you the whole story once he’s feeling better, and I can get some dry clothes so my teeth will stop chattering.” Unspoken in that was the implication that he didn’t want to tell that tale in front of a potential audience. Which meant there was something there, more than just an unfortunate accident.Mycroft nodded, and Anthea rose and went in search of the doctor. Sherlock subsided onto his back and resumed breathing heavily, eyes closed. Mycroft noticed a great blue lump on the left side of his forehead, with an angry red welt in the middle of it. He stared at it briefly, then reminded himself sternly that the doctor had said there was nothing serious here.Ollie saw his gaze. “We came up a little apart, and he was swept underneath one of the following rafts. When I managed to pull him out, one of the people in the raft didn’t see us, and hit him with their paddle accidentally.” He scowled again. “So he swallowed even more water.”Sherlock rolled over and heaved again, as if in punctuation. Both Mycroft and Ollie winced.Anthea came back ten minutes later, a sheaf of papers in her hand. “I’ve called the hotel; they’re sending a car in fifteen minutes or so,” she said. “The doctor agreed to let him go if we promised to call him if things didn’t get better in the next hour or so.” She grimaced. “They said we could take along a bucket.”Sherlock gave a tiny distressed sound. “I can’t sit up,” he rasped. “Makes it worse.”“Not a problem,” Mycroft said soothingly. And so it proved. When the car arrived, Anthea helped Ollie manage his blankets and wobbly knees; Mycroft swept the bundled Sherlock up into his arms and carried him gingerly out, to lay him across the back seat with his bucket by his side.“This is horrible,” Sherlock moaned. “I feel like I drank a lake. A dirty lake.” He hiccupped and closed his eyes. “And I’m cold.” He burrowed down into his nest of blankets with a shiver. Once they reached the hotel, Mycroft carried Sherlock inside while Anthea managed Ollie and the doors. The nausea, thankfully, seemed to be subsiding; the bucket had stayed clean. Mycroft deposited his brother on the couch and he and Anthea arrayed themselves in the remaining chairs. Ollie sat on the couch by Sherlock’s exposed feet.“So?” Mycroft asked. “Report, please.”“It wasn’t an accident,” Ollie said instantly. “In case you wondered.” Sherlock made a small assenting sound.“I did, actually,” Mycroft replied. “But I couldn’t be sure—from where I was sitting, it looked like one. Or at least the possibility existed.”“Claus fucking Graham,” Ollie barked. “Little bastard ‘fell’ to the floorboards, then shoved his shoulders under our legs and pushed. Never had a chance in hell of stopping it—by the time it registered what was happening I was already in the water.”“And I was underneath him, briefly,” Sherlock croaked. “I unfortunately opened my mouth from the shock of the cold water. A tactical error, as it turned out.” He closed his eyes again.“So, am I released to go hurt him?” Ollie said. “And I’m assuming Sherlock is out of this fucking contest. Even if he was able to keep going—not a given, since the dress rehearsal’s tomorrow afternoon—I hardly think it’s safe. I’m actually afraid of what this kid will do.” He paused. “Well, assuming you don’t let me, ya know, break his legs or something. ‘Cuz I am totally there, if so.”Sherlock made a lurching effort to rise, only to be shoved back down by Ollie’s hand in the middle of his chest.“I can do this. I’m all right,” Sherlock snarled, furious. The snarl segued into a damp, wracking cough.“Yeah, now you’re not puking up river water anymore,” Ollie shot back. “How’s that cough doing, by the way? Still got both your lungs? Because it sounded like you were gonna bring up one of them, for a while there.” He gave a grimace that really couldn’t be called a smile.Before Sherlock could try to get off the couch again, Mycroft intervened. “Enough,” he barked. “Both of you.”Both boys subsided, with matching scowls.“God, give me strength,” Mycroft sighed, as tiredness swept through him in a wave, from head to foot. He scrubbed his open hands roughly across his face, then continued. “Sherlock: we will make the decision tomorrow on your continued participation, based on an evaluation of the facts and your physical state at that time. In the meantime, I require that you go and rest until dinner. And that means ‘rest with your eyes closed, while reclining in bed’.” Sherlock’s scowl deepened, but he stayed quiet. Anthea rose, held out an arm, and helped him to his room.Mycroft, meanwhile, turned to the other combatant. “Oliver: we will discuss Mr. Graham over dinner. You, also, should rest, but I will not dictate the manner,” Mycroft continued sternly. “Just make sure I don’t see you until dinnertime. Is that clear?” Ollie stood, gave a jerky nod and stomped off to his bedroom, leaving Mycroft to drop roughly onto the couch with an exhausted sigh. His eyes slid closed of their own volition.The last thing he heard was Anthea’s warm chuckle as she dropped a warm afghan across his lap. The next thing Mycroft was aware of was Anthea gently nudging his foot with her shoe. “It’s dinnertime,” she said softly. “Sherlock’s still asleep; Ollie’s up, and is talking to the surveillance teams about sending over the next batch of printouts. What do you want for dinner? Since I’m assuming we’re having it here.”That was certainly a safe assumption—he didn’t think it would be wise for Sherlock to leave the room this evening, and he suspected the rest of them had little desire to do so anyway. They could have their little Council of War in bare feet and pajamas, if they wished.Once they roused Sherlock (whose cough was still violent, but who was otherwise much improved) and they were installed around the dining table with an array of good-smelling dishes, Mycroft kicked off the conversation.“As I see it, we have two issues,” he began. “First, does Sherlock continue in the competition; and second, what, if anything, will our response be to Mr. Graham’s little prank.”“Prank?” barked Ollie in outraged tones. “That wasn’t—”“We can’t be sure of that,” Mycroft interjected. “It would be easy to assume that this was done with specific malign intent; yet another try at getting Sherlock out of the competition. But remember—this is a child. It is just as likely that this is a continuation of a campaign of general harassment, with no specific ill intent beyond, well, bullying, for lack of a better word.”“Because bullying is harmless,” Sherlock said bitterly, in the tones of someone who has heard this all before.“No, of course not,” Mycroft said sternly, “and you know my opinion of bullying very well. But the fact remains that we can’t treat this as we would an altercation with an adult. I am, however, debating the wisdom of notifying the Peeps hierarchy. If nothing else, we might be able to…” He trailed off as something in Anthea’s face gave him pause. Ollie and Sherlock, noticing the direction of his stare, turned to look as well.“Um,” Anthea said. “I might have. Um. When I called Izzie this afternoon to let him know Sherlock was OK, I, well,” she took a deep breath, “I sort of told him it was intentional, and asked him what Peeps was going to do about it. So to speak.” Her face flushed a brick red, but she held her head high.Mycroft pondered that, while the boys gazed on in fascinated awe. “You really did?” Sherlock finally asked, very quietly, then coughed until Ollie impatiently held out a glass of water and pushed it into his hand.She nodded, but stayed silent, awaiting judgment. That judgment, once Mycroft arrived at it, surprised even him. “That’s, well, not an entirely negative development,” he said slowly. “It’s in keeping with a family member concerned by what her young brother has told her about a relatively serious incident. If need be, it could be ignored as the hysteria of a young, frightened girl.” Anthea made an outraged noise, but he held up a hand to forestall the explosion. “Not by me, by the Powers That Be in Peeps. What was the response, then?”“He couldn’t give me a final answer, obviously,” Anthea said reluctantly. “He has to speak with the docents and so on. He said he would make sure that Claus was spoken to, ‘very firmly indeed’, as he put it.” She paused momentarily, then continued. “But he also said it’s very unlikely Claus will be removed from the competition; it would be impossible to prove if Claus denies it, and Izzie suspects it will fall under the ‘boys will be boys’ umbrella, and that he’ll be required to apologize to Sherlock and that’ll be the end of it.”“No, thank you,” Sherlock spat, and Ollie nodded in solidarity. But he continued speaking, after a pause. “But…it’s true that all of this may be marginally effective, at least in the short term. Bullies tend to turn cautious if they’re aware someone in authority is watching. Though it doesn’t last.”Mycroft reflected again that his little brother was all too familiar with that dynamic. Well. They both were, to a degree, though Mycroft had learned relatively quickly how to manipulate his peers rather than alienate them.“So,” he said, after allowing the others to collect their thoughts, “are we agreed, then, that Anthea’s leap into unilateral action is likely a positive, and that no further immediate action is required?” He left unspoken the mild rebuke for her acting without clearing it with him first; she was intelligent enough to hear it regardless.They all nodded, though Sherlock did so with a scowl, and Ollie looked like he wanted to hit something. Mycroft reflected that it was likely a good object lesson in undercover work, however bad a taste it left in their mouths.“Now,” he said, “we must turn to our other issue: is it safe for Sherlock to continue? I should tell you now that the ultimate decision will not be made before tomorrow; I want to evaluate both your physical condition at that point, brother, as well as review all of the latest intelligence reports. I remain concerned about the brutality of the guard’s murder, and our continued ignorance of both the location of the stolen arms, and the nature of the link between that and the missing children. This will be my decision alone; while I welcome intelligent debate, I will not be swayed from my own conviction, once I’ve reached it. So--do any of you have anything to offer at this point that will speak to this issue?”“I want to stay,” Sherlock said flatly. “We’ve discussed this. If we leave now, and another kid is taken—”“We will be angry and upset, but we’ll be alive,” Ollie finished. “I have to say, I just don’t like the trend here. And we don’t seem to be making much headway regardless—it’s all too nebulous.”“So your current vote would be ‘no’?” Mycroft asked.Ollie shook his head. “Not exactly,” he said. “More ‘I need to be convinced’.”“I’m, I guess I'm on the fence as well,” Anthea said. “I don’t like what happened today, but I don’t think it has anything to do with our case—it’s just our bad luck to run into someone like Claus. But I also just have this feeling we’re not seeing what’s really going on somehow. And I’m not sure we can fix that.”Mycroft nodded. “I can’t disagree. But I want to complete our analysis of our new Interpol data in the morning, and see if that brings any revelations. So I will defer judgment until lunchtime—that still gives us ample time to notify Peeps in advance of the dress rehearsal if we decide to leave, and to let London know.”He pushed his way back from the table and looked inquiringly at Sherlock. “Chess, brother?” Because, if nothing else, trying to beat him would give Sherlock something to focus on rather than rehashing this discussion all evening.By half-eleven, after 4 games (one of which Sherlock almost won), Mycroft could feel himself fading. He put aside his tea and rose. “I think we should perhaps call it a night. Today was stressful, and tomorrow we must make some critical decisions, which are best made well-rested.” He turned to Sherlock. “Are you coming?” Because Sherlock was still wobbly enough than an escort was a good idea.“No, I’ll stay here,” Sherlock said. “I slept for 4 hours; I can’t imagine needing to do so again anytime soon. And sitting up means I don’t cough as much.” He somewhat weakened that last point by going off into a coughing jag once again; thankfully no one commented.Mycroft raised his brows at Ollie, who shook his head.“Nah,” he said. “I’m like Sherlock—slept out at the moment. I’ll keep him company for a bit, maybe watch some telly. Play cards. Plot Claus’ death. The usual stuff.”He gave a mocking smile, which Anthea mirrored as she dropped into a chair opposite him. “I get to choose the channel,” she said, grabbing the remote before Sherlock could secure it.Mycroft nodded and headed thankfully to his own room. Let the children entertain each other. He could definitely deal with a quiet night.
Ollie
Ollie was the one who finally found it. When Anthea headed off to bed, he had picked up the folder on Peeps donors and docents, and started fitfully looking through the latest packet of information the surveillance team had secured from Interpol. It included confidential financial transactions and other general background information not typically found in the limited blurbs included in Peeps’ annual financial statements. He handed half of the stack to Sherlock, then dropped into a chair and started down the list.By and large these people were a boringly normal group, typical well-heeled humanitarians and society types. Wealthy, for the most part, though some of the docents were more middle class. He flipped through page after page of printouts, crossing the names methodically off the list.After more than two hours, Ollie paused, stretched, and looked over to see Sherlock slumped over on the couch, mouth open and eyes closed. He stood up, looked at the clock—just past two. He shook Sherlock awake enough to chivvy the boy off to bed, but after hitting the toilet and splashing his face with water Ollie realized he just wasn’t sleepy enough to go to his own room. He settled back into his chair and submerged himself again.He hadn’t been working long when he realized he’d just recognized a name, a name he’d earlier crossed off the master list. In an otherwise dull report about some of the German donors and officials, an Interpol agent had waxed rather poetic about the subterranean re-integration of former East Germans into the broader national fabric; mentioned, by name, former Stasi agents who were now prominent in social and governmental circles, who had infiltrated these arenas without disclosing their brutal pasts. And there, right there, was the name—a prominent Peeps donor, and a member of the executive board. No picture—Ollie picked up the phone and called the surveillance team. The sleepy-sounding duty officer agreed to send an immediate request, but couldn’t guarantee to have it available before morning. Ollie grumbled, thanked the man rather grudgingly, then staggered off to his room.The next morning they had yet another leisurely meal in the suite—after their rough day and late night, neither Ollie nor Sherlock particularly wanted to go out, and the food in the hotel was always excellent. They were just finishing up when there was a discreet tap on the door, and an envelope slid underneath to rest on the carpet.“Oh,” Ollie said, “that’ll likely be mine.” He had told the others about the Stasi connection, but wasn’t sure when to expect the photo. He rose now and picked up the envelope, only to have it nipped deftly from his fingers by Anthea.He sighed, made a rude gesture, and went back to his tea. He was settled back comfortably in his chair before he realized that Anthea had suddenly fallen very still, the papers in her hand, her mouth open in a combination of surprise and consternation.“What?” Sherlock said behind him, and tried to take the photo unsuccessfully before falling into a coughing fit. Anthea swatted at him and turned to hand the paper to Mycroft, who glanced at it, gave a startled look at the accompanying sheets of paper, then looked up at all of them.“Albrecht Messer,” he said, in what for anyone else would have been a stunned tone. He held up the photo. “Albrecht Messer is our likely culprit. And he is also Claus Graham’s uncle.”
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Goryo-- vengeful Japanese ghosts from the aristocratic classes, especially those who have been martyred.
Mycroft
The pieces abruptly slid into place. Messer was almost certainly the source of both sides of the arms equation: able to provide intelligence on the likely location of arms held at various governmental facilities, and personally interested in “liberating” them for sale to his clients. But it added something else as well.“This is both good and bad,” Mycroft said. “Good, in the sense that we now have a very strong starting place, and know who our surveillance team should target. Bad, in the sense that dealing with an organization headed by a former Stasi officer is well beyond our current remit. None of you are appropriately experienced for this—the Stasi were known both for their ruthlessness, and their inventive forms of torture to procure information or what were laughingly called ‘confessions’.”“We’re in no more danger now than we were yesterday,” Sherlock snapped. “I don’t believe they have any idea who we are.”“But what about Claus, and his little campaign of terror?” Ollie said. “Hard to say that isn’t targeted specifically at you.”“Yes, but how likely is it that a former Stasi agent would care about the results of a childrens’ musical competition?” Sherlock replied, with a certain amount of justice. “Claus may have inherited his, shall we say, antisocial tendencies from his uncle. But I refuse to believe a highly trained operative would have enlisted a child in his actual operations. Messer must certainly have a team for that.”“He’s 17, almost 18,” Anthea murmured. “Only just over a year your junior. And you’re here.”“As a means of entrée to the competition,” Sherlock said with a sneer. “I have no illusions about how likely I, or you for that matter, would have been to be involved if the true nature of this case had been known in advance. Claus’ uncle doesn’t have that excuse. The man, by all accounts, has been involved with Peeps for at least 8 years.”“So maybe Claus is along to earn his Junior Psychopath badge or something, or maybe he’s just a nasty little prick who plays dirty in competition, and his uncle tagged along since it gave him a convenient entrée as well. Doesn’t matter, really,” Ollie said. “But—” he looked over at Mycroft and raised his eyebrows— “I suspect what we’re really talking about here is whether or not we pull the plug on Sherlock remaining in the competition. And my vote, for what it’s worth, is a firm ‘Oh, Hell yes’. In case you were wondering.”Sherlock puffed up like an angry bird, preparing to explode. Mycroft, however, wanted to nip this potential dissension in the bud. “It is not your decision, Oliver,” he said sternly. “Though I confess that my initial response is the same. Be that as it may, though, I wish to consult with the surveillance team, and I must call London from a secure line which will necessitate my meeting with the team in person to use their equipment.”“But the dress rehearsal is at 2,” Sherlock protested. “And they said I need to be there by 1 to get the tuning and lighting setup seen to.” His hands flexed by his side; not quite a stim, but getting there.“And if I get back in time, and have reassuring information, that may yet happen,” Mycroft said. “But if not, Anthea will call and withdraw you from the competition, citing a family emergency in Saudi Arabia.” He tucked his chin and looked sternly at his brother. “This is not open to discussion, Sherlock.”“But you can’t—” Sherlock began.“I think you’ll find I can,” Mycroft said, gently but firmly. “I know this is upsetting news. But this is my decision to make, and it will be made based on what is best for both the mission and the team.”“The team,” Sherlock said bitterly. “Not necessarily me.”“No,” Mycroft agreed, “likely not. But you have known for several days now that this was possible, even likely. I will not endanger any of you, and we would need to call in additional resources in order to remain, regardless.” He looked at his watch. “I will endeavour to be back in time. But I don’t want you to be surprised if the answer is still ‘no’.”“Hardly,” Sherlock snarled, storming to his room and slamming the door The meeting with the head of the surveillance team was less than a resounding success, at least in the sense of providing any kind of immediate answers.“We’ve assigned a team to trail Messer, and we’ve started a deep dive into his involvement with Peeps,” the woman said. “But it’s likely to be at least a day before we have anything that might connect him with the guns operation. I mean, I agree with you, he’s certainly our Number One Candidate, and it would defy logic for him not to be involved, under the circumstances—I mean, how likely is it that an international childrens’ organization would have more than one former secret agent/assassin involved? But there’s nothing tangible yet.”“Start with researching any connection between Messer and storage entities locally,” Mycroft said. “That would be the easiest way to connect the dots, though I am unconvinced that a Stasi agent would leave any trail for us to find. Reach out to the team still in place in France—I want to know if there’s been any movement of the members of either of the smuggling groups. Unless Messer is using locals, he would have had to enlist ‘troops’ to move the product to the new location, wherever that may be. And check with the businesses surrounding the jail where the boy was killed. We know there are no cameras there, but I have noted occasional ones on businesses—see if any have footage that shows who entered and left the jail during the relevant period. Including other police—there are more than the 2 who were called away, certainly, but if someone else showed up in uniform who wasn’t scheduled for that day, I want to know.”The second part of his errand involved a locked room and an encrypted satellite phone, both employed for a conversation with Rudy Vernet—Mycroft’s ultimate superior, but also, by no small coincidence, his maternal uncle.“Mycroft,” Rudy said, sounding rather pleased. “How are things going there? I heard through the grapevine that there had been some surprising developments.” Which, of course, made Mycroft wonder who on the surveillance team was reporting back to his uncle through “unofficial” channels. Inevitable, but still somewhat irksome.“Yes,” Mycroft said, concentrating on keeping all irritation out of his voice. “One of the senior Peeps donors and board members has been revealed to be a former Stasi member. This history, of course, was never shared with Peeps and does not appear in any current documentary evidence—it was discovered by one of my people, purely by chance.” He intentionally didn’t offer Ollie’s name—the last thing he wanted was Rudy trying to poach a promising young agent for his own personal staff. It wouldn’t be the first time something like that had happened, before Mycroft was alerted to the possibility.“That’s not as surprising as one might think,” Rudy said. “We’ve long been aware that many members of the former security forces, in virtually all formerly Soviet states, have infiltrated the current corridors of power. The only question here is, is this man our gun-runner?”Mycroft felt a brief flash of annoyance. It was long past time for Rudy to stop posing these stupid and unnecessary tests of Mycroft’s reasoning abilities. “Yes, of course he is,” he said, letting a bit of asperity creep in. “Not only would he have access, through his former compatriots, to intelligence on the location of various weapons caches in eastern Europe, his presence within the Peeps hierarchy for 8 years would have given him intimate knowledge of the competition’s shipping procedures. All he would need are buyers and a crew; it’s almost certain he assembled that crew from among other smuggling groups.”“But where does that leave us in regard to the rival group currently wandering around Paris, holding meetings with various Peeps underlings?” Rudy said, sounding honestly curious. It was false, of course, but he did a creditable job of it. It was a very subtle warning that Mycroft was careful to heed.“It’s not clear if they’re relevant to the larger picture or not,” Mycroft said. “I have heard no indication that any of the group has left Paris; have you?”“No,” Rudy said, sounding a little disappointed that Mycroft hadn’t take the bait and indulged in speculation. “But certainly the murder of the guard is not a good sign for a peaceful resolution in this matter.” He paused, almost certainly for effect. “So, what do you wish to do?” Rudy had likely come to his own conclusion, but wanted Mycroft to walk through his own, including his rationale.“I am inclined to hand this off to a more senior team, unless you feel we can proceed with additional resources in hand,” Mycroft said. “I don’t feel strongly about it; I am just concerned that my team’s lack of experience puts them at higher risk than is acceptable.”“How does your brother feel about that evaluation?” Rudy said snidely. His dislike of Sherlock was occasionally problematic; despite the boy’s excellent record, Rudy always found some reason to disparage him.“He will do as I direct,” Mycroft said. “He may not like it, but he knows better than to disobey.” Not entirely true, but he wasn’t about to share that with his uncle. Mycroft could certainly bring Sherlock back into line, if need be.Rudy made a ruminative sound. “I will leave it to your discretion, I think,” he said finally. “You may requisition additional resources—team members, etc.—if you decide to remain. Perhaps I’ll check in with the Paris team and relay the latest information to you—I have had them reporting directly to me, but that entails a necessary delay in relaying it to your people. I think I may also see if I can get an insider merged into the opposition group.”Mycroft felt a flash of fury—that was not how things were supposed to go. Field teams were to be number one priority for information that was mission critical. No wonder there had been nothing received from Paris for several days unless Mycroft called them directly.“Has there been anything of note, then, Uncle?” Mycroft said carefully, working to keep the anger out of his voice. “I hadn’t received any notices.”“No,” Rudy said airily, “not really.” He paused, then continued. “Have you made any headway at all on the missing children?”“No,” Mycroft admitted. “Beyond one thing that comes to mind, in light of our recent recognition of Messer’s involvement: he has been hands-on with the Peeps organization for more than 8 years, and it’s entirely possible he was a major donor before that, appearing at the competitions and banquets and so on. Which means he would have been there for each disappearance of a contestant. And we know, based on our earliest blind intelligence item, that our unknown suspect was involved in both arms smuggling and human trafficking. Perhaps the children vanishing is just a small part of the latter? It would be worthwhile to look at reports of other missing vulnerable people, or unsubstantiated reports of human smuggling operations, in the same Peeps locations from relevant years.”“Very good,” Rudy drawled in amusement. “I knew you’d get there eventually.”Mycroft let his irritation show now. “If you had already come to these conclusions, I presume you have the answers to these questions available, and for some reason chose not to share them with your agents on the ground?”“Temper, temper,” Rudy chided. “The pieces didn’t all fit together until the Stasi connection arose. I started the data collection this morning when your surveillance team asked for the photo of Messer. I expect to have the full detail by this evening.”Mycroft made an affirming noise. “I will defer my decision on my team’s involvement until then, I think. Though I will have to remove Sherlock from the competition, most likely—he will have missed his dress rehearsal slot by the time I return.” He paused, thinking that through. “I will likely end up sending him and Anthea home, regardless—I can remain, and Oliver, but we will need to find other accommodations that remove us from the Peeps milieu. We would have no legitimate reason to be around once Sherlock is no longer competing.”Rudy huffed. “It sounds like your mind is largely made up,” he said. “Let me know your final decision this evening; if I’m going to send you other resources on a timely basis, I need to get things in train.” Which was nonsense, honestly; if Rudy Vernet wanted agents in Switzerland by midnight, it would happen, regardless of the impact on other operations.Mycroft reined his annoyance in again; it did him no credit with his uncle to allow his emotions to lead the way. “Of course, Uncle,” he said. “Should I coordinate with the Paris group, or would you prefer to continue to do so, and forward the information to me?”“I’ll do it,” Rudy said. “May have a packet of information to email to you in advance of our call—if not, I will simply ensure it gets to you afterward. Let me know if things change.” And with that he hung up, without waiting for any words of farewell. Rudy didn’t believe in “societal placeholders”, as he called them. Mycroft decided to walk back to the hotel. It was a lovely day, and would give him time to ponder the situation. He was increasingly convinced that sending Sherlock and Anthea home was the correct approach; he could requisition additional agents from Rudy this evening, and ship his junior members home in the morning. There would no doubt be a certain amount of drama involved, but the danger far outweighed any concerns over hurt feelings.His uncle’s machinations were another issue entirely. Mycroft was well aware that Rudy would always have his hands on everything everyone did; it was what made him so effective, after all. But this was the first time Mycroft had realized that Rudy was also withholding information from him. That was another matter altogether—it both undermined Mycroft’s authority with his teams, and left them potentially at risk due to unnecessary ignorance.He spent the next ten minutes of his walk mentally composing the conversation he planned with his uncle about this issue. He would need to make his points firmly, concisely, without a shred of the irritation and anger he felt. His uncle would expect no less.By the time he reached the ornate front doors of the hotel, he had reached a point of austere calm. The irritation at his uncle had been shoved out of conscious awareness, and he was now ready to break the news to his team. He glanced at his watch: half-two. Sherlock’s “window” for the dress rehearsal had come and gone; Mycroft was less than enthusiastic about the upcoming conversation (read: shouting match) he faced on reaching the suite.He rode in solitary state in the lift, and headed to the double doors of the suite. He used his key for entry, and was mildly surprised to see Anthea standing nervously in the lounge area, all but wringing her hands. “What’s the matter?” he asked, looking around. “I need to speak to all of you, but especially Sherlock.”“That’s just the thing,” Anthea said, looking as if she was heading to the gallows. “They’re gone. Both of them.”
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Duppy—a malevolent Jamaican ghost or spirit
Two hours earlier
Anthea
“Why don’t you go see if you can roust Sherlock out?” Anthea said, when the time for departure for the dress rehearsal had come and gone without an appearance by their star performer. “We both know he’s upset; letting him marinate in his room isn’t a good idea.”“Yeah,” Ollie sighed. “Better he sits out here and ruins our day, than sit in his room and only ruin his.” He rolled his eyes in punctuation, but dutifully rose and headed for Sherlock’s door.It starts out politely enough, Ollie giving a quick rap of his knuckles on the firmly closed door. “Sherlock?” he said. “C’mon out. We’ll let you yell at us for a bit. You’ll feel better.”Silence.Ollie leaned forward impatiently and rapped harder. “Sherlock!” he barked. “Don’t make me drag you out. It’ll ruin your image.”More silence.“Right, then,” Ollie said, tried the door handle, and briskly popped it open.Anthea could tell something was wrong by the way Ollie suddenly went very, very still, before darting into the room. “What?” she said, trotting over to follow him in. “What’s wrong?”Ollie stood in the center of Sherlock’s very empty bedroom, arms locked across his chest. “The little bastard’s done a runner,” he said. “And he took his violin with him.” He pointed to the nearly invisible door to the next hotel room, set into the back wall. Formerly locked, it was designed to provide a larger suite when both spaces were rented. “Jimmied the lock and went out to the hallway through the empty room.”Anthea resisted the urge to kick the bedpost. “Bugger,” she said succinctly.“Yep, that pretty much sums it up,” Ollie said. “So, what do we do? Call Mycroft, so he can have him picked up? He’ll have him on the next train home, with a minder or two just to rub it in.”“It’s what he deserves, certainly,” Anthea said, and it was. But-- ”He’s been through an awful lot to get here, though,” she added reluctantly. “It hardly seems fair to smack him down because he’s upset that it’s all been for nothing.”Ollie sighed. “So I’m going to go get him, aren’t I?” he said. “Before he gets himself into trouble with Big Brother?”Anthea smiled, walking over and giving him a quick buss on the forehead. “You’re a treasure,” she said.
Sherlock
This is a mistake. This is a mistake. This is—
The litany ran continuously through Sherlock’s head, all the way from the hotel to the performance hall. Knowing that he would likely regret this rebellion, that it could have a dire effect on his ability to continue in his brother’s employ, still didn’t stop his feet from heading out the door. Sherlock wasn’t quite sure when the competition had reached this level of importance; he had certainly told Mycroft, with utter conviction, that he wanted it. But he hadn’t realized, until presented with a situation that would render all of his work, all of his hopes, immaterial, that he had reached this level of commitment.It was, at its base, somewhat ridiculous. Even if he competed, even if he won, it wouldn’t be official. As soon as the competition was completed he would be forced to acknowledge that he was ineligible, and cede the title to the runner-up. But that wasn’t an issue—Sherlock didn’t particularly care if he didn’t take home a gaudy trophy, or have his name posted on the roster of winners, and he certainly couldn’t undertake a world performance tour. What he cared about was the music—those perfect moments of performance, where he and the orchestra moved and breathed together, and did their best to achieve perfection, while knowing they could never reach it. To know that musicians he respected acknowledged his music…he hadn’t realized how much he missed that since leaving uni. Hadn’t thought about how he would regret his decision not to continue when he returned. This, this competition, was truly his encore, perhaps his very last performance, and he wanted it. He hurried into the equipment room only a few minutes late, to be greeted by several of the orchestra members milling about, tuning and gathering music folders before heading onstage. A few he recognized gave him encouraging smiles or waves, which he hesitantly returned.As Sherlock finished tweaking his strings and bundled up his music (not that he needed the sheets, at this point, but it was a security blanket of sorts) Izzie bustled in from the stage door. “I was concerned,” he said, moving forward to capture Sherlock’s free hand. “You’re usually early.” He looked around. “Is your sister out front already?”Oh. Sherlock hadn’t thought about that issue. “No,” he said cautiously, and left it at that. As it turned out, that was a mistake.Izzie’s brows knit. “She’s not coming?” he said, in a tone just short of incredulous.“She might,” Sherlock hedged. “She wasn’t back yet, when I had to leave.”Izzie searched Sherlock’s face, then nodded. “I see,” he said. “Well, why don’t you go get onstage?” he said, making a shoo-ing motion with his hands. “Perhaps I’ll give her a call to remind her of the time.”“No,” Sherlock barked before he could stop himself. Then, aware his face was flaming, “Please don’t. Please.” Because that would put paid to his hope of playing one more time—Anthea would withdraw him officially, and that would be it.Izzie looked troubled. “I…if you’re sure, William,” he said finally. “But I wish you would let me.”Sherlock gave him a grateful nod, and darted for the stage door. The rehearsal was everything Sherlock could have hoped for—that graceful, flowing interplay between his violin and the accompanying orchestra, that transcendent feeling when he felt swept into the progression of notes. They gave two full run-throughs of the piece, with the facility crew focusing on lighting, camera placement and sound balance. At the end, Sherlock was both exhilarated and drained, filled with a profound sadness when he contemplated the fact that this was almost certainly his final performance of its type.As Sherlock walked offstage, Izzie met him at the door to the equipment room, beaming. “That was lovely, my boy,” he said, rubbing Sherlock’s back briskly. “I think you have an exceptional chance to take home the title.” He looked around, as if searching for something—or someone. “Did your sister ever show up?”“I don’t think so,” Sherlock said. He honestly hadn’t tried to look beyond the stage lights. The fact that there was no one here, now that the rehearsal was concluded, tended to argue that his absence hadn’t been discovered yet.Izzie bristled like an annoyed terrier. “I will have a talk with her,” he said firmly. “I’m sure your parents are unaware that she is not giving you the proper support. Perhaps I should call them as well,” he mused.“You won’t be able to contact them,” Sherlock said, thinking quickly. “My father is out on a remote site in Saudi Arabia, dealing with a plant explosion. My mother likely went with him. That’s why Carmen is here instead.”Izzie still looked troubled. “But Carmen has not—she should be here, William. It’s not right that you should be alone through all of this.”Sherlock smiled, and turned to loosen his strings and put away his instrument. “I’m good at alone,” he said simply. “And you’re here.” His hope was that the flattery would mollify the old man, but he had to admit to himself that he found Izzie’s care curiously warming.Izzie smiled back, but still seemed hesitant. “I am not enough, William,” he said. But he didn’t prevent Sherlock from leaving, so that was fine. Outside, Sherlock breathed in the mountain air, appreciating the breeze and the novel scents. Nothing like London, or even Surrey. Though he suspected he wouldn’t appreciate it anywhere near as much in wintertime, right now, on the cusp of summer, it was warmish and sunny, perfect weather for a walk. That made it easier to convince himself not to head directly back to the hotel, where he knew all too well what awaited him.He strapped his violin case to his back and headed towards the centre of town, with no particular destination in mind. Perhaps another visit to the chocolate shop, or the intriguing leather works he’d noticed nearby.He hadn’t gotten very far when he heard running footsteps behind him, and turned to see one of the venue’s pages trotting towards him. “Are you William?” the boy panted, in English with a Swiss German accent.Sherlock nodded, unsure what this could be about but in no way alarmed—the boy clearly wasn’t distressed, just out of breath from chasing after him.“Oh, good,” the page said, face breaking into a breathless smile. “Wasn’t sure if I’d catch you, but Herr Taubman asked me to see if I could find you. They want you back at the venue. The head conductor’s office, on the second floor,” he said. “Just take the lift and turn right—it’s all the way at the end of the hall.” He paused, then continued. “I think maybe they want to take some pictures—I know the photographer was asking for you earlier.”Sherlock hesitated, unsure if he could think of a legitimate reason to say no but reluctant to head back, especially when he would likely be withdrawing tomorrow. “I don’t think—” he began, only to be interrupted by the boy.“Oh, you really should,” the page said. “I don’t think you saw, but they put on some special snacks and things for after rehearsal, and there was a little gift for you as well. I think that’s what they wanted the pictures for.”Sherlock hesitated, torn. While he didn’t care a bit about a trophy or plaque, it would be nice to have some sort of souvenir, which was what the gift was likely to be. A key ring, perhaps, or a pen set. Finally he nodded. “OK,” he said. “I’ll be there shortly.”The page grinned and ran off, heading back towards the performance hall at speed.Sherlock followed at a more moderate speed, heading first to the equipment room, where he found a glittery red gift bag with “William” on the tag in his assigned cubby. He looked in the bag and was pleased to find a beautiful little paperweight, shaped as a globe with colourful glass “waves” inside splashing around. He tucked the little object into his trouser pocket and headed to the lifts to look for the conductor’s office.Most people in the building earlier had left; the next rehearsal wasn’t for another hour, so the orchestra would have headed off to indulge in the snack spread or sneak illicit cigarettes before reassembling. Izzie, presumably, had gone back to the hotel, since Sherlock was his sole remaining mentee (with the exception of Claus, who hadn’t been granted a full dress rehearsal, but was expected to practice on his own in case another contestant was unable to continue).The modern lift rose silently, with lights that were somewhere between “adequate” and “dim”. Some cost-saving measure, perhaps. Sherlock found it restful, but he suspected most people would find it annoying.The subdued lighting continued as the doors opened on the second-floor hallway. It was a nondescript space—had he not known otherwise, Sherlock would have assumed it was any modern business office after hours. No visual cues spoke of this as an adjunct to a world-class performance hall—not even colourful posters on the wall. Just a long row of identical office doors, some with frosted glass, others with names discreetly painted in silver letters.The lighting was especially dim in the farthest reaches of the hall. As Sherlock approached what was presumably the conductor’s office, he had to lean close to each door to check the names. He reached the last one, noticed with relief it was the correct one, and tried to open the door, only to find it locked. He rattled the knob, somewhat confused—why would the door be locked in the middle of the day, especially when the man was expecting “William” momentarily?Sherlock had just reached up to knock firmly on the glass when he heard…something. Movement, perhaps? A slight sound from behind him, from what he knew firsthand was an empty hallway. He took his hand away and started to turn, but was interrupted by an arm that felt like an iron band snaking around his chest from behind, the hand reaching up to push his head violently up and to one side, forcing his mouth closed. Then there was a bright spark of pain from the side of his neck, and then there was nothing.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Ayakashi—Japanese water spirit of one who died at sea or in the water, sometimes luring victims to drown
Ollie
Ollie spent most of the walk to the theatre swearing and crafting elaborate revenge scenarios against Sherlock, at least half of which he was quite serious about. By the time Ollie arrived, Sherlock’s rehearsal slot had ended twenty minutes before, so the boy was almost certainly lurking somewhere relatively close but not heading back to the hotel (for obvious reasons).He went to the performance hall first, in the hope that the session ran over or that Sherlock had stayed for conversation. The grand space was nearly empty, though, with a stage dominated by empty chairs, the door to the rear equipment room wide open.Ollie came up the side steps to the stage, smiled distantly at the two musicians idling in the wings, and headed towards the back as if he had permission to be there. It was Sherlock’s favourite “disguise”—acting like a Man on a Mission was better than almost any kind of physical change.Several musicians were milling about the equipment room, tuning or switching out reeds or strings. Ollie didn’t recognize any of them. Lacking any other tactic, he addressed the room at large. “Anyone seen Will? The violinist?” he asked.A number of heads shook, but one of the cellists spoke up. “I think they sent a page after him, fifteen minutes or so ago,” she said. “Maybe to see about the photos. I didn’t hear why for certain.”Well, that was a start, at least. Ollie gave a nod of thanks and headed to the main desk for Peeps, situated in the ornate front lobby. A little discreet questioning led him to a side room where three young boys dressed in formal uniforms lounged about, waiting for errands to run. “Did one of you go after William?” he asked. “Tall, dark hair, thin?”One of the boys nodded. “Yes,” he said. “I was sent with a message—he was to go to the conductor’s office. Photos, I think.”Ollie felt a flash of relief. “How long ago?” he asked. “And did you find him?”The boy nodded again. “’Bout 20 minutes,” he said. “I caught up to him in the square. He said he was coming, and I gave him directions to the office.” He pointed out the door. “To the lifts—second floor, at the far end of the corridor to the right. They may still be there—I haven’t seen the conductor come back downstairs yet.”Ollie nodded, tossed the boy a tip and headed up, reminding himself to stay in character once he reached Sherlock. On the off chance that they were going to stay here, the last thing Ollie wanted to do was blow their cover because he was annoyed at Sherlock for being an idiot.The lift was modern and silent, and the corridor was poorly lit—maybe somebody was on a cost-cutting mission. Ollie went down the row of nondescript offices, coming to the last one, nestled in a particularly dark corner. The door was ajar—Ollie rapped his knuckles on it politely before poking his head inside. “Hello?” he called.A tall, austere man came from a door into another room. “Can I help you?” he said. He gave no indication that anyone else was with him.“I’m, uh, looking for William,” he said. “I’m to pick him up.”The man’s brow creased. “He’s not here,” he said. “I was a few minutes late, I know, but I would have hoped he would wait. Now we will have to set up time tomorrow for photos specially.”Ollie blinked. “But he told the page he was coming straight here,” he said.The conductor rolled his eyes. “Boys,” he said, shaking his head ruefully. “He likely got distracted downstairs. I would check with Mr. Taubman,” he continued. “I know they had a session planned for this afternoon sometime.”“Yeah,” Ollie said, at a loss. “I’ll just…I’ll go check,” he managed, and went back to the hallway. He had started to turn and head back to the lift when he noticed that the unmarked door on the other side of the corridor wasn’t latched, sitting not quite fully into the doorjamb. He edged into the dark corner and gave it a gentle push. And there, sitting at an odd angle in the middle of the floor of the empty room as if it had been roughly thrown inside, was Sherlock’s violin case.
Anthea
Anthea flinched from the well-concealed fury she could sense from her employer. “Am I correct in assuming that Sherlock opted to attend his rehearsal, despite specific orders not to do so?” Mycroft snapped. “And that, once you realized, Oliver went after him to save him from the consequences of his profoundly stupid decision?” The last was delivered in the next-best thing to a snarl.Anthea nodded, resisting the urge to sidle away to the safety of her room.“The two of you will be on the first train in the morning,” Mycroft continued, in the coldest voice she’d ever heard him use. “I will speak to Oliver before deciding whether to send him with you as well. For now, I require that you draft an email withdrawing Sherlock from the competition. Write it out in longhand; I will review it before it’s sent. Now, go be somewhere else,” he concluded, and turned his back.Anthea pulled up the shreds of her battered dignity, bit into her trembling bottom lip, and stomped to her bedroom. She wanted to slam the door but didn’t quite dare.She spent the next fifteen minutes alternating between re-drafting the email and jumping up to pace around the room. She had just grabbed the last version and opened her door when the entry to the suite slammed open, admitting a distraught Ollie. “They took him,” he gasped, as he panted and bent to rest his hands on his knees, breathing roughly. “Sherlock. He’s gone.” The next five minutes were forever a blur in Anthea’s memory. She could recapture flashes: Mycroft grabbing Ollie’s arm, pushing him to the sofa and barking questions; Ollie, face pale, answering repeatedly with the little information he knew; Anthea herself shaking, shaking. She came back to herself abruptly when Mycroft stopped, blinked, and turned back to Ollie.“How did you know?” he asked. “I accept that you are sure this disappearance was not voluntary on Sherlock’s part. But how were you immediately sure?” And that was a good question, honestly—given the events of today, it wouldn’t be out of character for Sherlock to bunk off to try and delay the inevitable.Ollie blinked in return. “I…,” he trailed off uncertainly. “The scene,” he said finally. “When I found the violin. Sherlock might have left it behind, but he’d never just toss a violin into a room like that. Never.”Mycroft nodded. “Then I need to see it,” he said, gesturing to both of them in a “hurry up” motion. “Before we involve either Peeps or the authorities, I need to see the unadulterated scene. What we find will dictate what approach we follow. And I have no confidence that the locals would willingly collect the necessary information, even if they had the requisite skills to do so.”They headed immediately to the lifts, while Anthea tried to decide how to phrase a question that needed to be asked. She finally opted for bluntness. “Are you going to call London?” she said, just as they reached the lobby and near-sprinted for the doors.“We’ll discuss that later,” Mycroft said. “Once we know what to tell them, if anything.” When they reached the performance hall, Mycroft stopped them in the lobby. “We need to keep a very low profile,” he said quietly. “Are there service lifts?”Ollie nodded. “Yeah, around back,” he said. “Near the kitchens. Don’t get a lot of use, and as far as I know they don’t require any kind of keycard.”“Excellent,” Mycroft said. They headed directly there; they were fortunate, in that the next rehearsal session was already in progress, so very few people were out in the halls. They reached the second floor without incident. As the doors opened, Mycroft looked sharply around. “I wonder if this low lighting is recent,” he said. “One of many questions we will need to ask. It’s a little too convenient.”Ollie lead them to the conductor’s office, now locked and dark since the man in question was downstairs in rehearsal. “This is where the page sent Sherlock,” he said. “But the conductor said he never saw him. Pretty sure he was telling the truth.”Mycroft looked closely at the lock. “No obvious tampering,” he said. “So it’s unlikely Sherlock ever opened the door, assuming it was locked.” He turned on his heel. “So?” he asked Ollie.Ollie shoved Anthea out of the way and moved to a barely seen doorway in the far corner. “That one,” he said. “It’s…I noticed it hadn’t latched all the way. So I pushed it open carefully, and saw the violin.”Mycroft reached out and gave the door a firm push. Nothing happened; his eyebrows raised. “Did you reclose it?” he asked.Ollie shook his head. “No, of course not!” he said. “I made sure to leave everything exactly as I found it.”“Curious,” Mycroft murmured, and grasped the doorknob—which failed to turn. “It’s now locked.”Anthea, without being asked, reached into her back pocket and pulled out her lockpick set—a gift from Sherlock two months ago, after he’d spent several days teaching her to use his own. The lock took less than two minutes. She stood and turned the knob, and the door moved silently open.The room was empty. As in, completely empty—no Sherlock, and no violin.“They’re cleaning up their tracks,” Ollie said shakily. “Which means this wasn’t a crime of opportunity.”“All the more reason for us to gather whatever we can now, before it disappears,” Mycroft said, his eyes darting around the vacant space. “I don’t believe Sherlock was ever physically in this room; I think it was simply a short-term solution to rid them of the violin. Which means he was transported immediately. Given that a man carrying or dragging a boy through the halls would certainly raise questions, I believe we need to investigate the stairwells.”Anthea had to chime in at that point. “’Man’, singular?” she asked. “Do we have any reason to know that?”“Highly likely,” Mycroft said. “More than one would have been difficult in this enclosed area; Sherlock would have certainly heard, if not seen, them, and raised the alarm. But one man, if that man is very, very good, could have taken advantage of the lighting, hidden in this room, and moved across the hallway quickly enough to secure him without incident.” He paused, then continued in a tight tone. “He would almost certainly have been drugged; there’s no way Sherlock would have gone quietly otherwise, even if threatened with a weapon.”And that was very true. Sherlock was exceptionally good at hand-to-hand, and would have put up a fight if he’d been able. Anthea had seen him disarm some very experienced agents in practice sessions, though his slight frame and low bodyweight put him at a disadvantage.They left the room quietly, pulling the door closed behind them. “Should I re-lock it?” Anthea asked. She could argue it either way—it hadn’t been locked when Ollie arrived, after all.“Yes, I believe so,” Mycroft said, after a moment’s thought. “I am reluctant to alert our foe to our skills. For the time being, I believe remaining ‘Will’s’ concerned entourage might serve us well.”Anthea bent to her task—relocking was generally quicker, and so it proved. She heard the satisfying “click”, rose and put her tools in her pocket, looking at their leader inquiringly.“Stairwells,” Mycroft said. “Which is closest, and which is least likely to be monitored or overseen?”“Closest is just down here to the left,” Ollie said, gesturing up the hall. “Least used—maybe the far one, at the other end of the hall. I think it comes out in the basement, and doesn’t have entry doors on the lobby level.”Anthea was impressed—Ollie had clearly done his homework when they arrived in Switzerland.Mycroft nodded. “We’ll give the closest one a quick look, but my money is on the other. This is a professional—not likely to take any chances of being seen.”He proved correct—even Mycroft found no evidence of his brother’s passage in the first stairwell. “Used for clandestine assignations by the staff, apparently, but nothing more sinister than that,” he said as they reached the ground floor. They turned and climbed back up the stairs to the dim hallway, then headed to the other stairwell.The lights at this end of the corridor were even dimmer than the other side. Mycroft pointed to a fixture over the doorway to the stairs. “Emergency light,” he said. “I believe the bulb has been unscrewed. Someone was making very sure of the darkness.”They pushed open the door—the lighting on the stairs themselves was still in working order, thankfully. Mycroft went down each step carefully, eyes roving everywhere. Anthea noticed Ollie trying to do the same—it wouldn’t help, likely, but it gave him something to do.They had reached the last turn of the stairs before the basement landing when Mycroft suddenly stopped and leaned very, very close to the wall. He pulled out a tiny lens from his inside pocket, examined something on the wall, then stepped back in satisfaction. “There,” he said, pointing at a tiny brown mark at shoulder height. “It’s a scuff mark from a boot sole. Almost certainly Sherlock’s.”Anthea had to ask. “Um…how do we know that?” she said hesitantly. “I mean, it’s a service stairwell—not likely it gets cleaned on any kind of regular basis. That could have been here for months.”“The height, and the angle,” Mycroft said. “No one could easily make such a mark with their shoe that high on the wall unless they were jumping—or being carried. And soles are only likely to leave drag marks like that if the side of the shoe moves along the stonework—but anyone jumping would impact the wall with the bottom of the foot, not the side. That, and the fact that the colour is identical with Sherlock’s boots.”Anthea was prepared to accept that reasoning. “So, what now? Do we call the police?”“We can’t,” Ollie said. “We know that the local police had some involvement with the smuggling ring, at least. Have to assume they’re compromised in general, even if they weren’t involved in grabbing Sherlock.”Mycroft nodded. “Exactly so,” he said. “But we must involve Peeps, immediately. I think, on reflection, that retaining our cover is a wise move. For the smugglers to suddenly learn that we are not what we seem could be disastrous for Sherlock.”Anthea shuddered at that thought. Kidnapping a child was bad enough. But if the kidnappers heard that they were, in fact, agents of MI6 it could be a death warrant for the boy. He would become an instant liability rather than an asset.“But shouldn’t we let London know?” Ollie asked. “I mean, they could have additional assets here in a couple of hours.”“Perhaps later,” Mycroft said. “But I want to first see the reaction of the Peeps staff. Someone is clearly identifying specific children as targets for this group. I want to know who—Messer himself, or some other individual not involved with the gun operation? The two are almost certainly connected, but as yet we still have no proof. We are going to be loud; we are going to be distraught. We are going to make sure these people know that we will not let this go—that, alone, may give Sherlock’s captors pause, and lead them to release him unharmed. In the past their targets were children who were neglected or abandoned, and that led them to develop a certain cockiness in repeating their tactics year after year. We will let them know the jig is up, and that this time they chose the wrong victim. And then we will stop them.”
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Ma doi—Vietnamese “hungry ghost”
Ollie
Ollie tended to forget, until he was forcibly reminded, what a good actress Anthea was. Though, come to think of it, not all of this was likely acting, given the very real danger Sherlock was likely in.“He’s missing,” she sobbed, in a voice very near a shriek. “He is fifteen years old, and he’s out there somewhere, and he’s afraid, and…” she trailed off, putting one shaking hand over her mouth.Izzie moved over to wrap an arm firmly around her shoulders, while the Peeps officials looked on in varying degrees of horror. “Come, sit,” he said gently. “And we will see what needs to be done.” He looked up at Mycroft and Ollie. “Are we positive that he has not, well, taken off on his own?”Ollie shook his head. “I went looking for him earlier,” he said. “To let him know Carmen was on her way back. But the conductor hadn’t seen him, even though the page said that’s where he was headed. And I saw his violin, just thrown into an empty office upstairs.”“He would never treat his instrument roughly,” Mycroft interjected, putting just the right touch of fear into his voice. “Never.”Izzie looked up and caught the eyes of the Peeps proctors hovering in the doorway. “Let us go look,” he said. “Perhaps there is something that will give us an idea of where William may be.” In short order they all filed into the lifts, the theatre security staff leading the way, with Anthea still huddled against Izzie. When the doors opened on the dim hallway the chief security official looked around in surprise. “What is the matter here? Why is it so dark?” he asked. He turned to one of his two supporters. “Get maintenance up here at once.” The uniformed man hustled off to the other lift and headed back downstairs.The security head turned to Ollie next. “Show me,” he said. “Where was the violin? Which office?”Ollie pointed down to the dark corner opposite the head conductor’s office. “That one,” he said. “I noticed the door wasn’t quite caught, so I pushed it open and saw the violin on the floor.”The guard pushed firmly on the door, which, unsurprisingly, didn’t move. “It’s locked,” he said, raising his eyebrows at Ollie.“It wasn’t,” Ollie said firmly. “And I left it open, just like I found it. I thought it might be important.” The security head gave him a nod that implied respect, then reached to a keyring on his belt and unlocked the door. The door swung open to reveal the empty room, just as they had left it 20 minutes before.The guard turned to Ollie. “You’re sure this was the room? And that the violin was here?”Ollie nodded firmly. “Yeah,” he said. “I had just spoken with the conductor in his office over there,” he said, pointing with his chin, “and when I came out, I saw the door ajar. The violin was right in the center, like someone had tossed it from the doorway.”While he was speaking, the hallway suddenly lit up halfway along its length. A woman, evidently part of the maintenance crew, came bustling up to the head security man. “The bulbs,” she said. “They were unscrewed and left in place.” She turned back up the hallway. “I will go repair the rest.”As the woman left, the security chief turned to the Peeps official, who until now had stood silently at the rear of their group. “We must contact the police,” he said, as Anthea let out a wail behind him. “This was planned, well in advance. The boy may be in danger, and there is no time to waste.” In short order, after a brisk phone call to the police, they adjourned to the station, just off the main square. Ollie found himself comparing what he saw to the photos from the murdered boy—someone, thankfully, had cleaned up the floors in the cell area visible off to the right of the main lobby.The police chief was not as convinced of Sherlock’s disappearance as the theatre security chief was. “The boy was not seen to be upset, from what you say,” he said. “And the room where you claim the violin was seen was locked and empty?”Ollie repressed his reflexive response, quite hard; he was aware of Mycroft standing very close, acting as a reminder of the need to keep a non-threatening profile here. “Yes,” he said. “Which means someone came back to the room after I saw it.”“Or you were mistaken as to which room you saw,” the policeman said stiffly.“I wasn’t,” Ollie said bluntly. “And the conductor can confirm that he had spoken to me, literally just before, right across the hall.”The conversation continued along those lines for far too long, before the policeman finally grudgingly agreed to send a crew over to the theatre to interview the staff, Peeps participants and Peeps crew members and officials. Mycroft, Anthea and Ollie gradually let Izzie and the security staff pull ahead of them as they hurried back to the theatre.“That went much as expected,” Mycroft said, his arm carefully around Anthea’s waist in “support”. “It’s unclear if that is a result of typical bureaucratic indifference, or actual involvement with Messer and the smugglers. I am glad, however, that we decided not to reveal our own affiliation with MI6. I have no confidence whatsoever that whatever we reveal to him will not find its way directly to Messer’s ears.”“This isn’t happening fast enough,” Anthea said tensely. “We need to notify London to stop transit at the train stations and the airport. If they manage to get him out of the country…”“I texted the surveillance team earlier,” Mycroft said. “They are keeping eyes-on with Messer full time. We also have watchers at the train station, and they are requesting additional teams at the airports in Zurich and Bern. They will focus on the private aircraft area—even if Messer was able to procure a false passport for Sherlock, I can’t imagine how he could get him through security in the public terminal area.” He paused, then continued. “I believe train travel is much more likely; it would be relatively easy to use a large trunk for concealment, and then enter the baggage car as needed.”Anthea visibly stiffened. “That is your brother you are discussing,” she said, in awful tones. “You can’t—”“Anthea,” Mycroft interjected harshly. “I know this. But I must maintain my equilibrium, or we are all lost, especially Sherlock. If you can’t do the same, you must tell me now.”The girl grimaced, gritted her teeth—then nodded, reluctantly. Didn’t quite dare attempt to speak, Ollie noticed.Mycroft nodded in his turn. “Very well,” he said. “Now, I need you to tell them,” and he pointed his chin at the group ahead of them, “that I have insisted on going to look for Sherlock on my own. You can point out that I have nothing relevant to offer them anyway, since I wasn’t even here this morning. I must notify London of this development, and ask Rudy for additional resources. I will meet you back at the room in two hours, if not before. One of you needs to be there—we may need to speak privately before engaging any further with the police or Peeps. Can you ensure this?”Anthea nodded. “I’ll have a ‘breakdown’,” she said, with a damp little sigh. “It usually works like a charm.”And with that, Mycroft nodded, squeezed her shoulder briefly, and turned on his heel to head back towards the square and the offices of the surveillance team.
Mycroft
On the short walk to the nondescript space hired by the surveillance team, Mycroft did calming exercises, over and over. The last thing he could afford, in speaking to his uncle, was even a hint of an emotional reaction. He knew that would leave him on the precipice of losing control of the entire operation, his team shifted back to London and Rudy’s people sweeping in to take over.If that happened, Mycroft genuinely feared he would never see his brother again.He mentally laid it out thusly: Rudy did not like Sherlock, and thought him a hindrance to Mycroft’s development and career. While certainly Rudy would supply any resources Mycroft asked for, he was not above giving those resources specific orders that may well counter those Mycroft would issue, if it served his purposes. Mycroft held no illusions: his uncle’s sole focus would be on Messer, and closing down the smuggling operations. Once that was accomplished, the case would be designated as “complete”, and Sherlock would become an unfortunate element of collateral damage, if he wasn’t located before that point.After a brief check-in with the team (which essentially consisted of variations on a theme of “nothing yet”), Mycroft took the satellite phone and locked himself in the same office he had used for his earlier conversation with his uncle. He dialed the number while doing his calming exercise one more time, flinching slightly when the older man answered.“Mycroft?” Rudy said, surprise evident in his voice. “Why are you—”“Sherlock has been taken,” Mycroft said, and was proud that his voice sounded dispassionate. “Roughly 90 minutes ago. We are acting on the assumption that it was Messer, or others working on his behalf.”There was an uncomfortable silence—well, on Mycroft’s end, at least. Then— “Are you positive this isn’t a voluntary absence?” Rudy asked. “Since we are aware that your brother was unhappy about leaving the competition prematurely.”Mycroft stomped on his temper again. “Yes,” he said simply. “His violin was left nearby, roughly discarded—Oliver saw it. But by the time we returned to examine the site, it was gone. Someone was cleaning up their tracks.”Silence again, though this one was more of the “pondering” variety. “I see,” Rudy said finally. “What steps have you taken, then?”Mycroft ran through the events of the past hour, including their conversation with the police. “The police may be compromised,” he said. “Certainly they evinced little sense of urgency in investigating, though the theatre security staff were much more energetic. But on reflection I’m not sure the police would be of any help regardless—they have no resources we can’t match or exceed, likely.”“I believe it best to assume they are indeed compromised,” Rudy said. “I would allow the theatre or Peeps to liase with them as needed, and stay out of the mix. Have you made arrangements to send the rest of your team home yet? Or Anthea, at least—Oliver may prove to be of some use yet.”Mycroft blinked. “That would be unwise, surely,” he said. “If we are who we seem to be, ‘Carmen’ would certainly not leave until her brother was found. If anything, I’m thinking we may need to come up with agents to step in as ‘parents’ as well.”Rudy made a scoffing kind of noise. “I’m sure you can come up with some reason why the parents are incommunicado. And you could put it about that ‘Carmen’ is prostrate with grief and sedated in her room for now. You need people on your team who can help put pressure on Messer, not undertrained children.”Mycroft suppressed his reactions again. “I will…take that under advisement, uncle,” he managed. “But in the meantime, I would like to request additional resources—an extra team, preferably of Swiss German or French speakers, with exceptional tracking skills. While I am confident that at least some security films will come to light, being able to rely on other physical signs would be very helpful, especially if Sherlock has been taken outside of Interlaken.”“Very well,” Rudy said, sounding somewhat disgruntled. “But understand—if I have not heard positive results within the next 24 hours, I will be taking steps of my own. We will be taking Messer down, come what may. Is that clear?”“Yes, of course,” Mycroft said, because what else could he say?
One hour earlier--Ollie
The theatre’s security head was named Erich Kantor. Ollie was coming to appreciate his thoroughness. As they began a deep sweep of the lower levels of the building, looking for traces of either Sherlock or his captor, the man caught Ollie’s speculative look. “I spent four years in the IDF, and two working with the Sayeret*,” Kantor said with a grin. “My grandmother lives in Haifa, and I went to high school there to work on my Hebrew. Didn’t want to stay permanently—too fucking hot—but I ended up with transferable skills when I came back to Switzerland.”Ollie thought about that—he would need to mention this to Mycroft. It might be helpful. “So, why the theatre?” he asked, while they combed through the first of three large HVAC equipment rooms. “I mean, seems like the Swiss special forces would be happy to have you.”Kantor nodded. “They will, in a year or two. Haven’t applied yet—I’ve only been home a year, and I wanted to take something that gave me a bit of time to rest first. In the meantime, this job is ideal—I ski most of the winter, since the hotel doesn’t need me much. Don’t get a lot of guests then.”There was a story there, Ollie thought. But he wasn’t quite rude enough to ask.They came out of the main equipment area into the central control room for the hotel’s machinery—heating, cooling, water—and the first thing Ollie noticed was the security cameras tucked into two corners. Kantor noticed the direction of his gaze and shook his head. “First thing I checked,” he said. “Someone inserted a very sophisticated 10-minute view loop in the whole system. Very professional. And no indication of how long it’s been in place that I could find, though that’s not really my field. I’ve called in an expert, but I don’t expect any quick answers.”Ollie felt himself deflate. Stupid to think that someone with Messer’s background wouldn’t anticipate the need to subvert the cameras. He shook his head and went back to the search.He found himself wondering how Anthea and Mycroft were faring. Anthea had insisted on sitting in on the interviews with the Peeps staff and orchestra members who’d come into contact with Sherlock—while she’d maintained “Carmen’s” air of fragility, she had also managed to insert some steel into her spine. Ollie had stayed only for the chat with Izzie, which had proven disappointing—though he and Sherlock had had a planned session for 3pm, he’d obviously not seen the boy and knew nothing about the disappearance until notified by Peeps.Kantor had proven a welcome surprise—Ollie had been concerned about being able to slip away from the man if he’d proven incompetent, but almost immediately Ollie realized that, if anything, Kantor’s skills exceeded his own. They had settled into the search together like a long-established team, following protocols that any agent worth their salt internalized very early in their training.“Where did you train?” Kantor asked as they moved to the laundry area, a vast open room dominated by piles of used linen and the smell of bleach.“Um. Couple of years with SAS** after a short regular army stint,” Ollie said, which had the advantage of being true, for the most part. What he didn’t say was that Mycroft Holmes had approached him just after he received his letter from SAS, and ultimately let him know that he would have a job awaiting him when he came out, if he wanted it. If he came out alive, which wasn’t always a given in his line of work. “Cocked up my knee a bit and couldn’t stay on.” That bit wasn’t true. In reality he’d realized he wasn’t suited for the work—discovered, surprisingly, that he was not quite ruthless enough--and took advantage of the end of his first tour to muster out.Kantor smiled. “A lot like me,” he said, and turned back to the search. It was Kantor who finally found what they were looking for. They had moved into the oldest area of the theatre—17th century, so Kantor said—and were investigating a long basement-level hallway with carved wooden panels on the walls and a warren of small, dark rooms. They had progressed systematically, checking each room at length, when Kantor suddenly stopped and stepped closer to one of the carved panels, pulling a torch from his pocket to look more closely.“What?” Ollie said, crowding in closer to see. He couldn’t quite see around Kantor’s shoulders.“What colour is the boy’s hair?” the man asked, pulling a handkerchief from his back pocket and reaching towards the wall. He poked, pried, and the entire panel suddenly creaked open slightly along the seam. When he pulled his hand back, the handkerchief held several hairs—dark, silky, curling loosely.“Well, crap,” Ollie said, wishing Anthea hadn’t kept their phone.Kantor handed the handkerchief and curls to Ollie and used the back of his hand to shove the panel the rest of the way open, carefully avoiding leaving fingerprints. “We’ll get a print kit down here shortly,” he said, “but first I think we’d better see where this goes.”Ollie blinked. “You don’t know?”The security man shook his head. “There were rumours of tunnels, dating back a couple of hundred years. But we didn’t have any plans or anything. Certainly they’re not maintained by the theatre.” He shone his torch inside and made a surprised noise. “But clearly someone’s been doing so.” He reached over to the far side of the opening, did something Ollie couldn’t see, and light abruptly flicked on, illuminating a low, narrow stone-cut passageway that trailed off into the distance, lit by a string of fairy lights tacked along the ceiling.They started off down the tunnelway, looking as carefully as they could for any indication of how often this had been used, or any sign of Sherlock’s presence other than the hair caught in the panel door. By and large they found nothing; the passage was cold, slightly damp, but surpassingly empty. It was also, however, quite clean for something abandoned for so long.“This has been used, and recently,” Kantor said after five minutes or so. “Granted, the stone itself would require little upkeep—it was carved out of bedrock. It’s not going anywhere. But there’s no debris, and very little dust, honestly. Which is odd—there’s relatively little crime in Interlaken, you know? But who else would use something like this?”Ollie didn’t think it was odd at all, considering, but he wasn’t going to share that with Kantor. The tunnels almost certainly figured into Messer’s plans for moving the weapons, if they hadn’t been employed already.They kept going, as the tunnel made occasional random turns before straightening back out again. Finally, though, a tiny bit of natural light seemed to glow ahead of them, and the walls around them grew slightly damp. At the end the tunnel narrowed enough that they could only progress one at a time, so Ollie didn’t initially see what was ahead when Kantor abruptly stopped ahead of him. Ollie placed his hands in the small of the man’s back and gave a firm shove, and the security man stepped forward enough that Ollie could see.The tunnel ended here. As they stepped through the opening, they found themselves in what was likely a natural cave opening, undercut by the river into the bedrock. But someone had improved upon that, putting in stone blocks to create a broad, flat landing that faced a pool of dark water that filled the space out to the opening of the cave, to the river beyond. And there, anchored to a set of sturdy metal cleats hammered into the stone, was a black Zodiac inflatable boat, equipped with a large outboard motor.And Ollie knew, as he saw it, that Sherlock was truly gone.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Strigoi—Romanian, troubled spirits that are said to have risen from the grave
Sherlock
They had stopped moving. At least he thought it had been movement—Christ, his head…At least something changed. That was certain.
But there was a problem. There were several problems. His head was--he lost the word. Thought briefly about opening his eyes, but was unable to figure out how that would occur. There were harsh waves of what a distant voice identified as nausea, but he wasn’t sure what to do about that either.
It was better, here in the dark. The movement had hurt, had left him feeling disconnected from everything. He still was, in this dark cocoon, but it was quiet, and he felt something soft under his hands. But he was very wet, and that was approaching maddening, damp fabric pulling when he tried to move.
His head reminded him that movement was bad. He breathed, and hurt, and was frightened. And then he was gone again.
Mycroft
When he returned to the hotel, Mycroft was surprised to find, not just Anthea, but also Ollie and the hotel security chief, Erich Kantor. Ollie forestalled any conversation and jerked his head towards Sherlock’s bedroom, and Mycroft followed silently.“We need to tell him who we are,” Ollie said immediately. “He can help. But only if he knows the whole picture.”Mycroft bridled. “I am not—”“He was Israeli secret service,” Ollie interrupted. “He knows what he’s doing, and I already checked him out through the surveillance team. All clean, and a top security clearance to boot.”Mycroft thought about that, and agreed. He knew that Rudy would not—would insist they continue to remain incognito until he decided otherwise—but given that Rudy had kept information from him, he felt justified in doing the same. Rudy wasn’t here, and couldn’t properly evaluate the players as Mycroft could. And Mycroft trusted Ollie’s judgment in this.“All right,” he said. “As long as he understands he can’t share the information with anyone else, including his own staff. It’s too great a risk.” And it was—he was increasingly convinced that Sherlock had been taken by someone who had no idea who he was. Having his captors learn that the boy was an agent, part of a team of other agents, could easily prove a death warrant.In short order, they had explained all to the Israeli, including their suspicions of Messer and the involvement of rival gunrunners. “Christ, what a mess,” Kantor sighed, scrubbing his hands roughly over his face. “And the boy—he’s one of yours as well? You start them awfully young, don’t you?”Mycroft felt a pang at that, realizing that the man was absolutely right, and his brother should never have been here. “It was…we only realized the danger in the past day or so,” he said. “Had I known, I would never have allowed any of this group to stay.” It sounded weak, even to him. “He was intended only as our entrée to the competition.”“We were due to be sent home in the morning,” Anthea said quietly. “And he’s a little older than he looks—19.”Kantor gave her a look that said her statement didn’t really change his opinion. It didn’t change Mycroft’s either.“So, where does this leave us?” Kantor asked, and Mycroft was grateful for the change in topic. He would pillory himself for his choices later.“I believe we should tell the authorities, and Peeps, what you and Oliver found,” Mycroft said. “Make it clear that this was a planned abduction, not a random passerby. I don’t want to put Messer on alert yet, though—so long as he thinks the only pursuit is via the local police, and perhaps Interpol, he is less likely to be on high alert. The very last thing we need right now is for a Stasi agent to be aware of MI6’s involvement in this case.” Not least because Rudy would use that as justification to sweep in and take over. But Mycroft wasn’t sharing that bit of information with Kantor. Not yet anyway.Kantor looked thoughtful. “I think there’s little point in searching the tunnel, or the theatre areas where William—”“Sherlock,” Anthea interrupted. “His name is Sherlock.” She was very shaken, visibly shaken, and not thinking especially clearly.“Sherlock,” Kantor said kindly. “I’ll remember. Though I’ll continue to use ‘William’ with the others, all right?” He waited for Anthea’s nod before he continued. “Anyway. I think worrying about fingerprints is pointless on our end—from what you say, we know who’s behind this, and identifying his local help gains us nothing. I’ll leave that to the local police. If they do it poorly, nothing lost.”Mycroft nodded. “I believe we need to concentrate on the physical,” he said slowly, thinking as he spoke. “Our number one concern is locating Sherlock. But, in all likelihood, locating Sherlock will also mean locating the weapons, or at least the headquarters of those who have them. So, we do a deep dive on local property transactions. We reach out to Interpol, enlist their help while requesting that they respect our cover identities, and ask them to dig up every scrap of information on Messer that they can derive. Financial information is the most critical—if any bank account linked in any way to Messer has been used locally, I want to know.”“In a weird way they did us a favour, taking Sherlock away from the theatre the way they did,” Ollie said. “Normally we would have concentrated our search here in town, or worried about train transport. But they took him by boat; that makes no sense if the plan was to get him immediately out of Switzerland. If they’d thrown him in the boot of a car, I’d believe that one. But as it is, I’d lay good money he’s still right here, somewhere near the river or close to it by car.”Mycroft thought about that too. “It’s not conclusive,” he said finally, “but it is a reasonable possibility. I will leave the surveillance flags in place for the transport hubs, but for the time being we will direct our primary efforts locally.” In short order, tasks were divvied up. Mycroft would contact Interpol and make sure that the agents responding knew that they were interacting with a “child’s family”, not an MI6 team with a missing agent. He would also go through “back-door” channels to pass on the same information to the espionage team at the British Embassy in Bern—when “Carmen” called them for help, the attaché who was dispatched would also be aware of the true situation.The discussion had done Anthea good—Mycroft was pleased to see both her colour and her nerves had improved. Her task was to be the “overwhelmed young sister”. When they returned to the hotel and met with the Peeps staff shortly, she would explain that she had messaged her parents and been told to contact the embassy.Ollie would be working directly with both Kantor and the MI6 surveillance teams—these two would be the requisite “boots on the ground”, tracking down leads as they arose.Mycroft felt good about the assignments; he believed he had covered the necessary tasks, and kept his own involvement in the background, necessary because of his status as a mere employee of “William’s” family. Concern was appropriate, of course, and would gain them good will, but revealing one iota of his current terror—because that’s what he felt right now—would seem overstated, no matter how real. His personal task would be to coordinate all activities, while simultaneously averting his uncle descending on them and taking over.
Anthea
She’d come to a decision, a little while ago: this was officially the worst day of her life to date. Sherlock’s abduction was the rudest of awakenings, bringing home to her just how dangerous her chosen profession could be. Worst of all was the overwhelming feeling of helplessness—the fact that Mycroft, the smartest person she’d ever known, had no means of tracking his brother down, and no real plan beyond trailing Messer, was terrifying.Right now, though, she needed to be “Carmen”, as she and Mycroft barged into the suite housing the Peeps staff at the hotel. “Carmen”, who was also terrified, but less capable of doing anything about it than her alter ego.“Why isn’t anyone doing anything?” she sobbed, as Izzie patted her back and handed her another tissue. “He’s just a little boy!” She turned and wailed into Izzie’s shoulder.Mycroft, standing behind the sofa she and Izzie were huddled on, cleared his throat and spoke, in a quiet, grave tone. “We have contacted William’s parents,” he said. “They will not be able to arrive for at least three days, as travel is very difficult from their remote location. But they have suggested strongly that we contact the British consulate in Bern. And Mr. Kantor, the security head of the theatre, will be reaching out to Interpol.”The two Peeps officials blanched, but nodded. “Whatever is necessary,” the senior official said. “We have delayed the remainder of the competition until William is found. We have also contacted the Swiss federal authorities, who have indicated that they will be happy to work with other agencies as needed and provide local resources.”They continued to discuss and commiserate for more than an hour, though little of it was helpful. Anthea wondered if Mycroft had considered “outing” Messer to Peeps. On reflection, though, she doubted it—the likelihood that the organization would know anything more than MI6 had learned was vanishingly small. And the last thing they wanted to do was alert Messer to the fact that he was already in their sights.Finally, Anthea caught a discreet signal from Mycroft: it was time to make their exit. She feigned a “swoon”, for lack of a better word (and could see her Aunt Margaret sneering in her mind’s eye). In very short order, Izzie had bundled her carefully back to the suite and seen her tucked in bed, with a promise of a visit from the house doctor shortly. She suspected she would be declining an offer of sedation, though she had to admit it had a certain appeal at present.Mycroft managed to convince Izzie to leave before the doctor arrived, assuring the old man that he would stay and make sure Anthea was cared for in the interim. Izzie went, reluctantly, but implored them to call him instantly if they needed anything, or if they had any word. He thankfully did not say the words “good or bad”, though Anthea certainly heard it in her head.The doctor duly arrived, and pronounced Anthea “stressed”. She managed, somehow, not to roll her eyes. As expected, he offered her “something to help you rest”. She accepted a packet of tablets but declined an injection—the idea of being drugged while there might be something she could do to help was horrifying.When the physician left Anthea climbed out of bed and went back into the lounge, where she found Mycroft sitting on the couch, staring pensively into space. She dropped down beside him and waited.“I can’t think of anything to do,” he said suddenly. “Not one thing. I have re-examined all the evidence we have multiple times, I have checked with the surveillance team to the point where they flinch when they hear my voice, I have ordered investigations of everyone with even the remotest of connections with Peeps, or with Messer, who happen to own property within 50 miles of Interlaken. I have contacted both Interpol and the British consulate, not that I thought the latter would be of any help.”He lapsed back into silence. Anthea gave him a solid 2 minutes, then spoke. “And?” she asked gently.He launched himself to his feet, striding jerkily from one end of the room to the other. “And nothing!” he barked. “It’s useless. All of it. Until we have somewhere to look, or the surveillance team reports Messer leaving the hotel, we can do nothing, except sit here and wait.” He said the last word as an expletive.“Yet,” she said firmly. And, as he gave her a foul look, she said it again. “Yet. It’s what you always tell me when things come to a stop, and we’re making no progress, and we’re frustrated. And, OK, worried. We’re all worried sick about Sherlock. But tearing yourself to shreds won’t accomplish anything.” She picked up the mobile Mycroft had tossed on the coffee table and held it out. “Why don’t you check and see when the two new agents will arrive, to begin with? We need to think of how best to use them. And Ollie will be back eventually—maybe he and Kantor have a starting place for us.”Mycroft gave her a long, truculent look before reluctantly taking the phone and heading into Sherlock’s bedroom. When he came back out he was calmer, though still tense. “I apologize, my dear,” he said softly. “I shouldn’t transfer my frustrations to you.”“Oh, please,” Anthea said. “As if I don’t already have a set of my own.” She smiled, and picked up the latest thick file of background information to wade through. Mycroft, after a beat, grabbed another and joined her. Ollie came back, finally, at almost 10. Mycroft had gone ahead and ordered room service for all of them, though neither he nor Anthea touched any of it. Ollie fell on it with a glad cry, but was more than willing to talk while he ate.“We have a tiny lead,” he said, “though it’s not something that will bear immediate fruit, I’m thinking. We were checking license plates of all cars that showed up on CCTV cameras on the far side of the river, for 5 miles each side of the boat landing. As you can imagine, there aren’t many cameras, so there weren’t a lot of cars to check. But about halfway through we had a backhanded hit: an old white van with a company logo on the side popped up. The plates had been obscured by what seemed to be mud, which was what made us curious enough to check the logo. And, as it happened, the logo is for a German company that has no local locations. We kept rolling through the tapes, and, lo and behold, the van was back, heading to town, an hour later. So we forwarded the info to the surveillance teams, telling them to search parking lots in Interlaken.”Ollie made a dramatic pause, waiting for their response. When they merely looked on, he scowled. “You’re no fun,” he grumbled, shoveling in another bite of stew. “All right then. We got a hit, about an hour ago. And you’ll never guess where—the hotel’s underground garage.”Anthea felt her spirits rise. Beside her, she could see Mycroft suddenly sit up straighter. “What measures have you put in place?” the bureaucrat asked, much calmer now that there were real results to deal with.“Kantor put in cameras at both ends of the garage, that give a direct feed to his offices at the theatre,” Ollie said. “And I put one of our surveillance team in place at the garage entrance. He’ll change out with others of the team every 6 hours round the clock, so we’ll get eyes-on, hopefully, when the van leaves. If the van leaves.” Because, now that Anthea thought about it, that was the deflating part here—they could do nothing until someone got in that van again.“I have a better idea,” Mycroft said. “Get one of the team to put a tracker on the van itself as well. In fact, I’ll call them—they’re very motivated to keep me happy right now.” He added a wry grin, and picked up the phone. They worked on the files until past midnight. No one wanted to go to bed, knowing that every hour they sat here was another hour that Sherlock was…well. Not knowing what Sherlock was doing, or where, was perhaps the worst part.Finally, though, Anthea couldn’t keep her eyes open any longer, and Mycroft ordered her to rest. She went, reluctantly, and took a hot bath in the hope that it would help her relax. Then she went to bed, where she laid in the dark, frightened for Sherlock, and wept.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Aswang—shapeshifting Filipino evil spirit or vampire
Anthea
Come morning, Anthea had given herself a stern talking to, and was feeling somewhat more capable. “What are today’s assignments?” she asked, over tea and toast that she (well, all of them) had to struggle to eat.“Ollie will work with Kantor to make sure the tracer is working properly, and to interface with the surveillance teams, both on the garage and on Messer himself,” Mycroft said briskly, his manner belying the deep blue circles under his eyes. “You, my dear, need to linger around the Peeps staff and look tragic, while reminding them frequently that Interpol and the British consulate should be sending agents today. You will be the point person for those interviews, though if possible, I wish to be present for the Interpol one. I must head to the surveillance office and contact Rudy once more. I wish to avoid his stepping in, if possible.” Implicit in that last bit was the understanding that Rudy would, most likely, immediately send all of them home, whether Sherlock had been found or not.They finished—well, stopped pretending to eat—in short order, and hurried out the door. Mycroft said goodbye in the lobby and headed off on his own; Ollie decided to put in an appearance as Anthea’s “bodyguard” before catching up with Kantor at the theatre. “It would look weird if I suddenly wasn’t around, especially since your baby brother was kidnapped,” he said, and she realized he was absolutely right.They stopped briefly at the desk in the forlorn hope that a message relating to their absent member had been delivered; nothing had, of course. They then took the lift up to the mezzanine level where the Peeps officials had established their temporary offices in a grand suite.Anthea drew to a stop just outside the lifts. “Do I look wretched enough?” she asked. Lord knew she felt awful, but she suspected her “awful” didn’t quite meet the standards of someone like “Carmen”.Ollie looked her over carefully. “Well, the dark circles work,” he said, “but you might want to wring out a few tears, just for effect.”She scowled. “I’ve never been able to cry on command,” she said.Ollie nodded. “Yeah, I’ve never known anyone who could do that but Sherlock,” he said, then looked stricken.And, just like that, her eyes welled up. She blinked, roughly, and gave him a wry smile. “Well, that’s one technique. Just don’t use it too often, OK?”He gave her a wobbly grin, and they headed down the hall to the Peeps suite.
Mycroft
Mycroft had no desire to have this conversation. None. But he knew it was necessary, if only to prevent his uncle arriving on the scene, or, worse yet, sending along functionaries to wrest control out of Mycroft’s hands.“Good morning, my boy,” his uncle boomed, in a jovial voice that grated violently on Mycroft’s frayed nerves. “Anything new to report? Has your brother wandered back from whatever he was up to?”Mycroft gritted his teeth. “No, Uncle,” he said severely. “As I told you yesterday, he did not ‘wander off’. He was taken. And we are exerting every effort to find him. In fact I was hoping you could tell me the status of the two additional agents I requested—I was surprised, upon rising this morning, to find no messages from them heralding their arrival.” That was pushing the envelope, and Mycroft knew it. But he was exhausted, and worried, and very, very tired of his uncle’s sniping at present.“They should be along tomorrow,” Rudy said. “I asked them to delay until after I’d spoken with you again, to make sure they wouldn’t be travelling to Switzerland needlessly.”Mycroft was abruptly strangling with fury. “Uncle,” he snapped. “Is it your intent to undermine my ability to complete this mission, and to rescue my brother? Because, if so, I would prefer you tell me now so that I may proffer my resignation and begin work on my own. We are wasting potentially valuable time.” And he knew, he knew he shouldn’t say that, but he couldn’t not do so.There was a long, fraught silence. When Rudy finally spoke, it was in that flat, soft voice that used to terrify Sherlock as a child. “Were you of the impression that this was in any way your decision?” There was both warning and threat in his tone.Mycroft fought the urge to flinch. He knew, though, that backing down was also the wrong idea; Rudy respected strength above all. “No, of course not,” he said, pleased that his voice did not display his internal unrest. “But you sent me here to do a task. It is within my purview to insist on having the necessary resources to do that job. I’m sure you’re aware, though, that I will not abandon Sherlock, even if I am replaced as mission head. You can ask many things of me, sir, but that is not one of them.”Another long silence, while Mycroft repressed the urge to speak prematurely. Finally, though, he heard what he’d been hoping for—a long sigh from the other end of the phone, followed by a lazy chuckle. “Well,” Rudy drawled. “You are wound up about this, aren’t you?” He chuckled once more, while Mycroft again fought his temper. “I suppose I can indulge you. The agents will be on the next train—I will ensure that they contact you on arrival, likely this evening.” Another pause. When he spoke again, his tone had darkened. “Understand, nephew: I will give you your resources. But the search for your brother is secondary, as I remain unconvinced that it isn’t simply misadventure—a chance encounter with the wrong person, perhaps. The arms deals will be stopped. Our internal observer with the rival group here in Paris has heard rumblings of an impending struggle for control with Messer’s group. Well, what we presume to be Messer’s, anyway. We may be able to leverage that if need be, but I would prefer to resolve things before that eventuality—turf wars are so messy.” One last pause. “You have 48 hours before I take action on my own, Mycroft.” Then he hung up.
Ollie
The session with the three Peeps senior staff members was largely a repeat of the previous day—dramatics, fervid assurances of “no stone unturned”, and offers of tea, water, sedatives. Anthea played to the crowd, keeping her wailing below the true hysterics threshold but making sure the men knew she wasn’t going away anytime soon. After perhaps twenty minutes of this, Izzie had a whispered conversation with one of the administrators, who nodded and excused himself momentarily. The man returned with a motherly-looking woman, perhaps 60, with a kind face and soft body. Ollie was pretty sure he’d seen her at the donor table in the banquet in Paris. “Why don’t you come with me to my suite, my dear, and have something to eat while we wait?” she said calmly. “We have received notice that the consulate officer will be here in an hour or so. Your…aide is welcome too, of course, if you wish.” She gave Ollie an apologetic look—he was pretty sure this was an invitation the woman was hoping he’d refuse.She was right. After a raised-eyebrow look at Anthea, Ollie lowered his head respectfully and declined. “I need to see if I can contact Carmen’s parents again,” he said. “To see how far they’ve come.” He needed to speak to Mycroft about that at some point, actually—they needed to decide if they should enlist some ‘parents’ if Sherlock hadn’t been found by their three-day “travel window” they’d given Peeps.Anthea nodded sadly and let herself be led away. In some ways, she had the harder assignment of the two—Ollie just had to go do his normal job. Anthea had to be someone else entirely, someone who couldn’t take any active part in searching for their friend, someone who wouldn’t hear the latest revelations until they met up again this evening.Ollie knew first-hand how bitter a dish powerlessness was. But someone had to do this, and “Carmen” was still an essential part of the deception. He continued to believe that revealing themselves could be deadly for Sherlock. By ten, Ollie was ensconced with Kantor at the theatre security offices. Kantor ran quickly through the steps he’d already taken.“The teams you sent are rotating regularly at the hotel garage,” he said, panning through the camera links on each. “I put a direct feed in place, pirating off the hotel security camera lines. I think one of us should be on this non-stop, though I suppose I’m fine if you want to insert your security people instead. I placed the tracer myself—passenger-side rear wheel well, about six inches in. No casual observer’s going to find it, and even someone trained would have to know to reach inside the rolled edges of the sheet metal.” He pointed at a computer screen on a table against the far wall. “That’s the signal—it’s accurate to about 6 meters. I’ve overlaid the map grid, so we can identify actual roads when we have movement.”Ollie was impressed—Kantor’s background had served him well. He made a mental note to have a conversation with Mycroft about the man, once this was all over. “Good work,” he said. “I asked the surveillance team lead to check in as well—have you heard from her? She has resources trailing Messer.”The Israeli nodded. “Yes, early this morning. The man isn’t doing anything unusual—went to an al fresco breakfast this morning, then back to the hotel. His nephew is staying in his suite—shifty-looking little bastard, isn’t he?”Ollie laughed. “Oh, you have no idea,” he said, and relayed the life and times of Claus Graham, junior psychopath.Kantor looked a little troubled when Ollie finished. “Um…have you taken any time to look into this kid? Because that shit is really above the line for your typical 17-year-old.”Ollie blinked. “’Look into him’ how?” he asked. “I mean, yeah, he’s vindictive, and, given the chance, probably dangerous. But I haven’t seen anything that makes me think it’s anything more than natural inclination and opportunity. Have you?”“No,” Kantor admitted. “But here’s the thing: he lives, at least part of the year, with a former Stasi agent. They’re not generally known for their family feeling, you know? Just seems unlikely.”And Ollie realized he was right—they had overlooked that aspect. He made an Executive Decision to take a deeper look at Claus Graham and his family at his earliest opportunity. Ollie spent much of the day with Kantor, monitoring the camera feeds, managing the surveillance teams, reviewing yet another batch of financial records the surveillance people had dropped off. It wasn’t dull, exactly—his concern for Sherlock kept him very motivated indeed—but it wasn’t exactly riveting either.Mid-afternoon they switched off, with Kantor taking over the cameras while Ollie debriefed the most recent surveillance team member from Messer’s suite. “He’s been in all day,” the woman said. “We’ve vacuumed that hallway twice, and I spent two hours polishing brass work to have a reason to be there. Nothing. They had lunch brought in, and some clothing delivered. That’s it. The kid left for a while, though. Came back about an hour ago.”Ollie looked at Kantor over the woman’s shoulder, then nodded. “Put someone on the boy as well,” he said. As the agent left, Ollie glanced at the monitors, thinking about what to tell Mycroft, when he noticed an odd, momentary flutter in the feed. Lasted only a second or so, then the normal picture was back. But—“Kantor,” he said slowly, “remember that camera loop in the theatre you told me about? What would it look like, when that was being put into place?”And Kantor’s eyes grew wide as he realized the implications of that, before picking up his mobile and dialing quickly.
Sherlock
They kept touching him. Moving his limbs, opening his mouth—it was unbearable. He fought. He knows he fought—he’s aware, distantly, of pain, in his arms, his legs, his face. His head, though, is the worst. And he can’t—he doesn’t know why this is happening, he doesn’t know where he is, he can’t seem to open his eyes properly.
A hand clasped roughly around his arm again, and he struck—kicking, using his free hand, writhing. It hurt, brief and sharp, and he was suddenly on the ground again, breath rasping through his chest. Breathing was harder than it should be, and nausea waited in the distance. But again, a hand (or a foot? Impossible to be sure) nudged, hard, against his hip, tugging at his belt, and he attacked again, mindlessly, until a heavy weight dropped across him, pinning him in place as he struggled.
There was a burst of sound, two voices, German. “What are you doing?” one said, sounding concerned? Angry? Both?
“What I have to,” the other voice grumbled. “Every time he wakes, he fights. He broke Alain’s finger this morning, and tried to kick my nose out the back of my head. I’m done with this.” And the hand fumbled at his belt again.
“Wait!” the first voice commanded. “Let me try.”
The fumbling stopped, and a warm palm cupped his cheek. “You must not do this, mein schatz,” the voice said. “No one will harm you. You are perfectly safe, and all will be well.”
And Sherlock wanted to trust that voice. He lay still momentarily, dazed and sick, and the hand pulled away. “There, you see?” the voice said. But then the arm was back, touching his arm, yanking on his leg. And he struck out, fighting again. Until finally the weight came back, and the hand at his belt, and then there was a harsh jab of pain in his hip and the world went away once more.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Lemures—Spirits of the unburied dead exorcised from homes in early Roman religious rites
Ollie
“Shit!” Kantor barked, and launched himself at the phone next to the screen. Ollie knew just enough German to understand that he was instructing one of his staff to physically check with the agents at the gates. He had a horrible feeling they would be too late. Ollie considered calling Mycroft, but decided it made more sense to wait until he knew the full situation.They waited, on tenterhooks, until Kantor’s phone rang again. Ollie was relieved to see the man’s face relax.“The van is still there, and no one has exited the garage yet,” Kantor said. “In a backhanded way, this is a good thing—that lets us know that Messer is not necessarily aware of our scrutiny, but is being thorough. Now, though, there is a bigger question—do we undo his work, or leave it in place and rely on our human assets? I could argue either position, honestly.”And so could Ollie. If they changed back to the live feed, they would be able to know instantly if anyone approached the van. The agents on the gates could easily be distracted somehow, drawn away by a diversion. But the cameras would always give them information in real time.On the other hand, if they left the loop in place, they could lull Messer into a false sense of security. As far as Ollie could tell, there was nothing to indicate the agent knew he was under observation. If he suddenly became aware of it, he would likely be very, very good at evading them. Given that he was their primary lead in finding Sherlock, that couldn’t be allowed.“I think we leave it,” Ollie said, and explained his reasoning. Kantor nodded, unsurprised.“I think I would have done the same, in the end,” the Israeli said. “The last thing we want is a Stasi agent actively working against us.” Given that there was no point, now, in monitoring the screens, Ollie and Kantor left the security room soon after. They did take one important piece of equipment with them, though. “It’s a mobile phone, but modified,” Kantor said, handing it over for Ollie’s examination. “It can pick up the signal from the tracker. The home screen has been replaced by a ‘map’ of sorts. No real map grid—can’t put enough data into a phone as of yet. But it’s a pretty solid directional beacon, so you can follow it just as it is. The signal gets brighter, the closer you get.”Ollie examined the screen, with its tiny pulsing red dot. It was all too similar to a heartbeat, which made Ollie flinch a little internally. “Does it give any kind of alert if there’s motion?” he asked.Kantor reached for the device and fiddled with it briefly. “It can,” he said. “I’ll change the setting. But be warned, it’s pretty loud—the programmer didn’t have a very deft hand at that kind of thing. It’ll scare you to death.” He grinned and handed the phone back. Ollie watched the red pulse for a moment before shoving it in his pocket with a sigh.Kantor picked up easily on his mood. “Yeah, I know,” he said, “it isn’t much. But we’re better off than we were an hour ago: we can be certain now that the van is actually Messer’s, by inference at least. And, because we know about the loop, we won’t worry about the video, and we won’t divert any resources to watching it. We can focus on the ‘boots on the ground’—keep a steady eye on Messer, the boy, whoever else rises to the top of the list—and also keep diving through the property records. Given that the van was back here within an hour, we know whatever property he has must be relatively close. We know they can’t have taken Sherlock to the airport since there wasn’t enough time, and the train’s not a possibility either since we know they went across the river—and he was definitely taken to a boat. That means two things: first, they likely plan on keeping him here, at least in the short run; and second, someone has to have a house, a warehouse, something, either rented or purchased. Could have used a false name, yeah, but why would he? He’s a respectable, wealthy businessman these days—he’d be running a bigger risk to use something fake and have people wonder why, if it was exposed for some reason.”Ollie shook his head. “Don’t know about that last bit,” he said, thinking it through as he went. “This isn’t his home, remember? He has no reason to have property in Switzerland—he’s German, from the northeast. As far as our records can tell he has no business operations here either, other than the illicit ones which he’s certainly not going to advertise. I’m not saying you’re wrong, exactly—I just don’t think it’s quite as clear-cut as you do.”Kantor pondered that. “I can see that,” he said finally. “So maybe we look for both—continue to search using his real name, but also look at recent transactions in any name that come up flagged as non-local. Since I doubt he would have bothered to enlist a local for that part—why bother, when it would only be used for a couple of weeks, most likely?”And that Ollie could agree with, though he was aware that trying to read Messer’s mind, based only on the limited dossier they had, could be dangerous. “Let’s go back to the hotel and talk to Mycroft,” he said. “He may have more information, or another idea.” He paused, and his stomach abruptly rumbled. “And we can get something to eat, I guess,” he finished with a reluctant smile. When they got to the suite, Mycroft was waiting. “Anthea should be here shortly,” the older man said. “She had the front desk drop off a note. The Interpol agent has been delayed until the morning—I plan to sit in on that one. But the man from the British Embassy made an appearance, and was spectacularly unhelpful.” His thin lips turned in a dissatisfied curl. “I had no high expectations, but this is clearly Rudy’s hand—rather than sending a security staffer, this is simply a civilian liaison. Worse than useless.”Ollie blinked. “But why would Rudy not want someone competent to come?” he asked, and was shocked to see Mycroft’s cheeks redden.“He believes that our current resources are adequate, with the two new agents who will be here momentarily,” Mycroft said stiffly. “And I presume he would prefer the Embassy remain unaware of our operations here, likely for reasons of his own.” Unspoken was the end of that phrase—reasons he chose not to share with me.Kantor, no fool, picked up on the undercurrent. “Is this ‘Rudy’ someone of whom I should be wary?” he asked.Mycroft gave him a sharp look. “Rudy is my superior,” he said. “He is ultimately in command of this operation.”Kantor didn’t back down. “That doesn’t answer my question, I don’t think,” he said calmly.Ollie waited for Mycroft to lay into Kantor with that blade of a tongue. It didn’t happen.“You are not at any special risk,” Mycroft said quietly, after an uncomfortable pause. “I sent word of your involvement. Rudy is powerful and high-handed, but not inherently dangerous to his allies.”Which wasn’t the most ringing endorsement Ollie had ever heard, but Kantor seemed to be satisfied.Just at that point, the door clattered and Anthea bustled in. “Thank God,” she said. “I thought I’d never get away.” She smiled at Kantor, then looked enquiringly at Mycroft. “What did I miss?”“Not a great deal,” Mycroft said. “The Embassy sent an idiot—I believe you met him. The Interpol agent has been delayed, and will arrive in the morning. I spoke a few minutes ago with our two additional agents who just arrived and referred them to the surveillance crew chief for assignment, pending new developments—they will most likely be assigned to physical search grids along the river. But Oliver and Mr. Kantor have some news that could be either good or bad, depending on how you view it.”And there he went, reading Ollie’s mind again. “How do you do that?” Ollie asked. “It’s really annoying, you know?”Mycroft smirked, and looked at Kantor expectantly.“All right, yes,” the former agent said, and proceeded to tell the story of the looped surveillance feeds.Mycroft looked pensive. “I can’t disagree with your assessment,” he said finally. “While it would be comforting to still have the video, we do have people that can monitor the van’s movements. We will ensure it doesn’t leave the garage without our knowledge. And we can use the handheld as extra ‘insurance’.”He looked around the group. “In the meantime, we have received another packing box full of research material—mainly property transactions in the area for the past five years.” He looked at Ollie. “I extended our original time period—Colleen, the surveillance commander, let me know that Peeps had been to Switzerland for their finale five years ago as well. It’s possible Messer would have held onto such as asset—it could likely be rented out when he wasn’t using it.” He gestured to the waiting table, piled high with paper. “We can order dinner in and start working through it. I would like to complete this batch this evening, if possible. You are more than welcome to join us, Mr. Kantor, though I will of course understand if you need to return to your staff at the theatre.”Kantor snorted. “The theatre owners are wetting themselves in fear of being sued,” he said ruefully. “Believe me when I say they are more than happy for me to spend every available second assisting you and the investigation, though I was very vague on the details of who is in command—just said ‘MI6’ and left it at that. So I’ll be happy to help you wade through all of this, so long as I get to help with the active stuff as well.”Mycroft gave a not-smile and gestured towards the table. “I can guarantee that,” he said. “As long as you understand that ‘active’ may consist of driving and looking threatening—I can hardly enlist the formal aid of civilians, no matter how qualified.”And with that Kantor had to be content. They worked far into the night. The surveillance teams reported in periodically, all of them with varying versions of “nothing new”. There was an unconfirmed report of a sighting of the van on the day of the abduction, but the individual interviewed was very elderly, partly blind, and could confirm only that it had been going “up the mountain”. Mycroft had been reluctant to afford it any credibility.By 3am they were still only about 2/3 of the way through the piles of transactions. Who would have thought that property changed hands so often in a resort town in Switzerland? A lot of the problem was that the listings included all of the temporary rentals—monthly, weekly, sometimes daily. Ollie feared they’d never find a solid lead, but didn’t want to say so. He was also becoming afraid to look at Mycroft—feared he’d see despair in those eyes.Kantor stood up and stretched. “I think I’m done for the evening,” he groaned. “My eyes keep crossing. I will walk back to the theatre, and return in the morning.” He gave a rueful grin when he looked at his watch. “Well. Later in the morning.”Ollie stood as well. “I’ll go with you,” he said. “I want to take a quick look at the cameras and make sure the loop is still in place.” Because it had suddenly dawned on him that they had made an assumption there—just because the loop had been put in didn’t mean Messer had intended it to stay indefinitely. It could easily have been a test, which would argue that the most important time to be watching was still ahead.When they reached the theatre Kantor walked with Ollie to the security room before heading to his flat on an upper floor of the building. They didn’t try to check in with the observers in the parking garage itself—the last thing they wanted to do was advertise that surveillance was in place.Kantor unlocked the camera room and walked over to the screens. He eyed it closely, looked at his watch and counted. After three minutes he shook his head. “It’s still in place,” he said. “I doubt any test would last this long. I think we’re safe to just rely on our observers.”Ollie sighed and nodded. “Yeah, likely so,” he said. He patted his back pocket. “I’ll sleep with this thing by my side, though.” As if he’d really sleep. He couldn’t imagine doing so right now.Kantor reached over and grasped his shoulder. “We will find him, Oliver,” he said. “I believe this.” Ollie walked slowly back towards the hotel just as the church bells chimed 4. It was chilly—even in August, the altitude made for cold nights by London standards. He was in no hurry to get back—this was a nice opportunity to decompress after the stresses of the past two days. Of course, he spent much of the time trying to think of an approach they hadn’t tried yet (knowing how unlikely that was, with Mycroft Holmes involved) but it was still a relief to do so on his own, without having to explain his thoughts to someone else.He was almost back—could see the lights from the lobby in the distance—when he was suddenly jolted by a blast of sound, a cross between a phone ringing and a siren. He jerked and almost fell, then suddenly realized the source—the tracker in his pocket! He yanked it out, saw the tiny red heartbeat pulsing brightly now—and moving.He broke into a hard run without being conscious of deciding to do so. He reached the front of the hotel just in time to see the van swing out of the garage, not thirty feet away. He looked around frantically and saw a delivery vehicle, likely dropping off restaurant provisions for the coming day. It was parked in the central drive, empty—and the keys were in the ignition. He hopped in and took off in pursuit of the van, while fumbling the mobile phone out of his jacket pocket. The tracker he placed on the dashboard in front of him, while he dialed the main desk of the hotel.“I need to speak to Suite 422,” he said when a sleepy voice answered. “It’s extremely important.”“I am sorry, sir,” the voice said. “Our house phones are undergoing maintenance at present. We try to do this outside of normal active hours. But I can have someone take up a message?”Ollie swore internally, while watching the little moving heartbeat on the dash. “All right. The message is ‘Van moving. More to follow’.” He was afraid to say more than that—even this was dangerous, but he had to at least let Mycroft know where he was going, and he couldn’t call him directly as he was currently holding Mycroft’s mobile in his hand. They only had the one—something he would strongly recommend Mycroft change for their next operation. Ollie followed the tracking dot out of town, occasionally catching glimpses of the van in the distance. They left the main road after 10 minutes or so and began winding their way up into the mountains, the roads narrow and steep, with terrifying drops on one side or the other as they went. It was clear, thankfully, with no fog or clouds and a bright moon—Ollie would have hated to make this drive in bad weather.After a further 15 minutes the moving dot took a sharp right turn, went a little further and then stopped. Ollie was faced with a profound dilemma—if he took the car, he risked being seen. But if he walked, the van could potentially complete its business and be heading back to town before he arrived. And he knew from his tours with “Carmen” that there were any number of pricey residences and lodges peppered along these roads up the cliffs. He had to be sure he identified the correct one.In the end, he walked. Well, ran. He pulled the car into a layby halfway up the ridge, then skittered out and began a panting trot uphill, holding the tracker at arm’s length. The altitude made running difficult, but the passage of time was terrifying—he had to reach the van before it left.He was relieved, after between 5 and 10 minutes, to see the tracker get brighter—he was close, very close. He came upon a gravel driveway heading off into the trees and followed it cautiously, staying to the sides of the road and lurking in shadows. He reached an opening abruptly, a vast cleared area with a circular drive and an enormous, glass-fronted house that faced the open sky and the sheer side of the mountain. Despite the early hour there were lights on inside.He could see more detail as he got closer. The house was on multiple levels, hung partially on cantilevered supports, jutting out over the abyss with multiple balconies. The lowest true level was a three-car garage, which currently held the van.Ollie stood in the chill shadows and argued with himself. Should he back off and try to call the hotel again, leave a more-detailed message for Mycroft? He pulled out the phone and checked—no signal. Hardly surprising with a mountain in between him and any mobile tower. Recalculating, then—he would be best served to try to get a better picture of the building, then head back and round up the troops. It would save time when they returned if they already knew the best approach route.Ollie started uphill first, circling in a broad arc around the back of the clearing. The construction nestled all the way into the hillside—the back wall was likely solid granite, with the building supports anchored to the cliffside itself. No entry through here. He continued on his way, wishing he had a camera with him. On the far side from the entry drive there were two entries—a formal front door on the main level, and a second, less decorative entrance on the same level as the garage out front. There was also what appeared to be a service tunnel of some kind on the far end, likely to access the mechanical systems for the building. He took note of approximate distances and locations before heading carefully back towards the garage.He found a tiny nook on the corner of the house, well out of sight from the front but positioned to give him a clear view of the van. He wanted to wait to head back for help until the vehicle left—wanted to get eyes-on to see who was driving, be it Messer or some unknown ally.He had been crouching there for almost 10 minutes when he heard voices. He shoved further back into his niche, crouching down to make the smallest possible target even though he was fairly sure no one from the front had a clear line of sight. Two men came into the garage; he recognized neither. One, a short blond man, gave a quick wave, climbed into the van and drove away.Ollie waited until he was sure the van was out of sight range and the other man had gone back inside. He stood carefully, stretching out tight muscles, and stepped out of his refuge. And then, just like that, he fell a harsh shove to his shoulder and the cold thrust of a gun barrel on the side of his neck.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Ibbur-- (Jewish Folklore): Unlike the dybbuk, a positive form of possession in which a benevolent soul temporarily inhabits a living person in a beneficial and positive way.
Mycroft
Mycroft forced himself out of bed at half-eight, still feeling like his eyelids had weights on them. Anthea looked in a similar state. He tossed her the room service menu as a hint to order breakfast, then went to rouse Ollie, whose door was still closed.Mycroft knocked briskly. “Oliver,” he called. “We’re ordering breakfast. Come tell Anthea what you want or take your chances.”Silence. He waited a minute, then knocked again, louder this time. “Oliver!” he barked. “Get up!”Anthea walked over to stand beside him, looking concerned. He waited one more moment, then rapped again and opened the door—to find a neatly-made bed and an empty room.Mycroft was aware that his mouth was open. He closed it, and turned to Anthea, who blinked back. “What the hell?” she breathed.Mycroft took a quick survey of the room and en suite, then headed back to the lounge. “The phone is missing,” he said. “As is his jacket. I am beginning to suspect he never returned from his walk with—” and just at that point his eyes landed on the slip of paper lying in front of the main door of the suite. He strode over and picked it up.Important Message for Suite 422: Van moving. More to follow. Mycroft flipped it over, looking for more information, before noticing the time stamp: 5:01 am. He held it out wordlessly to Anthea.“They never knocked,” she said blankly. “They couldn’t have. I was still awake.” She continued to turn the note, as if it would somehow tell her more.“It doesn’t matter,” Mycroft said, though his mind kept telling him it did, it did. “We are now almost 4 hours away from when Oliver sent this message, and he has not returned. Please ring Mr. Kantor and see if Ollie is there while I get dressed—we can afford no more delay.” He stopped, struck by something. “No, on second thought—call my mobile phone first. He had it with him.” He waited while Anthea picked up the house phone and dialed.They waited momentarily. Anthea’s face fell. “It went straight to voicemail,” she said. “Should we…?”Mycroft shook his head. “No,” he said, “hang up. If he still has the phone, he will see that we had called. If not, I don’t want to give whoever has the phone now any information about us.” He could feel anxiety trying to spiral up and ruthlessly suppressed it. They couldn’t afford that. Oliver couldn’t afford that.By the time Mycroft came back from his room, fully dressed and ready to go, Anthea had already replaced the phone. “He left Kantor at about 4:30,” she said, voice warbling despite her visible efforts to stop it. “Kantor’s on his way over.”For once Mycroft let his instincts overrule his mind. “Come here,” he said, and opened his arms. Anthea lunged forward, breath hiccupping as she struggled for control. “We will find them,” he said, injecting every bit of surety he could into his tone. “We will.” By the time Kantor arrived Anthea had her emotions under iron control, and was avoiding making eye contact with Mycroft. He made a mental note to deal with that—embarrassment was illogical and unnecessary—but, for now, proceeded to ignore it. He addressed Kantor immediately—no time for pleasantries. “How did you and Oliver part? Do you know where he was going?”“Back to the hotel, I thought,” the Israeli said. “But he had the tracker in his pocket—from what Anthea says, I can only assume he got a signal on the way and decided to follow.”Mycroft fought a stab of irritation—such staggeringly obvious assumptions got them nowhere—but slapped it down before giving any evidence of it on his features. “Yes, so we can presume,” he said. “But we have heard no report from the team at the gates of the parking garage—did you?”Kantor looked uncomfortable. “I checked before I left my office,” he said. “The man on watch on the north door was extremely reluctant to admit it, but I believe he was absent for a time early this morning—about the right time. A diversionary phone call, presumably, but it’s possible there was also a payoff involved. His counterpart on the south door heard the phone ring. He’s one of yours—you might want to do a little digging.” He looked troubled. “The van is back in place now, parked in the same location. We would never have known it left, but for Ollie’s text.”Which told them two things: first, their current precautions were inadequate; and second, Messer was aware of the possibility of surveillance, and had “made” their watchers. Mycroft would be having words with the head of surveillance, but at the moment there were more important considerations.“We know the cameras within the garage itself are compromised,” he said, thinking it through as he spoke. “But if Oliver saw the van leave, that means he saw it close to the hotel. Are there external cameras that might pick up the van, Oliver, or both?”“We can check,” Kantor said, and reached for the phone on the side desk. After a quick conversation, he hung up, a pleased look on this face. “That was the hotel security head,” he said. “He does indeed have cameras out front, and can cue the tapes up for us immediately.” He paused. “But if you want to retain your cover, I should probably go alone. And aren’t you supposed to have a meeting with Interpol this morning?”Mycroft realized with a start that the man was correct—he was due at the surveillance office in twenty minutes. He pulled out his pocket notebook and wrote quickly, then tore out the paper and handed it to Kantor. “That’s the number for the surveillance team,” he said. “Call Anthea first, and then me at this number, once you’ve seen the tapes. We’ll decide next steps at that juncture.”Anthea pulled herself up in outrage. “So, what, I’m supposed to just sit here?” she said.“One of us must stay in case Oliver returns, or tries to contact us,” he said sternly. “This is the only contact number he has, since he has my mobile. And it is also the number London will likely call, come to that.” That, in and of itself, was an alarming thought—Rudy’s deadline was roughly 12 hours from now.As he and Kantor clattered out the door to their respective tasks, Mycroft looked back and saw Anthea’s woebegone, frightened face. It stayed with him all the way to the surveillance office.
Ollie
Ollie had never been captured before. Had never had a gun thrust in his neck, either. And it would be a lie to say he wasn’t frightened. Wasn’t terrified, in fact. But as the minutes went by and no one shot him, he started to recover a bit of his equilibrium. And to think.His first priority (well, after “not getting shot”) had to be to keep his cover. He was Oliver Chapman, Private Security for Carmen and William, hired by their father’s company. He had no connections with the security forces of any nation, and certainly no special training beside small arms and hand-to-hand combat (which he never got the chance to demonstrate, sadly).But that begged the question—how did he know where to look for “William”? He couldn’t very well admit to the tracker, let alone the fact that he and his friends had tracked down the van and linked it to Messer. Couldn’t know anything about Messer, in fact, other than the fact he was Claus’ uncle.He pondered that while his silent captor dragged him around the building and shoved him in through the door inside the garage. As they came through, a second man, tall, blond, bruised nose and black eye, came up and asked a question in German—his captor responded, and the man came back shortly with zip ties which he used to fasten Ollie’s wrists tightly together. In front, thankfully, not behind his back. Then his captor shoved him towards a staircase. “Up!” he barked, in heavily accented English, waving the gun to emphasize his point.Ollie complied, while diverting most of his attention to his surroundings. He had had many, many hours of practice in observation at the figurative feet of the Holmes brothers—he knew that even a tiny detail could be the thing that led him and Sherlock to freedom.They eventually reached a landing with an impressive electronic lock installed. Ollie’s captor reached out and swiped a keycard, then swung the door open and shoved Ollie inside. “Move,” the man growled. Which gave Ollie a rude start, since he realized something he should have thought about immediately: they knew he spoke English, not German, before he’d said a single word. Which meant they almost certainly knew who he was.It could be worse, of course. It didn’t mean they knew he was MI6; it was more likely they had recognized him as “Carmen’s” bodyguard, and that was workable. He could use that.He was bundled down the whitewashed hall to an open doorway and unceremoniously shoved inside, which was a bit rude since he wasn’t exactly resisting. Probably wasn’t a good idea to bring it up, though.The room was stark—white walls, polished stone floor, three wood chairs. At a finger flick from his guard, Ollie went to the nearest and sat, waiting with the appearance of patience. The man looked nonplussed by Ollie’s cooperation. He scowled, then spoke curtly. “You wait,” he said, then swept out and locked the door behind him.“Like I have a choice,” Ollie said to the empty room. He got up after he was sure the guard was out of earshot and examined the room, the door and especially the lock, very, very closely. He learned that (1) there was nothing useable in this room, unless he managed to break one of the stout wooden chairs and use it as a club; (2) judging by the angle of the ground visible through the high, narrow window, the building was at least partly underground, excavated directly into the mountainside; and (3) he was not getting the door open without divine intervention.All in all, it was a depressing compilation.About ten minutes after he completed his tour, he heard the guard’s footsteps echoing down the hall and scuttled back to his chair. The door swung open and the man beckoned, almost politely, for Ollie to come. Mystified, Ollie did—this didn’t seem like your typical hostage situation, somehow. Not like the ones Mycroft had told him about, anyway. Just a little too, well, low-key.They went up another flight of stairs, this one carpeted and well-lit, until they emerged on a much posher setting than Ollie had seen previously. The guard slid in his keycard in another electronic lock and the door opened quietly into a huge room, the back wall of which was entirely glass, looking out onto a balcony hanging over the abyss.There were two people in the room. The first, seated at an antique desk in the center of the room, was a middle-aged man Ollie had never seen before; he looked vaguely banker-ish, with an expensive haircut and suit. Perhaps Middle Eastern, maybe Kazakh or Chechen.And the second person—on a huge four-poster bed tucked in the far corner lay Sherlock.Ollie’s feet were rushing forward before he had time to think about it, ignoring the noises of protest from Desk Man behind him. He launched himself onto the bed, using his manacled hands to touch the drugged boy, looking for damage, hoping for a response. No serious damage was visible beyond a number of bruises, but Sherlock remained profoundly unconscious, even under Ollie’s fairly vigourous shaking.Ollie spun to face the well-dressed man. “What did you give him?” he demanded. “Why is he so sedated?”The man responded mildly, with an odd, French-tinged accent. Ollie mentally moved his origin to Algeria. “He tried to maim my staff every time he woke, and caused minor damage to himself in the process. Neither is desirable—it is far from my intent to cause him harm, after all.”“But it’s been three days,” Ollie said, turning back to the silent form on the bed. “That’s…you can’t just keep him sedated indefinitely.” He was aware of just how odd this conversation was—arguing with his captor about humane treatment.The Algerian sighed. “It is not ideal, but is preferable to the alternative, Mr. Chapman.” He sighed. “We have been experimenting with various drugs, seeing which works best while sedating him least. Heroin was not ideal—he stopped breathing twice. We have since switched to some of the medical alternatives, with mixed results. He does not react normally.” He frowned, as if this was a character flaw on Sherlock’s part.Ollie sat abruptly on the edge of the bed, his legs suddenly refusing to hold him. “You gave him heroin?” he gasped, unable to contain his horror. “Why would you do that?”The man waved a dismissive hand. “It was readily available, and various of my employees attest to its efficacy. But it is apparently not ideal for children.” He frowned. “The current regimen also seems to be problematic—he has now been unconscious for more than 12 hours—so we must try another option. We mean him no harm,” he said again. “He is valuable—my partner can secure a substantial price for him. It is a lucrative side business, so he tells me. Been successful for more than 10 years.”Ollie raised his chin. “Unlike me, I presume.”“If you know who I am, you should also know you are in no real danger,” the Algerian said, looking somewhat offended. “You will be detained until your charge, and my people, have departed. Then the authorities will be informed of your location. You will be perfectly safe, as will the boy, though he will likely never return to Europe. And I will spend the next few years in Africa and the Middle East, working through proxies, until the pursuit has been abandoned and I may resume my normal operations in Europe directly.”“I don’t know who the hell you are,” Ollie said. “But I know ‘your people’ already killed at least one person—the boy at the jail.”“My name is Hamid Mansouri,” he said, as if Ollie should know who he was. “I deal in import and export, not murder. Unfortunately some of the people I deal with have fewer scruples. Or, I suppose, common sense: while I am not terribly concerned at the loss of any particular life, I am well aware that killings, especially of law enforcement personnel, bring a level of scrutiny I would strongly prefer to avoid.” He smiled. “The shooter from the jail has been dealt with, I assure you. He was never in my employ—he was enlisted by my business partner, who has lower standards than I.”“Somehow I’m not reassured,” Ollie said, and was disconcerted by Mansouri’s answering smirk.“I suppose I can understand that,” the Algerian said. “But it is quite true. Now granted, my business partner will want to speak with you, if only to learn how you located this place, and that will likely not be pleasant. But I promise you, he will not be allowed to cause you serious harm. I have no desire to agitate the British authorities—the Swiss will be bad enough, especially since I have yet to relocate my shipment to its final destination yet. I’m going to have to be creative about that.”Mansouri stood and straightened his jacket. “Now, I will leave you alone for a time. You are welcome to try to wake William—I would prefer he not soil himself, and he must be reaching a critical time for that. My partner has been informed of your presence and is on his way.” And with that he strode out the door, which locked behind him with an electronic buzz.Ollie immediately moved back to Sherlock’s side, brushing back the hair covering one eye and shaking his shoulder briskly. “Sherlock,” he said, “you have to wake up.” No response. He tried again, this time giving a firm pinch to a fold of skin along Sherlock’s skinny torso. Sherlock made a dull moan of protest, but subsided immediately back into somnolence.Ollie sat back on his heels and thought. He wished with all his heart that Mycroft were here. He would know what to do. Because Ollie just didn’t, and he was afraid for Sherlock, and afraid for himself, no matter what Mansouri said.He reached over and took Sherlock’s pulse, then counted his breaths. Both counts were lower than they should be, based on Ollie’s limited medical knowledge. Ollie thought about it momentarily, then grabbed the pillows piled in one corner of the bed, made them into a wedge of sorts and dragged Sherlock into place atop them, hoping the angle would ease his breathing. He listened, and counted, and was relieved to see what he hoped was a minimal improvement.They had stayed like that, still and worried, respectively, for perhaps ten minutes before Ollie heard voices in the hallway. At first the words were not decipherable, but then became clear.“I don’t care,” one voice said firmly. “Herr Messer will be here shortly, but in the meantime, I wish to see the child and make sure he is well. He shouldn’t have slept this long, and I must see—” And at that point the door buzzed and swung open, and Ollie found himself staring into Izzie’s startled eyes.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Jima—Amazonian/Wari-- terrifying specters known for grabbing their living victims with their incredibly strong, cold, poisonous hands and attempting to tear the victim’s spirit away.
Mycroft
He was ten minutes late to the meeting, and the Interpol agent made his displeasure known. “I came a long way,” he huffed. “Only to be told about two competing priorities, one of which we already have a team assigned to in Paris.”Mycroft had no patience for this. None. “I, too, have competing priorities,” he snapped. “Two of my agents have been taken. And I am aware of the importance of the smuggling operation, which is why I am here, when I would strongly prefer to be aiding in their recovery. Their safety is infinitely more important to me than your schedule. So tell me what you have, so that I may get back to my work, and you can return to yours.”The man, tall, spare, ascetic-looking, pulled in his chin and scowled, but didn’t react further. “We have nothing of import on Messer,” he said stiffly. “We know he was Stasi, but someone has been extremely thorough in scrubbing his records from every databank we have been able to access. We found some interesting financial information yesterday that someone tried very hard to hide, which we are currently working through. The Russians likely have more, but we are reluctant to enlist their help. Understandably, I think.”Mycroft gave him a equally stiff nod. “Just so,” he said. “But what is the status of the operation in Paris? Any movement?” He only tangentially cared at present, but knew he would change his opinion once he’d calmed down a bit.“Some,” the man said grudgingly. “You are aware, I believe, of the two competing groups. We, together with MI6, have been cultivating the ‘competitors’ to Messer’s operation. We have an internal resource now who has been giving us infrequent status reports. There seems to be some agitation underway, but we have as yet no details.”“And anything on the kidnappings?” Mycroft asked. “Either historically, or current?”The agent shook his head. “Nothing concrete, as we told MI6 when they asked,” he said. “The financial data does show some interesting large transactions at roughly the right time periods which don’t seem to coincide with weapons movements, as far as we can tell. It’s mildly suggestive of some other kind of ‘smuggling’, but nothing we can definitively point to.”Mycroft thought about that—certainly the idea that the children had been sold wasn’t a new one. They had all been talented and physically attractive—it wasn’t that great a leap. “Has anyone checked passport records? Specifically those paid for through Messer’s organization? Or checked the photos of child passports issued in the right time frame against the missing children?”The man looked thoughtful. “Not that I’ve heard,” he said. “But I will ask.”Mycroft nodded. “Please do,” he said. “Now, you will need to meet with the Peeps officials shortly. One of my junior agents will be in attendance—she’s acting as the missing boy’s sister. Tell her, privately, the details of our discussion—I will likely not see her before you meet, and she’ll want to know. Have you already set the time?”The agent nodded. “In half an hour,” he said. “The civilian liaison from the British consulate has also been asked to attend.” His grimace indicated he held a similar opinion to Mycroft on that front. Ten minutes later Mycroft was striding back to the hotel, thinking through what he had heard. The fact that a resource had been placed with the rival gunrunners confirmed Rudy’s earlier hints, but Mycroft had had no notifications of information derived from that placement. In the end it likely wasn’t critical—it didn’t sound like any major action had taken place—but it was nonetheless yet another indication that Rudy was withholding information. They would be discussing that when Mycroft returned to London.As Mycroft entered the lobby he saw Kantor coming from the far end. He held the lift doors, and the two road upstairs together.Kantor held up a memory stick. “I have the tapes,” he said. “Haven’t watched in depth yet, but the van is definitely there, and there’s another vehicle that might be Ollie. We need to work at a better computer than the hotel has to see if we can enhance the pictures.”In short order they were ensconced at the dining table, Mycroft’s laptop at the ready, including his top-flight photo editing program.Kantor cued up the files in order. “There are three cameras, all told,” he said, clicking the first file. “Go from west to east on the front of the hotel.” On screen the time signature—4:56 AM—popped up, and a view of the front circular drive and gardens came into view. Suddenly, from the far left, a white van scooted forward, coming to the exit to the front parking lot before heading off to the right and passing out of view.“That’s all there is on that camera,” Kantor said. “But I hope you can confirm my presumption that that’s our van.”Mycroft nodded. “Agreed,” he said. “And apparently in no particular hurry, despite the early hour.”“Well, that’s interesting, now you mention it,” Kantor said. “I mean, it’s an odd time to be running what was evidently a quickish errand—the van was back within an hour, after all. We may need to think about that.”“Perhaps,” Mycroft said. “Let’s see the next clip.”Kantor clicked the next file, and the front gardens appeared. Shortly thereafter, the white van appeared again. This time, though, the vehicle was visible for a bit longer and, just after the van sped out of sight, a second car, a delivery vehicle of some type, pulled out after it. “It belongs to the flower delivery people,” Kantor said. “I checked—they drop by fresh ones every two days for the restaurant, lobby and so forth. At 5 am, typically, so everything looks fresh once the first visitors wake up for breakfast at 6.” He pointed at the tape. “And it never comes back—at least, it hasn’t yet. I checked—the driver filed a police report about an hour after this.” He leaned forward again, closed the video and selected the final file. “Now, this is the good one,” he said as he selected it.The view this time was markedly different—a view of the far side of the hotel, the adjoining street, and the access to the parking garage. Kantor started this file three minutes earlier than the previous two. On screen, a dark figure approached the hotel from the street, stopping momentarily under a streetlight. Kantor stopped the tape momentarily. “I believe that is Oliver,” he said. “That looks like the jacket he was wearing when he left me.”Mycroft reached forward, tapped two keys, and the figure was abruptly twice the previous size and dramatically enhanced in clarity. “It’s him,” Mycroft said softly.Kantor nodded, then started the video again. Ollie’s head shot up, looking towards the garage. The white van drove out, as Ollie lingered briefly in the shadows, then took off towards the delivery vehicle, barely visible from this camera. He hopped into the lorry and, after a brief delay, the vehicle tore off-screen.“That’s all?” Mycroft said, after a moment’s silence.Kantor nodded. “Yeah,” he said. “We can play through them again at slow speed, but I don’t think we’ll learn anything more, given the cheap cameras and poor resolution in general. Your editing program can only do so much, and there’s honestly not that much more to learn. We know the van was used; we know what general direction it went; and we know Ollie followed it, or at least tried to. We even know what he was driving. I’d say that’s a positive result, wouldn’t you?”“I’d call it a starting point. Thank God,” Mycroft said, picking up the phone.
Ollie
At the doorway, Izzie let out a gasp and slammed the door behind him. “Oliver!” he said, in horrified tones. “Why are you here?”Ollie nodded towards Sherlock, now moaning softly from the bed. “Why else?” he asked. “Think a better question would be, why are you?”“That’s a long story,” Izzie said, moving over to the bed to sit close to Sherlock, brushing the hair off his face. “William, look at me,” he commanded.Sherlock moaned again and flailed one arm.“I have the time,” Ollie said. “Did he see something he shouldn’t have?” He let the anger flood into his voice.Izzie shook his head, still trying to get Sherlock to open his eyes, with marginal results. “No, of course not,” Izzie said. “He is just where he’s supposed to be. Well, temporarily, at least.” He looked over his shoulder at Ollie. “Neither one of you are in any danger, though it will be a bit before you can leave.” The slight emphasis let Ollie know that Sherlock wasn’t included in that statement.“He’s supposed to be at the hotel, prepping for his concert,” Ollie said. “With his sister, who is terrified for him.”Sherlock was now mostly awake, blinking at Izzie in confusion, looking around the room in a dazed way. Izzie petted his head again, then shook his own. “I’m sure she cares for him in her way, but never at the expense of her own interests. She will survive without him. And he will be with someone who truly cares, who wants the best for him.”Sherlock, in the interim, had managed to lever himself onto his side, and now looked at Ollie in amazement. “Ollie?” he slurred. “Where are—what are we doing?” He gave a long, slow blink. “I don’t feel well. And I need the toilet.” He proceeded to try fruitlessly to sit up.Izzie clucked, then shoved at Sherlock until the boy was mostly sitting up. “Come help me,” he said, gesturing towards a doorway in the far wall. “I can get him up—you can take one of his arms.”Ollie obligingly wrestled himself to standing, and held out his tethered hands. “Need you to take these off first,” he said.Izzie fished his arm around Sherlock’s skinny waist and lifted, while shaking his head. “I daren’t,” he said. “Herr Messer may arrive shortly, and he would not take it well. Hamid tells me you are to be questioned.” His brow furrowed in mild distress. “I have told them I will not accept violence. But Herr Messer has sometimes a differing definition of that than I.”“Like the boy they killed at the jail?” Ollie said, while reaching over with his joined hands to keep Sherlock from tilting back onto the bed. “Think that was pretty fucking ‘violent’.”“Someone exceeded orders,” Izzie said, as they jointly dragged Sherlock’s floppy form towards the bathroom. “And the person responsible was dealt with.” Then he pursed his lips tightly together and said no more. Twenty minutes later, Sherlock had been restored to the bed. A functionary had changed the sheets while Ollie propped the boy up in the shower; shortly thereafter Sherlock had drifted back off, which was worrying.Izzie seemed to agree. “I’m going to have to insist they stop this sedation,” he said, rubbing one thin shoulder as Sherlock made a fretful noise and shifted on the bed. “He shouldn’t be like this still.”“You need to make them let him go, if you can,” Ollie said, moving over to sit on the bed beside them. “These are not good people, Izzie. I can’t tell you how I know it, but I do. And they don’t mean anything good for him, no matter what they tell you.”Izzie shook his head. “You’re wrong,” he said. “I have worked with Herr Messer for almost 7 years. And I know you find this startling and alarming. But I promise you, William will be going to a place where he is wanted, and cared for, and will be loved.” He looked back fondly at the dozing boy. “He deserves more than he currently has. They all do.”“’Worked’, how?” Izzie asked. “With Messer, I mean. Did you know he used to be Stasi?”Izzie blinked. “I…no. No, I didn’t. But we all have things in our past we are not proud of. He has been a force for good in promoting Peeps for many years. He is a hard man, but I have never seen him be unduly harsh or threatening.”“But do you know anything else about him?” Ollie said, desperate to convince Izzie of how wrong this all was. “How did you get involved in this, this scheme?”Izzie gave Ollie a considering look, then nodded. “Very well,” he said. “So you can understand.” He slid back until his back was flush with the headboard.“William may have told you my background,” he said. “I was a child of the Holocaust. Not a young child, certainly—I was his age when rescue came. That proved an issue—the few little ones who survived found quick rescue, often adoption. But a boy of 15—not quite so adorable, so heart-rending. Awkward and starved and very, very angry.” He tried again to find a more comfortable position. “I was fortunate in one way: though my immediate family were all gone, I did have a remaining relative, an aunt by marriage. She found me, after the war, in the refugee camp, and took me home with her. That was a good thing, in many ways; I was able to complete my education and make myself, ultimately, a successful life.”Sherlock abruptly stirred, shooting up with a frightened cry. It took 5 minutes or so to get him resettled. Ollie was somewhat surprised when, at that point, Izzie took his story back up again.“My aunt,” he said, absently rubbing Sherlock’s back. “She was not a bad woman. Some would even call her a good one—to spend a great deal of time, a great deal of money to find a child she barely knew, one she was related to only by marriage.” He paused.“But…” Ollie finally prompted.Izzie sighed. “But. She was also not a warm woman. Not to me, not to anyone. And I came to realize, very early on, that I was a duty, not a blessing. You wouldn’t think that would be a problem; I was almost grown, after all, and had survived much worse. But I had also been the apple of my parents’ eye—their only child, their darling. To go from that to being a burden—that was very, very hard. And, quite quickly, my aunt decided she had done her duty and no longer needed to invest any time in me. She hired competent tutors and caregivers and left for America. She did not return for almost three years, by which time I had left for university. And I have spent the rest of my life lacking anyone who truly cared about me.”Ollie couldn’t restrain the surge of pity he felt; it must have shown on his face. Izzie, predictably, noticed. “Oh, don’t, child,” he said. “I am reconciled. I made the wise decision to find a therapist some years ago, who both helped me identify the problem, and offered wise suggestions as to how I might remedy it, if I chose. The fact that I did not do so is not a reflection on her skills—I had simply become comfortable in my little cocoon, and preferred to reserve all my care for my charges.”The old man abruptly leaned over Sherlock, alarmed. “William!” he called. He shook Sherlock’s shoulder roughly, and was rewarded by a sudden gasping breath, followed by a surge of coughing. When that calmed, Izzie beckoned Ollie over and, between the two of them, they dragged the boy up until he was propped almost straight up against the pillows. “I am going to order a doctor,” Izzie said, alarm clear in his voice. “His breathing—it is not normal. Can I rely on you to keep watch until I get back?”And Ollie could do nothing but nod his head and pray for Mycroft, Kantor, someone to come.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Vodianoi—Slavic male water spirit, said to be the spirits of the “unclean” dead, including suicides or those who died without last rites
Mycroft
They had set up a Council of War in the lounge, consisting of Mycroft, Anthea, Cantor, and three members of the surveillance team. Mycroft couldn’t pull all the resources off their current assignments—someone needed to continue to watch Messer and Claus, after all. But he wanted everyone he could out on the search.He had ordered the surveillance head to purchase three new mobile phones, and used his own money to do it. He wasn’t prepared to wait for approval from London, and run the risk of alerting Rudy to the fact that Mycroft was continuing the search past Rudy’s hard stop. He was sure Rudy already knew, but not calling it forcefully to his attention might give them a bit of additional wiggle room before the reins were taken out of Mycroft’s hands.“We know what general direction the van headed off into,” Kantor said, pointing to the map laid out on the table. “There are two main roads that branch off in that direction, and a number of secondaries that branch off each of those. The roads all lead to a progression of large homes, ski lodges and hotels placed in the mountains and along the river. One of the main roads eventually leads to the border, but I doubt we need to be concerned about that—Messer wouldn’t be staying here if he didn’t have reason to do so.”Mycroft had been thinking about the logistics of this. “I suspect we should make the hotels our lowest priority,” he said. “They’re not someplace where Messer could store his stock, and he would have the same difficulty carrying around an unconscious boy there as he would have had here, had the tunnel not existed. The ski lodges are a distinct possibility: largely closed for the summer and without guests, and providing access to numerous large storage areas that normally hold heavy equipment to manage the slopes and so on.”Kantor nodded. “And remember we aren’t looking for the van—it’s back at the hotel. Though we can certainly ask people if they’ve seen it, I suspect that’s going to be an area of low return; it’s pretty nondescript. We’re looking for the delivery lorry.” He reached into a folder and passed out prints. “This is the best picture we’ve got—the logo from the flower shop is the easiest identifier. We know the lorry’s still missing, according to the police.”“We will break this into teams,” Anthea said. “No one goes anywhere alone. And no one approaches either the lorry, Messer or the boy without prior authorization. Messer is a professional, and his people are likely to be the same. We will get one shot at this, so we need to be sure.”In short order they set off, two in each rented car. Mycroft and Kantor rode together, and Anthea rode with one of the three the surveillance team members. Each car had its own mobile phone. They had decided to take the southern branch of roads first, working systematically down every option. They had made a perimeter of twenty minutes’ travel from the hotel—any further than that would put it outside of the time frame for the van’s outbound and return trips. That limited the area they had to search, but Mycroft was all too aware of the passage of time—he expected momentarily to hear from his uncle and be warned to stand down. He wasn’t sure what he would say if that conversation occurred, but he knew it wouldn’t end well when he made it clear that he wouldn’t comply. He would certainly lose access to the surveillance resources, whatever he, Anthea and Kantor chose to do thereafter.It was a long, depressing day. While the actual distance involved wasn’t great, the winding nature of the roads, and the many, many private lanes and extended driveways that branched off of them, meant that each road took hours to thoroughly search, at an average speed just above a walking pace. At each building cars had to be abandoned so that the public facilities could be examined discreetly and any staff questioned. Private homes and lodges required their cars, and their approach, both be hidden.By teatime Mycroft found his nerves screaming in protest, and had to ruthlessly and repeatedly beat them down. He had arranged for the teams to check in as each section of road was completed, and the constant litany of “not this one” was both wearing and concerning. They didn’t know for certain, after all, if the van had actually continued in this direction—the cameras only showed the direction of initial travel, and it was possible it had made an unexpected turn after leaving the hotel to go another route.Mycroft didn’t think he had the energy to consider that possibility right now. He shoved it into the background of his thoughts and left it there.They gave up for the night at 10; it was dark and chilly in the mountains, and visibility was increasingly poor as mist crept over the rocky crags and trees. Vehicles would also stand out, as fewer cars were on the road in these later hours. They were all hungry and somewhat discouraged; it was better to start fresh at dawn.Mycroft, Anthea and Kantor staggered to the suite and dropped into chairs with a sigh. Anthea, after a raised eyebrow at Mycroft, picked up the room service menu and started placing a large order.They had been waiting for perhaps five minutes when Mycroft noticed a small red light shining on the house phone on the coffee table. A message, presumably. Perhaps something for Anthea from the Peeps hierarchy? He picked it up and dialed the front desk.Something in his face must have alerted Anthea, who came over in alarm. “What?” she said. “What’s happened?”His hands were shaking. Because of all emotions, Mycroft found it most difficult to suppress fury. And that, that was certainly what he felt now. His voice, when he spoke, sounded like someone else’s. “They lost Messer and the boy for several hours this afternoon,” he said, barely able to get the words out. “They had gone out through the kitchens after finishing their lunch, and no one had been placed on the rear entrance—the team had simply waited in the hall by the front entrance of the restaurant. Messer didn’t return until nearly 4.”Kantor and Anthea were both gaping. “But…why didn’t they call us?” Anthea said. “They knew we had the phones. They knew how critical it was to track Messer’s movements. He has to have gone to where they’re keeping Sherlock, or at least where they’re keeping the guns. He wouldn’t have been so secretive about it otherwise.”“Oh, they did call,” Mycroft said flatly. “They called London, as they had apparently been instructed yesterday to do. This was just a courtesy after the fact, since they assumed London would call us directly.” And, of course, “London” meant “Rudy”.Anthea continued to gape. Kantor, however, looked both angry and troubled. “This is not acceptable,” he said. “Your superiors are undermining your authority, and putting your team at risk. In your shoes I would raise this to the highest authority.”Mycroft’s hands had stopped shaking; now they, and the rest of him, felt bitterly cold. “I report directly to that ‘highest authority’,” he said bleakly. “And that authority has decided that Oliver and my brother are disposable, and have used this action to drive that home with me.”Kantor stood frozen, mouth dropping open. “Brother?” he said finally, and Mycroft realized he had said something ill-advised. This level of emotional upheaval was intolerable.“Yes,” he said stiffly. “He has been on my team for a bit more than a year. He refers to it as a ‘gap year’, before he returns to university. And no, it was never supposed to be dangerous.” Even he was aware how defensive he sounded.“I’m very sorry,” Kantor said, and left it at that.
Ollie
The next two hours were a flurry of activity. Izzie, true to his word, managed to get a doctor dragged out to the lodge within 45 minutes. The source of that doctor was questionable at best: what normal physician walks in and sees a sedated teenager on the bed, and a man with bound hands in one corner, and says nothing? But the man did see to know his stuff.“You mean to tell me no one is keeping a register of medications?” the man near-shouted. “Especially after previous adverse reactions?”“He’s autistic,” Ollie offered, in case it was important. “A lot of drugs don’t work right for him.”The doctor stiffened again, and glared at Izzie, who had the grace to flinch. “I didn’t realize it made a difference,” the old man offered.“It does,” the doctor barked irritably. “Everything matters.”In the end, Sherlock was injected with a counteragent, one the doctor was dubious of but nonetheless felt was the best option. “If he has to be sedated going forward, stick to high-dose antihistamines,” he sniffed. “I’ve left a supply of loaded syringes on the table. Those will keep him extremely sleepy and dizzy, but won’t suppress his breathing. If any more of that occurs, or any additional seizures, have them call me at once.”Ten minutes later Sherlock was intensely alert and near screaming with anxiety, his pupils blown and hands fluttering uncontrollably. “What did he give me?” he stuttered, teeth chattering. “It’s like ants under my skin.” He rubbed his hands roughly along his forearms, finally shifting to violent scratching until Izzie grabbed his wrist and stopped him.“You mustn’t, my dear,” Izzie said. “You are damaging your arms. Why don’t we try a hot bath? That may help.” He got Sherlock moving towards the bathroom, then went in with him and shut the door.Ollie was just beginning to consider whether it was worth taking a look through the French doors at the balcony, to see if there was a reasonably safe route to climb down (preferably without falling down the mountain) with tethered hands, when the door opened again and Albrecht Messer walked in. Ollie quickly moved back away from the open doors—didn’t want Messer to know what he’d been thinking.“Well,” Messer said, “I think it’s time you and I had a little chat, Mr. Graham.” It wasn’t the worst half-hour Ollie had ever spent; that had been part of his Special Forces training, and involved 24 hours in a corrugated steel confinement cage in the blazing sun. In comparison, this was…well, it wasn’t quite as bad. Shorter, anyway.Messer knew what he was doing; that same training allowed Ollie to recognize that the things Messer did, however painful, would do little permanent injury, and were designed more to overwhelm than to incapacitate. He wanted quick answers, and was determined to get them.He didn’t, but it was a close-run thing. Ollie stuck doggedly to his story of stumbling across the house by accident in their random search for Sherlock, and endured whatever he had to. That got harder and harder, but never quite reached the unbearable point.By the time Messer stepped back and placed the last of his “tools” on the ground by the door, Ollie had two fingers which had been dislocated and then slammed back into place, at least one and likely two black eyes forming, and a spreading mass of fire across his back from repeated strikes from a flexible cane. His nose was bleeding, but not, he thought, anything else. No internal damage to speak of beyond tender ribs. If need be, that climb down from the balcony still seemed possible if there was a workable route and he could somehow get his hands free. Though the fingers were going to be a problem.He had also been aware, on a peripheral basis, of shouting from the bathroom. Izzie, thankfully, had managed to keep Sherlock in there. God only knew what would have happened otherwise.Messer stepped back, wiping his hands on a towel he pulled from a cupboard in the corner. He cut Ollie free of the chair before he spoke, though he left the zip ties on his wrists. “I still don’t believe your presence here is the result of dumb luck. But I suppose it doesn’t really matter in the end, and I’m running short on time,” he sighed. He raised his voice and called. “Mr. Taubman, you can let William out now.”Sherlock shot out the door like a cannonball and launched himself straight at Messer, who laughed and effortlessly blocked the teenager’s attempted blows; Sherlock was skilled and strong for his weight, but also still fighting days of risky drugs and questionable cures. He was quickly subdued, with both arms gripped behind his back in Messer’s strong hands. Messer looked at Izzie, standing hesitantly by the bathroom door still. “Get the cuffs from the desk,” he said, and Izzie, face falling, dug through the drawer until he came up with a pair of police-style handcuffs, which Messer then snapped on. He shoved Sherlock towards the bed, not bothering to see where he landed.“See if you can keep him calm,” Messer told Izzie. “The doctor was quite forceful about not sedating him again. But I don’t wish to keep him cuffed either—don’t want any bruises on him when he’s shipped off. Lowers his value, you know.” He looked up suddenly, as if only now realizing the nature of his audience. A sly grin slipped across his face. “Oh, dear,” he said.Izzie, who’d been occupied in picking Sherlock up from his huddle next to the bed to help him lie across it, stood frozen. “Value?” he finally said, a world of uncertainty in his voice.Messer shrugged his shoulders. “Well, yes,” he said. “And his is exceptionally high.”“I…yes, the adoption fees, of course,” Izzie said. “But that’s not based on…it’s not a purchase. They’re not purchased.” His face showed a growing horror as his mind frantically tried to deny what was now becoming clear. He backed up, slowly, leaving Sherlock panting on the bed and glaring hate at Messer.“Not precisely, I suppose,” Messer said, his mouth forming a cruel smile. “The funds are more accurately a commission for my services. And yours, indirectly, I suppose. But I assumed you didn’t want to know about that side of things.”“What ‘side of things’?” Izzie said, still backing slowly away as if to remove himself from this reality. “Are there…is there some problem with the adoptive parents? I thought you always made sure of them in advance. We’ve never had to worry about it before, it always went smoothly.”“Of course it did,” Messer said. “Because no one ever came looking before. But now we’ve got police and Interpol and all sorts of others poking about, like this one here.” He gave Ollie’s chair a rough kick, dumping him onto his side with a painful thump. “So I’ve had to burn through some of my ‘commission’ to keep them occupied.”“But then…should we perhaps release them both now, instead of waiting?” Izzie said slowly. “I mean, I know that means you and I will be forced to disappear. But it seems you were already considering that anyway, based on what Mansouri said. We both have ample funds to remake ourselves elsewhere, surely.” He was almost pleading now.On the bed, Sherlock made a rude, scoffing noise. Messer laughed in his turn.“Of course I’ll be disappearing,” he said. “But after all this effort I’m not likely to forego my profits from the one who caused it, now am I?” He looked over at Sherlock, now working his way upright with some difficulty. Ollie moved over carefully to help. “And who knows? Perhaps he’ll like Saudi Arabia.”“Saudi Arabia?” Izzie bleated. “I thought…all of the potential parents are in Europe, aren’t they? Mostly EU countries? So that there wasn’t as major a language and cultural learning curve…”“You thought a lot of things, apparently,” Messer sneered. “But you never really bothered to check, did you? Did you ever have any contact with the kids after their departures? Any of them?”Izzie backed away again, ever so slightly. “I. Well. I didn’t expect to. You said it wouldn’t be safe for them.” He was pleading now.“Did I ever say safer for them? Or did you just assume that, too?” Messer was enjoying himself, now. Ollie wanted to vomit.Izzie’s face underwent a sea change. When he spoke, his voice was quiet and dead. “There are no adoptive parents, are there?”Messer tilted his head to one side in a mockery of thought. “Well. Not precisely,” he said primly. “But I assure you there are always people who want to…take care of them.”Izzie, by now standing with his back to the open doors onto the balcony, was silent for a moment. He turned, walked to the railing and looked out over the shining mountains in the distance, and the gaping abyss immediately below. He continued without turning around.“I sold them, didn’t I?” he said quietly. “I let them be sold, to people just like those who killed my family, who left me unwanted and alone, just like the children. I wanted to make their lives better, but made them infinitely worse, because I wanted to believe.”Messer made an ruminative sound. “Well, to be truthful, I sold them. But you certainly acted as, oh, a procurer, shall we say? I think this is the correct word.” From the corner of his eye, from his position next to Sherlock, Ollie saw him give another one of those horrible smiles. Messer was enjoying this.Izzie nodded slowly. “Yes, I expect it is.” And, as Sherlock howled and lunged forward, the old man tipped over the railing and vanished into space.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Necromancer-- is a practitioner of magic involving communication with the dead – either by summoning their spirit as an apparition or raising them bodily – for the purpose of divination, imparting the means to foretell future events or discover hidden knowledge, to bring someone back from the dead, or to use the dead as a weapon
Mycroft
Mycroft gave up attempting to sleep as dawn seeped quietly through the glass back wall of the suite. He’d never bothered trying to climb into a bed—the idea of taking Ollie’s or Sherlock’s made him shudder. And he feared for his sanity if he exiled himself to his own quarters. The couch here was fine.Anthea wasn’t doing especially well either; she had finally, reluctantly, headed to her own bed at 1am only after Mycroft had ordered her, quite sternly, to go. Her resentful glare said it all. Even if she hadn’t intended it as such, he couldn’t help but feel it as a reproach—added, mentally, to the ones currently running nonstop through his head.He had just dragged himself off the couch and done the necessary ablutions when there was a discreet knock on the door. He checked the viewport carefully before opening it to reveal Kantor, and one other, unexpected visitor—the head of the surveillance unit.Kantor held up a large, good-smelling bag, while the surveillance head bore two large carafes “I stopped on the way to pick up breakfast,” he said, putting his burden down on the dining table. “I figured you might not think about it, but that’s a bad way to start a day of searching.”He was right on both fronts, though Mycroft’s stomach clenched at the idea of food.As Anthea staggered out of her bedroom behind him, Mycroft turned to Agent Strand, the surveillance head. “Well?” he said. “I presume it’s something delicate, for you to show up in person.”The woman flushed. “It is,” she said. “And I probably shouldn’t be here. But I’m uncomfortable with the way things are going, and I think you deserve to be kept in the loop.”Mycroft made himself go very still. “Do tell,” he said carefully, while Anthea came and stood silently behind him.“I was told this morning to withdraw my people from your search,” the agent said. “To redirect them to Messer and the search for the guns.” She paused. “And to not tell you that was happening.”Mycroft was aware of swaying slightly, and idly wondered how long it had been since he’d eaten. After the revelations of last night he’d been unable to choke down anything from their late dinner.He pulled himself back to awareness, seeing Agent Strand’s concerned stare. “I see,” he managed, and nothing more. Anthea was making incoherent, furious noises behind him.The agent was clearly made of sterner stuff. “I refused to do it,” she said flatly. “In my head, anyway. I know better than to openly oppose Rudy Vernet. But I won’t throw two young agents to the wolves. I can’t do anything too overt—several of my staff heard the conversation, after all. But there’s nothing to say that we can’t serve two purposes. It makes sense that we would follow the same search area as you; how likely is it that Messer would have two local headquarters, after all? And if we happen to see a missing lorry that has been flagged by Interpol, well, that’s part of our job too. Interagency cooperation and all that. They are to relay their findings to me; I will of course report them to London. But I will call you first, privately.” She looked at him from under her lashes. “I wish I could do more. But I fear that direct opposition on my part will lead to my being replaced with someone more…malleable. And that would serve neither of us well.”Mycroft nodded, still feeling oddly detached from reality. “I…your bravery is appreciated,” he managed slowly. “If it becomes an issue, I will intervene with Rudy.” Though he found himself suddenly unsure how much that would accomplish.Agent Strand nodded briskly. “Thank you,” she said. “I may hold you to that. But hopefully it won’t prove necessary.” She handed over a sheaf of paper. “These are the routes for today. My people will be heading out shortly, and I didn’t want you to inadvertently overlap.” She bobbed her head once more, then turned on her heel on swept back out the door.As the door closed behind her, Anthea exploded. “That utter shit!” she barked, picking up an abandoned mug from the table and launching it violently across the room. “Not only is he selling us out, he doesn’t have the balls to tell us.”“He feels it unnecessary,” Mycroft said hollowly. “He gave me a deadline, after all.”Kantor, who had been gravely quiet throughout, suddenly spoke. “Will this man actively oppose you, or just make his own decisions and assume you will fall into line? It makes a difference in how we proceed, I should think.”Mycroft had to think about that before responding. “The latter,” he said finally. “It would never occur to him that I would actively subvert his intentions.” He recognized distantly that, a week ago, it would never have occurred to him.Anthea nodded briskly. “You’re right,” she said firmly. “So let’s take advantage of that, shall we? I think there are cars outside calling our names.”
Ollie
After Izzie took a step off the balcony, Sherlock lost his mind.Ollie was pretty sure of that; he didn’t know how else to describe the howling, struggling collection of limbs and fists that launched itself, first at Messer (who fended him off effortlessly, since he wasn’t concerned about hurting him) and then at Ollie, who found it much more difficult because he was concerned. It went on and on, until finally Messer gave a huff of annoyance, stepped out of the room while Sherlock continued to flail and fight, and came back in with a syringe—not, clearly, one of the antihistamine ones the doctor had left.Before Ollie could stop it, before he could ask what that syringe held, Messer had ruthlessly wrung one skinny arm behind Sherlock’s back and forced the boy face-down on the bed. Then, placing a knee in the center of Sherlock’s back, Messer reached over, shoved the needle home into Sherlock’s hip right through his clothes, and pushed the plunger.It wasn’t instant—as soon as Messer lifted his knee off Sherlock’s back, the boy launched himself again with a wordless wail, until Messer made a sound of annoyance and back-handed him, sending him flying across the room. Ollie then jumped into the fray but was greatly hindered by his pinioned hands. Messer simply kicked his legs out from under him, then marched out the door. The German was replaced almost instantly by another guard who proceeded to put ties on Ollie’s ankles as well, dumping him on the floor next to the bed, then picking up a now-fading Sherlock and depositing him on top of the covers.Ollie gave it a minute or two after the guard left before cautiously leveraging himself up and onto the bed, wriggling snakelike into position.Sherlock lay flat on his back, staring dazedly at the ceiling. His pupils were pinpricks. Morphine or fucking heroin again, most likely—though probably the former, since Messer wouldn’t have had time to prep heroin before charging back in with the syringe.Ollie used his tied hands to clasp the boy’s chin. “Sherlock. Look at me, please. Tell me how you feel.”A broad grin crept across those pale features. “Ollie,” he crooned happily. “I feel sooooo good.” His brows lowered briefly. “But…did something happen? I’m all, um, bruisy.” He gently flapped his hands, covered in torn fingernails, emerging welts and purpling bumps.Ollie made an Executive Decision. “It’s fine,” he lied. “We can talk about it later. Why don’t you sleep for a little bit first?” Because the last thing he wanted to deal with right now was a distraught, drugged Sherlock. One of the two was enough.The boy gave another sleepy smile. “M’kay,” he muttered, and closed his eyes. Ollie spent the next three hours obsessively tracking Sherlock’s breathing, especially after he noticed the first dramatic slowing. He writhed himself over until he could brace his back against the headboard and pull Sherlock’s head onto his knee, within easy reaching distance. He discovered to his relief that a brisk shaking would start the younger boy’s breathing back on the right track—until the next time.They had gone through this cycle five times before the door opened again. Ollie expected one of the guards—they’d been reasonably reliable about bringing food and drink, and it was about that time. Could use help to the toilet too, come to that.Which was why it was so great a shock to look up and see Claus Graham walk in.
Mycroft
The search today felt different from yesterday. Anthea took off on her own. Mycroft and Kantor took the second car, with Kantor driving—Mycroft wanted to be able to receive news on the phone as they went and make decisions on the fly. They set up a schedule of calls, wherein Anthea would report in every 90 minutes. Unsaid was that she would of course call instantly if she had results personally. Agent Strand was the wild card; all Mycroft could do was hope her agents were diligent about reporting as well.The terrain for these routes was also different—fewer commercial ventures along the roads, more secluded house spots and small lodges. Much steeper, also—winding along the narrow roads, Mycroft was often glad of their slow speeds. Going much faster would have been terrifying.The day drug on; one could only sustain fury and anxiety for so long before dullness and mild despair set in. Mycroft struggled mightily against the latter.Anthea reported religiously, mostly to say that she’d seen nothing, heard nothing. Agent Strand called a bit after midday to tell Mycroft her people had finished their first batch of routes and was shifting to the next. She also casually mentioned that Rudy had asked for an update on their progress, but had said nothing about Mycroft. Mycroft wondered idly what his uncle thought he was doing. He was surprised to realize that he truly didn’t care.They took a brief stop in mid-afternoon to grab sandwiches and tea at a coffee shop in a small, rundown lodge. Mycroft called Anthea to remind her to do the same—they wouldn’t be at their best if they were tired and hungry. Soon enough, though, it was back to work, winding their way up another succession of narrow, steep roads.Mycroft was annoyed and fighting a headache in late afternoon when a call suddenly came in from Agent Strand. “We have the lorry,” she said. “H-4. Come up the 3rd north-bound road and take the 4th small track on the right. It’s long—you’ll likely want to drive most of the way. Lorry’s parked in a lay-by shortly before a series of private roads.” She paused briefly before continuing. “You will call me if you need assistance, yes? I can’t send people now, but if you have a sighting we will—”“Yes, of course, Agent,” Mycroft interjected, meaning not a word of it. He had no intention of risking her career unless he was certain of success, when she’d already gone far out on a limb for him. “You have my sincere thanks.”He hung up and instantly called Anthea. “Where are you? We have the lorry,” he said, while gesturing to Kantor on the map to give him the coordinates. “It’s in Sector H-4.”The young agent made a sound of dismay. “I’m more than an hour away,” she said. “Can you wait for me? I’m coming right now.”“No, my dear,” Mycroft said. “But come as quickly as you can nonetheless.” He hung up on her continued protests.
Ollie
“The fuck?” Ollie blurted before he could get his mouth under control. “How are you—”“I want to hurt him,” Claus said, gesturing towards the gently snoring Sherlock. “Really I do. But my uncle won’t let me. It would ‘lessen his value’,” he said with a mocking sneer.Ollie felt a shiver run through his nerves. “Probably true,” he said carefully, as if speaking to a dangerous animal. “So, why are you here, then?”“Oh, observation, partially,” the ginger said. “I mean, I’ve not seen the effects of high doses of morphine before. Always good to know those kinds of things in dealing with people. My uncle wants to make sure he offers me adequate exposure in my training.” He leaned forward and poked at Sherlock’s limp legs, while Ollie resisted the urge to grab him by the throat and hold on.“Are you working for your uncle, then?” Ollie asked. “Seem a little young for that, y’know.”“Well, not officially,” Claus said modestly. “Not quite yet. I’m his apprentice.” He dropped his chin and looked up through his lashes. “He says I’ve been extremely helpful this year.” He nodded towards Sherlock. “I chose him, after all.”Ollie blinked. “Then why—” he began, before managing to stop himself.Claus wasn’t deceived. He laughed. “Why do I want to hurt him, you mean?”Ollie nodded, sure he looked like a deer in front of an oncoming car. “Yeah,” he managed. “That.”“Because he’s better than I am,” Claus said, with a moue of discontent. “I mean, I don’t care that he’s pretty—that’s something of a disadvantage, especially for him, isn’t it? It’s part of why he’s here. But violin—he shouldn’t have beaten me. And that’s not—he wasn’t supposed to beat me.” He looked thoughtful. Then he reached behind himself, and when his hand came back it was holding a very large knife.Ollie nearly launched himself off the bed, throwing himself bodily on top of an inert Sherlock. “No!” he barked. “You—your uncle said no!”Claus gave a wordless snarl before pulling back, still holding the knife at the ready. Finally, when Ollie’s nerves had reached the screaming point, he gave a theatrical sigh. “All right,” he said. “You’re right, Uncle would be very, very cross with me. Can’t hurt the valuable merchandise, no matter how much I want to. And they’re coming for him in just a couple of hours anyway.”A considering look spread over his face, followed by a smile. “But there’s nothing that says I can’t hurt you,” he said happily, and plunged the knife through Ollie’s calf.
Mycroft
The lorry was exactly where Agent Strand had said it would be—pulled far off the narrow road, almost into the surrounding trees. Mycroft considered pulling in behind it, but changed his mind—any observers already knew the lorry was here, but couldn’t fail to be alarmed if a second vehicle suddenly appeared. “Turn around and go a bit further up the main road. We can walk back.” Kantor nodded silently and complied.As they reach the lorry after trotting back down the road, Kantor walked up carefully, looking on all sides as well as underneath. “Nothing I can see,” he said. “And it’s unlocked.” He pulled open the passenger side door and stuck his head inside.Mycroft joined him cautiously, looking around to make sure they were unobserved. “I don’t expect to find anything in here,” he said, as Kantor rummaged through a pile of papers and trash in the floorboards. “Oliver stole it, after all.”Kantor looked up with a grin. “Borrowed, surely.”Mycroft was startled into an undignified laugh. He sobered quickly, though. “We should get moving.” He looked at the map he’d brought along. “This is the only side road along here, and it apparently leads to a couple of large private homes cut into the mountainside. I suggest we get moving.” He shouldered one of the rucksacks they’d brought along, and handed the second to Kantor.The road got steeper as they went; anyone who lived up here better have four-wheel drive. This late in the afternoon the shadows of the trees were spreading rapidly; it would be full dark in not much more than an hour. Mycroft wasn’t sure if that was an advantage or not; they carried no specialized equipment in their packs beyond torches, zip ties, phones and bolt-cutters. Mycroft had considered asking Agent Strand for guns, but suspected that would go beyond what she was willing to do to thwart his uncle. He didn’t want to endanger her.They had just reached the edge of the large clearing of the first house when there was a flurry of movement at one end. Kantor and Mycroft dove for the cover of clumps of heavy brush in the shadows, and watched as Messer, his nephew and another dark-haired man came out into the large open garage, climbed into a Mercedes with deeply tinted windows and headed off down the track.Mycroft found himself very glad they’d moved their car further up the main road, past the track holding the lorry, before abandoning it. Messer would never overlook the implications of a second abandoned vehicle appearing during the time he’d been inside the house.They waited nearly ten minutes before moving, just to ensure no further movement was forthcoming. None was; the garage remained open, but the remaining vehicles looked like they’d been there for some time.They began a slow, cautious route around the far perimeter of the clearing, staying well inside the line of trees and brush. It was exceptionally steep on the back of the house, with great beams imbedded directly into rock to cantilever part of the foundation over the mountainside. A great, and likely hideously expensive, feat of engineering.After their long circuit they settled briefly back in a secluded copse about 40 feet from the rear western corner of the building. “There’s no point of egress on the back,” Kantor said. “With the structure built into the hillside, there aren’t even any windows except on the upper level, and that has no doors or stairs. The front and eastern side both have doors, but they have visible security lights next to them so I assume they’re wired.” He paused. “There’s the garage, I suppose, but it looks like that’s the primary entryway. Not happy with that option.” He looked at Mycroft expectantly.“Agreed,” Mycroft said; he had come to identical conclusions. But— “there is one other option, though it’s not ideal. Did you notice the metal access door on the far end of the garage wall? The outside wall, I mean?” He was thinking through the possibilities as he spoke.Kantor nodded. “It’s small,” he said. “Really small. I thought it was likely a clean-out point for fireplaces, or maybe an inspection tunnel for the heating or water equipment.”“The latter, I believe,” Mycroft said. “It’s not uncommon in places where water is derived from underground springs, which I presume is the case here. It’s much too far from town to be attached to any kind of municipal system, and I see no evidence of a cistern to catch snow or rainwater.”Kantor looked thoughtful. “You think it’s big enough, then?”Mycroft nodded. “I do, though only for one of us at a time. I wouldn’t want to be inside the tunnel if our entry is noticed from the outside.” He stood up and pointed towards the unseen entrance. “I will go in. I need you to act as a distraction if need be, and draw any pursuit away from the opening. I will call you if the boys are inside, and let you know when I’m on my way out. If you must silence the phone or can’t answer I’ll leave a message.”Kantor shook his head. “I should go in,” he said. “I’m likely stronger than you; if we need to bring the kids out through the tunnel, if they’re not able to crawl on their own, that could make the difference.”Mycroft had thought of that. “You’re also much wider through the shoulders. The entry will be very tight as it is—I’m not sure even I will fit, but I believe I can.” Running through his head was a loop of terror that he couldn’t share with Kantor--that one or both of the boys was either seriously injured, or no longer alive. He needed to see for himself. He simply couldn’t face standing out here any longer.Kantor, reluctantly, nodded. “Yeah, I guess. Think you’d better lose the rucksack, though—it adds too much bulk. Maybe put the torch in your teeth and the rest in your trouser pockets.Five minutes later they had removed the access cover as quietly as possibly—it wasn’t locked, thank God. Mycroft turned on the torch and gripped it between his teeth, and shimmied inside.
Ollie
Ollie’s scream woke Sherlock, which was a mixed blessing. Claus didn’t linger to see the effects of his strike—just pulled his knife back out, wiped it on the bedclothes and nipped back out the door while Ollie tried to breathe around the pain.Sherlock, though, shot up from his reclining position, eyes wild despite the tiny pupils. “What happened?” he gasped, then looked to see the blood seeping across the sheets under Ollie. The boy launched himself violently backwards, sliding off the far side of the bed with a thump.Ollie, teeth clenched, forced his tethered hands down on the wound currently pulsing blood with every movement. “Sherlock!” he called desperately. “Come here—I need you!”Sherlock’s head peeked cautiously over the edge of the bed. “There’s blood,” he said, voice shaking. “A lot of blood. And there was screaming.” His thin frame shook, much like Ollie’s body was currently doing.“Yeah, and that’s why I need your help,” Ollie managed. “I need to stop the blood, and I can’t do it on my own. Can you come here, please?”Sherlock rose warily to his knees—standing seemed too great an effort. But he scuttled around the end of the bed, coming to a stop by Ollie and waiting silently.“Get one of the pillowslips,” Ollie said, “and wrap it really tightly around my leg. And then wind the other up like a rope and tie it ‘round. Really tight. Can you do that?” he asked, now fighting to stay conscious.Sherlock nodded, though the motion sent him into a brief sideways wobble. He did as instructed, though, hands relatively steady as he first wrapped, then tied. That final jerk and tug as the “rope” pulled tight sent Ollie over the edge into a welcoming darkness.
Mycroft
Mycroft was fervently glad he’d brought the torch; the tunnel, while clear of obstructions and lined with sheets of galvanized metal, was profoundly dark and narrow. He gave a brief thought to Sherlock’s claustrophobia, then thrust it away.The crawling wasn’t difficult—thankfully the tunnel was level and dry. There were no turnings or cross-tunnels—it headed directly under the building, for some thirty feet in all. At the end of that space he was faced with a metal grate that luckily swung open when he cautiously pushed on it.He emerged in a small damp room hacked out of the stone of the mountain. In the center was a huge mechanism he recognized as a pressurized system—a pump of some kind, likely drawing water through the underground pipe that entered the room through the back wall. The pump hummed softly, but there were few visible moving parts beyond tiny monitors set along the top edge of the metal hood.All of that was well and good—hypothesis confirmed. What wasn’t so good was that the room had no door.It made sense once Mycroft thought about it—this equipment was actually beneath the house, built underneath the foundation. The tunnel was designed for the rare occasions that workmen needed to access the pump—there was no real reason to link it to the house proper other than through the pipes feeding the water upstairs.Speaking of—there was an access panel that almost certainly led into the structure above, presumably added as a failsafe in the event the tunnel was blocked. Unfortunately that panel was in the ceiling of the chamber, perhaps nine feet up.He climbed carefully up to the top of the pump frame, and was pleased to see that his height stood him in good stead: he could reach the metal mesh panel with relative ease. Again, no lock, so he was able to lever it up enough to get a good gripe of the wooden frame set into the floor above. He didn’t dare swing the grate all the way open—wasn’t sure if there was a stop to keep it from slamming into the floor at full extension, making enough noise to bring the whole household down upon him. He ignored the weight resting on his hands while jack-knifing his body up to slide his feet onto the frame, and from there pull himself the rest of the way up, finally in place far enough to lay the grate carefully down on the far side.He was in a laundry room: concrete block walls, tile floor, cheap fluorescent lighting overhead. Clearly a servants’ area, with no more money spent than was necessary for function. The door to the room slid silently into the side wall rather than swinging—that made it easier to silently open it and look around.He exited into a long, utilitarian hallway, with a stairwell at the far end. There was only one other doorway—he looked carefully through the small window in the door and saw the garage. Nothing to see there—up the stairs it was, then.The first flight ended at another door leading into a white-washed hallway. More utilitarian service areas, then. He was moving carefully down the hallway when someone opened a door almost directly in front of him. Before the other man, short and stout, could turn around Mycroft had swept out his arm with the cosh he’d shoved in his pocket. It connected with the man’s temple, and he dropped in his tracks.Mycroft quickly dragged his captive back into the room he’d just left—plain, with a couple of wood chairs and little else—and deposited him in one of the chairs before pulling his zip ties out of his pocket and securing the man to it. He shoved a paper serviette he found lying on the floor in the man’s mouth just in case, then searched him quite thoroughly. Mycroft was rewarded with a wallet and a security card, both of which he put in his pocket. Then he went back into the corridor and closed the door behind him.He headed up another flight of stairs, this time carpeted and warmly lit. At the top was a landing and a doorway with a card reader. Hoping for the best, he slid the card he’d stolen through, and the door unlocked with a soft “click” and a flash of green light.
Ollie
Ollie woke after an indeterminate passage of time. The first thing he saw was Sherlock’s face, peering down into his eyes. “I was…I didn’t want to…the bleeding stopped,” Sherlock stammered, then shifted back until he was huddled atop his feet, knees sticking awkwardly up like a crane.Ollie took inventory. He hurt, pretty systemically—the attacks from Sherlock, plus the brief flurry with Messer, had left him aching and bruised. And then of course there was his leg, which throbbed viciously with every beat of his heart. He rolled himself gently to one side, trying not to move it but not quite succeeding.It looked—well, not as bad as he feared. The knife had left a fairly surgical-looking hole, from what he recalled, but the blade hadn’t been serrated, so minimal tearing, hopefully. And Sherlock was right—the blood had saturated much of the makeshift bandage pack, but that blood was now drying to a dark brown, and he saw no evidence of any new spread on the bedding underneath him. He assumed he likely had surgery in his future, but that was manageable if need be.Sherlock looked ragged but coherent. That, likely, was the best Ollie could expect, considering. “How are you?” he asked, and Sherlock blinked.“Fine,” Sherlock said, after a hesitation that went on too long for Ollie’s comfort. “No one’s come in a long time. I think they’re gone.”Ollie wouldn’t count on that. “How long was I out?”Sherlock blinked again, as if unable to parse that idea. Not so “fine” as he maintained, clearly.“Look out the window,” Ollie coaxed. “Tell me what you see.”Sherlock obediently turned his head and looked towards the French doors. “It’s getting dark, I think,” he said hesitantly. He whipped his head back suddenly. “I don’t want to look out there anymore,” he said, looking distressed.And that, that Ollie took as a warning sign. The last thing they could afford right now would be for Sherlock’s mind to recover what it was valiantly trying to suppress. “Yeah, that’s OK,” Ollie said soothingly. “I don’t need you to. Why don’t you go get us some water? I could use some, and I bet you could too.”Sherlock stood, wavering, and staggered off to the bathroom, falling twice en route. He came back with a plastic ice bucket partly full of water and dropped roughly back onto the bed beside Ollie. “There weren’t any glasses,” he said calmly, tilting the tub up and taking a long pull before holding it out to Ollie.The water helped; Ollie felt less disconnected from reality after he’d swallowed half the bucketful. “All right, next order of business,” he told a lethargic Sherlock, who had flopped back down on the bed and now stared dreamily at the ceiling. “Go through the desk and the cabinets and see if you can find anything to cut these zip ties. We might as well take advantage of them leaving us alone.” Ollie was unsure if that was actually true, but it certainly seemed that it might be—their usual lunch hadn’t arrived, and no one had come to check on them in hours.Sherlock huffed in irritation but dutifully climbed off the bed again, tottering around, using walls and furniture as supports. He rummaged through the ornate wardrobe in the corner, then the cupboards lining the back wall before turning to the desk. In the center drawer he found something that made him give a happy smile—a pair of scissors, lightweight but likely strong enough.It took some doing, but Sherlock managed to break the ties on Ollie’s hands after some wiggling (Sherlock) and swearing (Ollie). They’d been tied together long enough that it felt odd to suddenly have freedom of movement.His ankles were another issue entirely. Messer had secured those much more tightly—enough so that the plastic bands were now cutting into the flesh of Ollie’s legs, especially on the injured one that had swollen in response to the knife wound. Ollie eventually took over the task himself, after Sherlock had accidentally cut Ollie twice. Ollie had to lie back and let his head clear a couple of times as well. Finally, though, the tough binding gave with an audible snap, and Ollie was free.Well. Relatively speaking, anyway. Though he had to lie back and breathe through the pain for a minute or two.He was just about to suggest that Sherlock finish checking through the desk for anything that might be used as a weapon when he heard movement from the hallway.
Mycroft
With useless surges of adrenaline pounding through his veins, Mycroft carefully checked each door along the hallway. Most were either opened or unlocked, and vacant of both people and, in some cases, furnishings. The next to last opened onto an elaborately decorated bedroom suite, also empty. But the final door had a card reader, just like the one at the entry from the stairwell. Mycroft slid the card through the reader, the door clicked softly, and opened—and he saw his brother, collapsed at his feet.‘He wasn’t trying to—” an urgent voice said from inside the room, but trailed off as Mycroft looked over and met Ollie’s startled eyes. “Well,” the boy said, a smile threatening to crack his face wide open. “Took you long enough.”Mycroft found himself momentarily unable to speak. He covered this lapse by picking up his brother, who proceeded to fitfully try to fight him, and carried him to the bed where Ollie lay. Which meant, of course, that he was struck by a sudden view of the large expanse of dried blood.“It’s alright,” Ollie said hurriedly. “We’re both alright. Well, mostly. He’s drugged, and I’ve been stabbed. But nothing that can’t be easily fixed once we’re out of here.” He looked over Mycroft’s shoulder towards the open door. “Where are the others?”Sherlock spoke, in horrified tones. “There are no others, are there?” he said, from his position flat on his back.“Not in the building,” Mycroft said carefully. “Kantor is outside, and Anthea is on her way. I have my phone with me to call for reinforcements.” And he would—Agent Strand would have no trouble justifying her presence now, especially considering that the weapons were almost certainly somewhere in this compound.“Then let’s go,” Ollie said. “You might need to call Kantor in—can’t walk, and I don’t think Sherlock’s up to helping haul me out. You might need help with him, come to that.” Then he stopped himself. “But wait—you need to get Sherlock out of here first. That little shit, Graham? He did this,” sweeping a hand over his injured leg, “but he also happened to mention that ‘they’ were coming for Sherlock in a couple of hours. And I don’t know exactly how long ago that was. We can’t take a chance on them showing up with him still here.”“No,” Mycroft said. “Sherlock can walk if he has to, can’t you, brother?” In response, Sherlock stood, managed three steps, and then slid to his knees and stayed there. He wouldn’t meet Mycroft’s eyes.“Fine,” Mycroft said. “I’ll get you outside first, Oliver. I can’t pull Kantor in—he needs to stay on watch to let us know if Messer or his people return. Then I’ll come back for Sherlock. It won’t take more than five minutes.”“No,” Ollie said. “We can’t take a chance. If they show up and it’s just me in here, I can play ‘unconscious’, and be convincingly unaware of Sherlock’s whereabouts. Tell them someone I’d never seen before cut me free and took off with him. Promised to come back. But if I go and Sherlock’s left here when they show up, we could lose him—we don’t have the resources to fight them off, at least not right now, and we’ve already proven that Messer is far too good at slipping any leash we try to put on him. Get him out of here, Mycroft.”Mycroft thought about that, weighing the options. The man downstairs hadn’t gotten a good look at him, so that wouldn’t set Messer’s suspicions off—it could just as easily be Interpol as anything else. Or there could be a mole in Messer’s group—he was quite sure Messer had few illusions about the reliability of hired help. But leaving an injured young agent here alone—“I’m right, Mycroft,” Ollie said quietly. “You know I am.”He was. God help them all. The last thing Mycroft saw as he left was Ollie’s smirk and a mocking thumbs-up. Ollie liked winning arguments entirely too much. Getting Sherlock down two flights of stairs and out through the garage wasn’t easy. The boy was fading in and out of semi-consciousness—alert and viciously angry one moment, eyes closed and feet dragging the next. Mycroft had called Kantor before they set out and told him to alert Agent Strand and Anthea; he then left the phone with Ollie, just in case.By the time they stepped outside, full dark was approaching fast. Mycroft dragged his brother towards the distant clearing in the trees that he and Kantor had decided upon as their rendezvous point—far enough that voices wouldn’t carry to the house, near enough to see everything. In the end he swept Sherlock up and carried him, despite his protests—it was easier.He staggered into the clearing and lowered his brother with a gasp—skinny as he was, carrying him up a steep hill was still a strain. Said brother did not express his gratitude, instead trying to struggle to his feet to better berate his audience. “You should have taken Ollie!” he shouted, listing to one side. “We can—”Kantor stood, ignoring the outraged boy at his feet. “I will go for Oliver,” he said. “You’re exhausted, and he must be carried the entire way, most likely. Give me the keycard.”Mycroft had just handed over the card when there was a sudden roar of engines below, coming rapidly up from the road. He and Kantor dropped instantly into the brush, dragging Sherlock down with them.Out of the near-darkness came a huge 4-wheel-drive vehicle, tearing up the road at top speed, engine howling as it came. It jerked to a stop at the edge of the clearing, and two men scrambled out. One handed a large, complicated tube to the other, who went to one knee, placed the tube carefully on his shoulder, and pulled a trigger. As Mycroft and Kantor dove further down into the forest debris, a bright line of flame leapt from the tube and tore into the large, open garage. Then there came a violent explosion, followed almost instantly by a vast, echoing blast which blew Mycroft onto his back, as he watched trees and bits of mountain fly over his head. And, as he forced himself to turn back, he saw the remains of the house break into three great, flaming pieces and tumble down the mountain.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Gjenganger—Scandinavia--The ghost of a dead person (often murderers, murder victims, or suicides) who, though undead, took on corporeal form and threatened the living with violence or torment.
Present Day: John
Mycroft, as he finished his tale, looked…shattered. Not overtly emotional—John would never expect that—but lost, and exhausted, and sad (though John was aware that he was probably one of the only people who would recognize it as such).The silence stretched uncomfortably long, while John had the strong feeling that Mycroft didn’t trust himself to speak. To give him a bit of time, John stood up and busied himself with the neglected breakfast Anthea and Greg had brought, filling plates for them both and pouring tea from the still-warm carafe. He slid Mycroft’s over in front of the man, then sat back with his own.Finally, when the silence continued, John took the reins on his own. “So, what happened? After, I mean.”It was enough. Mycroft roused himself, visibly pulling his dignity around his shoulders. “Mayhem,” he sighed. “Though I don’t remember all the details from the first day or two—I discovered, once the debris stopped falling, that a small branch had been forced through my lower leg in the explosion, and it required minor surgery.” He sipped his tea thoughtfully.“And the others?” John said gently.“Kantor was unhurt, beyond some cuts and grazes from flying rock. Sherlock—well, we’ll get to Sherlock in a moment. And Oliver—” he stopped momentarily, taking deep, unsteady breaths, before taking another sip of tea. “Oliver’s remains were never found,” he said finally. “His family decided to stop the search after about a week. They ultimately placed a plaque for him in their church. Anthea, Kantor and I attended the service.”John couldn’t fail to notice that Sherlock wasn’t included in that list. Mycroft, unsurprisingly, read his mind. “No, Sherlock was not well enough to attend. At the time, in fact, we did not know where he was.” More tea. “He was…when we were rescued, he and I were both taken to hospital—I to surgery, he, after a few hours, to, well, a locked ward. He was incoherent—still drugged, but also completely out of control. Manic. Furious. The nursing staff placed him in a room, sedated him mildly, sent a therapist in. Sherlock wouldn’t engage, wouldn’t react. Until he was caught, the following day, breaking into the controlled substances locker at the nursing station.”John wasn’t sure what his face did; judging by Mycroft’s reaction it wasn’t pleasant. “I know,” Mycroft sighed. “I had much the same reaction when my parents told me. Anthea had summoned them; they arrived shortly after I awoke after the surgery. It was as well they were there; someone needed to authorize the involuntary hold, and I wasn’t yet capable.”“So how long was he…” John said, not quite sure how to ask this particular question.“Sectioned?” Mycroft said. “He stayed a little more than a week. Then he vanished, taking a fair quantity of hospital-grade narcotics with him. We had no idea how he managed it, and he has never said. All we know is that we didn’t see him for more than a month. He finally turned up at our grandmother’s house in Paris in the beginning stages of an overdose.”John stomped on his initial reaction to that, and managed to remain calm. “And?” he asked. “I’m assuming there’s an ‘and’ here.”“Indeed,” Mycroft said. “My parents found space for him at an adolescent rehabilitation program outside of London. That enabled them to visit regularly. He stayed eight weeks, then returned to university and began work on his graduate degree. We never worked together again. At least not formally.” He added the last with a wry smile, since John and Sherlock both had spent time ‘doing favours’ for Mycroft in the past.John sipped his own tea, thinking about that. Thinking about Mycroft in hospital, with Ollie dead, Sherlock losing himself, and the mission apparently a catastrophic failure. But there were still many loose ends that hadn’t been addressed.“What happened with the rest?” he asked carefully. “The kids, the guns, Messer? Oh, and Kantor?”Mycroft looked briefly over at his brother, sleeping soundly in his cot, then back to John. “Messer and the boy were never apprehended,” he said. “They heard the explosion, as did everyone for many, many miles, and read between the lines. Our last verifiable sighting was of them boarding a private plane in Zurich three hours after the blast. Mansouri, however, wasn’t so lucky. He decided to try the train route; by the time the train reached the Swiss/German border an order had gone out stopping all transport. Anthea’s work—she received a commendation from my uncle, which she subsequently burned.”John laughed at that—he could visualize that scene quite easily.“Kantor now works for me,” Mycroft continued. “He is the head of the MI6 office handling Switzerland, Austria and northern Italy. He also occasionally acts as our liaison with the Israelis.”He poked a time or two at his breakfast, took a bite, sipped his tea. “Mansouri was the key to finding the children, as it happened,” the bureaucrat said finally. “He had received access to Messer’s records for the transactions—who, when, where. And because Messer had to leave so suddenly, he hadn’t had time to burn his bridges behind him, so the data was still recoverable.”Mycroft shifted in his seat—it had been a long, uncomfortable time here, after all. “There were 10 children taken in all—seven boys, three girls. The girls were located quickly, living with their purchasers in former Soviet states. Two returned home, where they, like all of the children, were offered rehabilitative resources and substantial financial restitution by Peeps. One chose to stay; she had married her captor, and had a child. There was little the authorities could do as she was by then an adult.” He shifted again, before rising with a soft groan and moving to stand by the windows. “The boys—all were eventually found, save one. He’d been killed in a car crash several years previously. No connection to his captor as far as we know—he’d been allowed to continue his schooling in his new ‘home’ and was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time. The remaining boys were gradually returned to their families, though two of the eldest chose to accept their restitution and instead strike out on their own in their home countries. As we’d established, these were not children who had stable, loving families, by and large—that’s why they were chosen, after all.”“I’m glad they were found,” John said. “With relatively happy endings, for the most part.” Because it wasn’t perfect. But to offer all of the kids a choice, and the ability to go wherever they wanted, with the resources to thrive—that was likely the best resolution they were likely to find. “But what about the rest of it? The arms, the rocket? Who did that, and why?”“Ah,” Mycroft said, nodding his head. “That’s far from simple. I can give you two answers: the one we heard then, and the real one.”John raised his eyebrows. “Do tell,” he said.“You may recall that there were two rival gun-running operations, yes?” Mycroft said, and waited for John’s nod before continuing. “While the rival forces largely remained in Paris, they had dispatched two members to follow Messer to Interlaken. My uncle knew this but did not tell me, in part, I suspect, because he wanted events to make my continued involvement immaterial. He was vexed with me, and decided to solve the case himself.”“You realize this only reinforces how I feel about your uncle, right?” John said, clenching his teeth. “I’m still working on ways I can get to Paris without Sherlock following me.”Mycroft gave a shaky laugh. “Just wait,” he said. “There’s more.” He took another sip of his rapidly cooling tea, grimaced and put it down. “So, the shooters were captured; unlike Messer, they didn’t realize that MI6 and Interpol were both tracking their movements. They were picked up still in Interlaken; the idiots decided to celebrate before heading back to France. Their information enabled MI6 to dismantle their entire operation in short order; many arrests, several caches of guns recovered.”“Wait,” John said, suddenly catching up. “So the rivals were the ones who fired the rocket?”“Indeed,” Mycroft said. “Killing two birds with one stone, essentially. A post-mortem of the building’s remains revealed that Messer’s shipment had been stored in a rock-carved storage room in the rear of the garage—virtually undetectable and totally secure. But the shoulder-held rocket fired directly into that chamber (though that last part was likely entirely accidental) ignited all of the ammunition and other explosives included in the shipment. That probably wasn’t their intent—they would have preferred to salvage the guns after Messer and his group were dead, since they were sure this was his headquarters. But eliminating their rival was nonetheless an adequate consolation prize.”John thought about that. “But…hang on. How did they know where to go? I mean, you only found it by sheer luck, with Ollie stumbling across the van. So how could they drive right up?”Mycroft nodded. “You’ve hit on the very issue that troubled me at the time. Granted, my faculties were not at their best. But as things improved, I became concerned with that very issue. I raised it with my uncle in our extremely uncomfortable debriefing, a couple of weeks after the explosion. His assertion was that Messer must have had a ‘ringer’ in his midst, someone who’d been compromised by his rival. It made as much sense as anything else—we never identified the rest of Messer’s people, after all, as they melted into the hinterlands before we could try. We were never even certain how many people he had.”John studied the bureaucrat’s face, using his Holmesian knowledge base. “But…” he finally said. “There’s something else, isn’t there?”“There is,” Mycroft said, very quietly. He looked carefully over at the still figure on the cot, listened to the soft beeps of the monitors. “Understand, John: Sherlock must not learn this. Nothing would keep him from confronting Rudy, and Sherlock would not survive it. I have no illusions—Rudy is wary of me, and justifiably so. He knows I can bring resources to bear that he would never see coming. But Sherlock—Rudy would swat him like an insect. And revenge on my part would not bring my brother back.”John rocked back in his chair, stunned. “He would—you think your uncle would kill Sherlock?”“I do,” Mycroft said simply. “Rudy is, I have discovered, very like my sister, though better able to hide it. And Sherlock—I honestly can’t predict what he would try to do, but based on his reaction to seeing the dead boy—Quentin-- it would almost certainly be…extreme. I’m unwilling to find out.”John thought about that. He was unwilling to keep secrets anymore; it hadn’t served any of them well, after all. But this one—this just might be necessary. There were certain areas in which Sherlock could not be reasoned with. And for all Mycroft’s superior airs, he did know his brother very well indeed, could predict most of his actions and reactions.“I can see that,” John finally said. “I won’t tell him. Can’t guarantee he won’t find out on his own, mind you—you know how he is.”“This secret has lasted more than 15 years,” Mycroft said simply. “And I truly believe I, and now you, are the only ones who know beside Rudy himself. I found it out myself almost by accident, in the process of reviewing Rudy’s records after Sherrinford. It’s buried well, and secured to a level I don’t believe even Sherlock could break without my knowing.”And that—well. That was impressive. John tried to imagine information “hiding” from the likes of Mycroft Holmes for 15 years, and had new, though very grudging, respect for the capabilities of Rudy Vernet. “Um. Yeah,” John said. “So tell me, and we’ll hope that lasts.”Mycroft gave another glance to the cot as Sherlock shifted slightly, then resettled. “It goes back to early on in the investigation,” he began. “You may recall that my uncle had managed to place an agent in with the rival’s forces, yes?”John nodded. “Yeah, which you would think would have given you early warning of what was happening.”“It did,” Mycroft said. “But that warning went directly to my uncle, and he did not share the information, as I mentioned earlier. But that’s not really the critical part.” He had visibly paled, and his fingers were doing almost Sherlock-like twitches in his lap.John’s hackles rose—there was something very bad here. “No?” he asked carefully.Mycroft shook his head. “No, the real issue came down to communications between my uncle and the embedded agent on the day of the attack,” he said, eyes darting over to his brother again before dropping to his hands. “Agent Strand had kept her promise of passing on the location of the van to me. But then she presumably immediately called London as well, and the information would have been relayed instantly to Rudy. That was noted in the records of the operation filed at the time. But what was not noted, and what showed up only in Rudy’s private records of that year—ones I and perhaps two others have access to—was what took place after that point. Because, in those notes, there appeared a transcript of a telephone conversation, 15 minutes after Agent Strand’s call, between Rudy and his mole with the rival operation. In the course of that conversation Rudy relayed the location details, including the map references and their meaning.” Mycroft paused, taking a deep shuddering breath. “And then he told his agent to pass that information along to his ‘employers’ as soon as possible.”
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Gidim—Mesopotamian ghosts who can cause misfortune and illness in the living, unless placated by offerings of food and drink
John
John was aware of his mouth hanging open, and simultaneously of a wave of fury waiting in the wings. “He sold you out?” he managed finally.“I should perhaps emphasize that Rudy would argue vehemently against that characterization,” Mycroft said, sounding as exhausted as he looked. “From his point of view, it was a masterpiece of expediency. He made sure the rivals knew Messer’s exact location, at a time when he could be positive the guns shipment was still in situ. He could be virtually sure the rivals would act on that information instantly, and so it proved. And, because he knew the rival group were almost as amateurish as they were lethal, he could be reasonably certain that they could be readily dealt with after Messer’s group was eliminated. The ultimate version of killing two birds with one stone, without requiring any expenditure of assets by MI6 whatsoever.” He leaned back and closed his eyes. “Quite tidy.”“But he ignored the risk to his own people,” John began hotly, the fury now seething in his veins. “He got Ollie killed, and Sherlock nearly so. Don’t think ‘tidy’ quite fits the bill.”“You’re forgetting something,” Mycroft said. “He had ordered me to move on. That order included Ollie. So the only reason Ollie was in any danger was my refusal to obey my orders.”“And abandon your brother?” John barked.Mycroft looked over at the cot again. “That was…I certainly considered that more critical than our uncle did. But the thing I keep coming back to is this: if I had not insisted on proceeding on my own, Ollie would not have followed the van. Agent Strand would never have had information to pass on about Messer’s location, and the odds of the rivals finding him would be quite low. I would have sent Oliver and Anthea home, and made my own decision about whether to keep pursuing Sherlock, though that might well have meant resigning and following him on my own.”“And he would have ended up some rich man’s plaything in Saudi Arabia, addicted and alone,” John said. “How long do you think he would have survived like that?”“I don’t know. I can’t know. And that’s rather the point,” Mycroft said. “Based on my own judgment, I put Sherlock’s welfare above Ollie’s, above the mission. And in the end, my own efforts resulted only in saving my brother, at Ollie’s expense. Had it not been for my uncle’s involvement, the mission would likely also have been a failure.” His face was bleak.“Hang on,” John said. “That’s not—the gun running was never your mission in the first place. Didn’t you tell me that? That your group was looking for the children. You weren’t supposed to be chasing gun smugglers or Stasi agents with a group of inexperienced kids. And let’s be honest here, Mycroft—you weren’t all that much more than a kid yourself. What were you, 26? Don’t think there are a lot of those running dangerous MI6 operations.”“I was 27, and that’s immaterial,” Mycroft said, with a trace of his normal arrogance. “I had been heading up multiple teams of agents for almost 4 years at that juncture. And I doubt that immaturity played a role in this particular failure.”John was silent for a long moment before continuing. “OK, I’m gonna say something you may find offensive, and I want you to understand that I don’t really mean it that way. But here’s the thing: I know how brilliant you and your brother are. And I know you were, are, very good at what you do. But putting that kind of weight on your shoulders that young was not right. In the Army, yeah, you’ve got kids that age, young lieutenants, who run ops, but they do it with overall planning sorted out by older and wiser heads. And they’ve usually got an experienced sergeant or two along to give them a hand as well. So I think your uncle used you, and then threw you to the wolves when you got in over your head. And it got Ollie killed.”Mycroft shook his head vehemently. “No, you don’t understand,” he said. “All of this was the result of my uncle not knowing that I wasn’t following his express orders. He didn’t know Ollie or Sherlock were at the lodge because I didn’t tell him. I didn’t tell him because I knew he would order me to step back and let him handle it.”“And you couldn’t, because ‘letting him handle it’ would mean letting Sherlock go, wouldn’t it?” John said, and Mycroft visibly flushed.“It would,” Mycroft said.“But then I have another question for you: why didn’t he call you?” John asked. “When his deadline passed and he hadn’t heard from you, why didn’t he pick up the phone? Or, saving that, have Agent Strand ask, order, you to call? Because if I’d been your commanding officer that’s certainly what I would have done.”Mycroft opened his mouth, then stopped. And blinked. After a long pause, he opened his mouth again. “I…I honestly don’t know,” he said, in a tone very close to bewildered. “I always presumed that he knew what I was doing. Knew that my not calling was a silent recognition that I was continuing in my stated course. But now…I have to confess I’m not sure.”John nodded. “Thought so,” he said. “Look, from what you tell me your uncle might have assumed you were doing what you were told, especially once he gave you a deadline. But it makes no sense that when that deadline passed, he didn’t insist on updates, or at least read you the riot act. So I ask you: who bears the responsibility here, the one who didn’t withdraw because he feared it would get one or more of his people killed, or the one who acted without confirming you had followed orders, without concerning himself with the possible consequences? Because I know where my vote would fall, if you asked me.”“You’re…not wrong,” Mycroft said, very slowly. “Certainly I believe if I was in Rudy’s position I would have acted differently. Though, to be honest, I would not have placed one of my team leaders in such a spot in the first place.”John nodded. “So. What would you have done?”“Sent along a senior team,” Mycroft said. “Provided whatever resources were needed.” He paused. “Not set up a potential ambush until I knew for certain that my people were out of the line of fire.”John nodded again. “So maybe—just maybe—you should think about taking some of that weight off your shoulders, and putting it where it belongs. Maybe.”Mycroft was silent for several long moments. Then— “Perhaps,” he said quietly. They stayed peaceably together for several hours. Mycroft took a phone call in some language John didn’t recognize, and ended it with something approaching a snarl. John worked through half of a Sudoku book he’d found sitting on the window ledge, then turned the telly on low and flipped idly through channels for five minutes before shutting it back off. Finally he gave up and turned back to the elder Holmes.“The drugs,” John said hesitantly, as Mycroft’s head shot up. “Was that the start of it?” He knew Sherlock would hate his asking, but nonetheless needed to know.Mycroft, to his credit, didn’t pretend to misunderstand him. “It was, and it wasn’t,” he said, closing his laptop and sliding back a bit in his chair. “He had certainly experimented before that time, though he’s never been clear to what degree. My father told you, I believe, about his experience with the Westminster Abbey choir audition* when he was 16—I would like to believe that was the first time. But it was three years between that and Switzerland. I have always suspected he…dabbled, while at uni. Though there was never any indication of sustained, or even frequent, usage.” He tented his fingers, much like his brother, and darted yet another glance over at the cot.“But you’ve mentioned before that Sherlock’s certainly entitled to treatment through MI6, even though you don’t often take advantage of it,” John said. “So…”“So you’re correct, his issues with addiction certainly arose from his capture,” Mycroft sighed. “His first overdose, followed by his first stint in rehab, was only a bit over a month later, after all. He did return to university, and then fell into a familiar, unfortunate pattern: doing well for a few months, making strides with his classwork and research, followed by a disappearance of varying length. I would locate him, return him home or to my own house for a time, then return him to school. Initially he would be quite repentant after one of these episodes, but that became less of a feature over time. He had three more stints in rehab and two more serious overdoses over the following years, in addition to a host of near-misses; in the final one his doctors were quite sure he would die.” His face did something uncomfortable before his professional blankness returned. “That was about six months before he met you. And you know how he’s done since.” And that, finally, brought a weary smile to his face.“Not as well as you hoped, but better than you expected?” John asked, tongue firmly in cheek.The smile widened. “Succinct and accurate,” the bureaucrat said. “I fear you’ve come to know me too well.”“Both of you,” John said. Time passed, as it always eventually does with vigils. Nurses came and tended to Sherlock. Anthea returned, bringing a better-than-average lunch she’d apparently sourced from a well-known restaurant. In mid-afternoon Greg Lestrade came back, a folder in his hand, which he placed quietly on the table, shooting his eyes over at the silent figure on the cot across the room.“Looked through the videos in depth, and interviewed the Good Samaritans,” he said, reaching for one of the containers of food. “Nothing new. Pretty sure it was just random—Sherlock was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”Mycroft looked up from whatever he’d been doing on his laptop. “Do we have names for the attackers?”“No,” Greg said, shaking his head.“Yes,” Anthea said, holding her phone out to her employer.Greg looked on in disbelief. “Were you planning on sharin’ that with me at any point?” he asked.Both Mycroft and Anthea looked on blandly. “I did tell you what would happen,” Mycroft offered finally. “You will, at some point, receive notice that the case has been closed. And these individuals will not trouble the people of London again.”“And I should, I dunno, be happy with that?” Greg said.“If you can,” Mycroft said, and returned to his laptop. As the day crept towards evening activity in Sherlock’s room increased. Greg left after an hour or so, commanding John to call him if he was needed for any reason, or if anything changed. Anthea settled in at the table next to Mycroft, working on both her phone and laptop silently. The nursing staff checked on Sherlock’s status repeatedly, adjusted medications, took bedside scans. Finally, at just after 4, his surgeon knocked at the door and stepped in.“We are beginning to lower his sedation,” Dr. Alvarez said. “The cardiologist will be in shortly and set up for an echocardiogram, just to make sure there are no additional issues—didn’t want to do it earlier while he was unstable. You’re welcome to stay here for that. I don’t expect Mr. Holmes to be aware for another hour or more.”“Sherlock,” John said, almost involuntarily. “He prefers Sherlock.” And then felt foolish—worrying about the name used to refer to an unconscious man, a sedated patient. He was pleased, though, to see Mycroft nodding.“My brother is quite insistent on such things,” Mycroft said. “It will make everyone’s life easier. Trust me, once he’s fully awake you’ll be glad for any small blessings.” John couldn’t suppress a small, guilty chuckle at that.Dr. Alvarez raised her eyebrows, but nodded. “Duly noted,” she said. “Just a brief update, then. Once the scan is complete I’ll be back in with the results, and we’ll talk about next steps. I’ll also be happy to address any questions you may have at that point.” She gave a brisk nod and headed back out the door.“She’s very efficient,” Anthea said after a moment. “I think I like her.” By the time the scan was completed, Sherlock had begun to make tiny movements, the notch between his brows momentarily deepening before he relaxed back into drugged sleep. “It looks fine,” Dr. Alvarez said after reviewing the printouts with the cardiologist. “Nothing we didn’t expect to see, and no indication of any kind of lingering structural or functional problems going forward. We’ll continue lightening the sedation, though we’ll have to play it by ear as to how far he comes today; we won’t have an idea of his pain level until he’s awake enough to tell us, honestly.”From that point on the three of them, John, Mycroft and Anthea, found themselves watching Sherlock obsessively, as if their attention would bring him round quicker. Dr. Alvarez had said that anything approaching full lucidity was likely an hour or more away, but that didn’t stop them from jerking to attention every time the detective rustled the bedcovers.As time wore on Sherlock started to vocalize; tiny, breathy sighs or deep moans. John found the latter hard to listen to, though he knew they meant little more than returning awareness seeping gradually through Sherlock’s sedated brain. At 6 Anthea placed another restaurant order; there was a café in the hospital, of course, but none of them wanted to leave long enough to get food. A black-suited agent showed up an hour later with bags full of containers, and they once again ate at the small table in Sherlock’s room.John had finished quickly and moved his chair over to the side of the cot; he’d noticed Sherlock’s movements were picking up, the sounds starting to approach language. Which is why he was close at hand, at just before half-eight, when Sherlock’s eyes popped open, his face contorted, and he began to scream.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Preta—From India—“hungry ghost” who hungers perpetually for a specific food or item. They are believed to have been false, corrupted, compulsive, deceitful, jealous or greedy people in a previous life.
It took nearly an hour to get Sherlock resettled. While his screams had been startling, they weren’t entirely unexpected. “He was confused, concussed, and in a great deal of pain,” Dr. Alvarez said later, after she responded to the urgent page from the floor staff. “Who wouldn’t scream?”John understood that, once he had the leisure time to think about it. It had nonetheless been hard to watch, and John was aware of Mycroft standing rigid behind him, almost as pale as the bandaged, hyperventilating man in the bed. But John couldn’t worry about that. “Help me hold him still,” John barked, and Mycroft moved quickly to grab his brother’s flailing arms. John looked next to Anthea. “Go get the nurse,” he said. “And have them page his surgeon.” She hustled out the door without a sound.While Mycroft carefully held both spidery arms (avoiding the heavily bandaged right hand) and crooned to his brother in French, John steadied the frame on Sherlock’s broken right leg and fended off the left one, which kept trying to slither both legs off the bed. The screams trailed off gradually, getting softer and less frequent before finally trailing off altogether by the time Dr. Alvarez came bursting through the door.Sherlock was quiet during the surgeon’s assessment, but far from calm. He watched the moves of every person in the room with mute terror, clearly recognizing no one. His English seemed to have wandered away as well, but thankfully Mycroft’s French proved to have been inspired; the only discernable words the detective spoke were in that language, though only barely recognizable as such. Mycroft’s face grew pinched. “He says it hurts. A great deal,” the bureaucrat said, almost as quietly as his brother. “And he has asked twice for someone to help him.” He made an abortive reach for his brother’s face, then yanked the hand back instantly when Sherlock flinched away.Dr. Alvarez nodded towards the nurse hovering in the corner, then led Mycroft, John and Anthea out to the hall, closing the door quietly behind her. She led them down the corridor to a small conference room.“The confusion isn’t worrying, as per the neurologist’s review of his films from about an hour ago,” she said, as soon as they had all entered. “I want you all to understand that. It will likely diminish fairly quickly, though it’s important he stay calm. The pain—we need to talk about that. John, I know you know this—he has significant bone pain, between the leg and his pelvis. Non-opiates aren’t going to touch that, but his history of abuse means that his tolerance is likely extremely high. I want to know, directly from you, how you want to approach this. If we use levels high enough to be fully effective, he will go through withdrawal in the end; it’s inevitable. But if we undertreat, the continuing high pain levels will almost certainly affect his healing, as well as his mood. He has a difficult road ahead as it is—I’d hate to see him struggle unnecessarily. Since he’s non compos mentis for the most part right now, it’s ultimately your decision—treat the pain and manage an extended withdrawal, or minimize opioid use knowing that it will not be fully effective, but will prevent dependency.”John looked searchingly at Mycroft, who looked blankly back. “I don’t know,” John said slowly. “I mean, I can see both sides here. But…” he paused, thinking it through as he went. “I keep going back to a conversation from last year, just after he got out of hospital full-time. They were weaning him off morphine, and it was, um, pretty awful, honestly. Vomited off and on for days, had to be hooked up to a drip to prevent dehydration. Shakes, cold sweats, the lot. And all of this while he was still in pain.” He wrapped his arms around himself, avoiding eye contact. “And he said. Well. He was, um, in tears,” John managed, and caught a glimpse of Mycroft’s appalled gaze. “And he said he never wanted to go through that again.”There was a brief, almost respectful silence before Dr. Alvarez spoke again. “Well,” she said, “it sounds like I have my answer.” In accordance with the tentative plan, the doctor authorized a moderate dose of pain medication for Sherlock and it was quickly administered. Likely because of his post-anesthesia status, Sherlock quickly fell asleep, while everyone in the room let out a collective sigh of relief.The relief didn’t last. Mycroft and Anthea left after roughly half an hour, promising to return in the morning unless needed earlier. John sighed and settled in to wait, hoping the next awakening would be more promising than the first. And it was, in one sense. At 10 John had settled into the reclining chair the nursing staff had brought in, tucked in relatively comfortably with pillow and blankets. He didn’t sleep, but didn’t really expect to with things still so uncertain. So he was still reading at just past midnight when he heard a gasp from the cot, and sat up to meet Sherlock’s eyes.John scrambled from his nest and hurried to the side of the cot. “How are you feeling?” he asked quietly, wanting to keep this as low-key as possible. “How’s your pain level?”Sherlock grimaced. “Hurts,” he said. “Why are…where is here?” Which wasn’t perfect, but it was a whole lot better than the last time.John reached for a cup of water from the nightstand and offered it with a straw while he answered. “You’re at St. Thomas, in Lambeth,” he said. “You have a fairly bad concussion, some broken fingers that they corrected surgically, a crack in your pelvis, and a bad break in your right leg. But you’re all done with surgery, so now all you have to do is recover.”Sherlock rolled his head fretfully on the pillow. “I don’t…hurts,” he muttered again. John reached over and hit the controls for his medication drip, while Sherlock looked on in confusion.“You were attacked,” John said. “Just random—muggers.”Sherlock frowned. “Don’t remember,” he said, lifting his bandaged right hand towards his face and staring at it in mild alarm. “How long?”John took that to be a query about when the attack had happened, though he wasn’t positive. “Better part of a day, now,” he said.Sherlock frowned, shook his bandaged head, winced with pain. “How long?” he asked again, the characteristic divot between his brows deepening.John presumed that was because he’d answered the wrong question. “You’ll likely be here a week or two,” he said. “Need to let the concussion resolve a bit, and get in some PT for both your hand and your leg.”Sherlock’s gaze drifted down slowly. “Leg?” he asked dreamily, before his eyes landed on the (rather horrifying) external fixation apparatus on his elevated right leg. All motion stopped; his eyes darted back and forth between the leg and John, faster and faster. “Getitoff,” he suddenly blurted, before erupting in a flurry of attempted escape. “Getitoffgetitoffgetitoff!”Ten minutes later Sherlock was once again sedated, and John was able to relax from his position draped across his friend’s body, holding him in place. He unfolded himself carefully and looked ruefully at Dr. Alvarez, hovering at the foot of the cot. “I did warn you,” he said ruefully. “It’s something that might be specially designed to set off his sensory issues.”“I can see that,” the surgeon said. “But it needs to stay there, at least for the next few days. We can try to do a 3D-printed external cast from above the thigh to the foot at that point, but we can’t until the swelling recedes.”“Then we may need to keep him sedated,” John sighed. “But I really hope it doesn’t come to that. Let me see what I can do.” And, as Dr. Alvarez looked on in bemusement, John phoned Mycroft. By the time the Great Man had arrived, just before dawn the next morning, John had taken the time to nip down to the café and get a carafe of tea and a tray of biscuits—didn’t want much at this early hour, but needed something to get himself at least marginally awake. Mycroft, when he stepped quietly through the door, looked as tired as John felt, wearing glasses, a comfortable suede-trimmed jumper and corduroy trousers instead of his usual bespoke suit. He glanced to the cot, then back to John. “How is he?” he asked quietly.“Still asleep,” John said, “but I expect he’ll be rousing soon. And that can be good or bad—I’m hoping we don’t have a repeat of last night. If we can’t help, they’ll have to keep him under for the next three days, and that’s not ideal. So I’m hoping there’s something you can do.”Mycroft sighed. “I’ll do my best,” he said, “but there are no guarantees. His current confusion could make things more difficult.”They settled at the small table, John pouring tea for Mycroft and offering the biscuits, which were rejected with a sigh. They turned to their respective phones, then, biding their time. When the first stirrings came from the cot, they both jerked as if they were the ones awakening.Mycroft moved first, rising from his chair and gliding silently over to his brother. He put one hand on Sherlock’s left, undamaged cheek and spoke softly. “Sherlock,” he said. “Attend, please.”Standing behind Mycroft, John could just see silvery eyes open and gaze slowly around. He could also tell the exact moment when Sherlock remembered, the detective momentarily freezing before his breathing spiraled up. “Non,” Mycroft barked, and spoke rapidly in soft French while placing his hands firmly on his brother’s shoulders to hold him in place. He looked over his shoulder at John. “You may wish to step out for a time,” he said, never breaking eye contact with Sherlock, who continued to writhe under his hands. “This requires a great deal of focus on both our parts, and no distractions. Please ask the nursing staff not to enter.” And with that he returned his focus to his brother, beginning a fluid flow of French.John blinked, and did as he was told. After forty-five minutes John pulled a plastic chair down the hallway until he was next to the door to Sherlock’s room. He waited as patiently as he could (not very, truthfully), playing on his phone and chatting quietly with the nursing staff. Finally, though, the door opened a crack and Mycroft sidled out. “He’s asleep again,” he said, rubbing his hands over his face in an uncharacteristic move that spoke to exhaustion. “I’ve done what I can; he managed a degree of calmness by the end, but you will need to remind him to repeat his exercises if he becomes agitated again. Or, very likely, every time he wakes. I believe he is coherent enough now to manage that on his own, but let me know, if not.” He pulled out his watch from his side pocket and checked the time. “For now, I must be on my way—I need to head home to change before going in. Please tell Sherlock that either Anthea or I will be back after supper.”By that evening Sherlock was pale but calm. He resolutely avoided looking at his leg, but was able to pick at his dinner tray (liquid diet, for the most part, but he did like the chicken soup) and hold a short conversation before nodding off again. And that set the pattern for the next few days—short, but gradually lengthening, periods of awareness, periodic Mind Palace sessions working on his mental exercises, occasional bitter outbursts of temper that probably related to the concussion. John ignored them, for the most part, as did the nursing staff.The third day finally dawned. John had carefully not told Sherlock when he was to be fitted for his cast, in case the swelling hadn’t receded enough to allow for it at the initially scheduled time. But that morning Dr. Alvarez made her rounds bright and early, before the breakfast trays had been brought, and pronounced Sherlock ready to change over to the long cast.She pulled up a chair beside the cot, while Sherlock continued to avoid looking at his leg. “We’ll do this in theatre, since we need to make sure you remain absolutely still,” she said. “So you won’t have breakfast tomorrow. The techs will come in shortly and move you to the scan area; they need to get a complete ‘map’ of your leg first. Then the machine will print your cast overnight; it will hopefully be ready early tomorrow. When we get to theatre, you’ll be given a short-acting anesthesia; the procedure shouldn’t take more than 30 minutes.” She held up a tablet with diagrams showing the removal of the apparatus. “We won’t do quite all of this; since your fracture is not yet stabilized, we won’t remove the internal pins; we’ll simply cut them off at skin level, just in case we have to revert from the cast to the frame. You’ll need to make sure you keep the pinholes very, very clean, and cover them with plasters until we’re sure it’s safe to remove them. At that point we can pull them out, either outpatient or in theatre; your choice. We’ll also give you a small ultrasound generator to attach to the cast. You’ll need to use it several times a day—it can improve healing time by up to 35%.” She looked first at Sherlock, then at John. “Is there anything you’d like to ask? Anything unclear?”Both men shook their heads. “The sooner, the better,” Sherlock said, and laid back, eyes closed. Conversation over, apparently. Everything proceeded as planned; the scan went smoothly enough, though transferring to the scanner was an ordeal that left Sherlock white and panting. The next morning found John and Mycroft waiting, once again, but this time without the inherent terror of the previous vigil. When a drowsy Sherlock’s cot was wheeled back to the room, he came complete with a bright turquoise honeycombed frame that ran from well above his knee to just short of his toes. Two metallic contact points, the area where the ultrasound machine would be plugged in, sat just above the fracture point. The pinholes were visible as bandaged areas, as was the surgical incision. One of the surgical nurses checked each bandage carefully before adding her notes and leaving them alone.Mycroft looked it over with a critical eye. “Do you really think this will be adequate?”John waved his hand uncertainly. “Yes and no,” he said. “Do I think the leg will heal properly this way? Yes. Do I think it will be easier? No, not really. He will literally spend months in this, or a smaller version of it. He probably would have been more mobile earlier in the frame. But I accept the necessity—there was no way he could handle the frame for three months, was there?”Mycroft gave a wry smile. “No,” he sighed. “But what a joy this will be, regardless.”
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Nachzehrer—German supernatural being similar to a vampire, often tied to suicide or accidental death.
By evening, Sherlock was awake, in pain, and irritable about it—not unexpected, but still not terribly easy to deal with.“They never said the printed cast would reduce pain, Sherlock,” John said, for the third time in the last hour. “Just that it would increase mobility and provide better access to the surgical site. Maybe heal things faster.” John had returned from a few hours at Baker Street to see Rosie and Mrs. H and get a shower and change of clothes before returning for the “night shift”, as he and Mycroft had begun to refer to it. In his absence Sherlock had had an extremely uncomfortable first session sitting (in a wheelchair with a fully extended leg support) beside the cot for a mandated 20 minutes. He’d lasted 10, and, by all accounts, had enforced his desire to return to bed by throwing anything within reach with his one working hand.It fell to John to mend fences with the nursing staff. He’d had a phone call while en route back to the hospital, so he’d stopped at the nursing station before going to Sherlock’s room. “Look, I know he can be difficult,” John said, and at least one nurse rolled her eyes. “But he’s not doing it just for the hell of it—he has sensory issues on top of his injuries, so some things come under the category of Just Too Much, yeah? In future, give me advance warning and I’ll try to help smooth the way.” There was a circle of reluctant nods from the staff, and with that John had to be content.When he entered Sherlock’s room it was clear that the patient, in contrast, was going to be harder to mollify. “They wouldn’t wait, John,” the detective said outraged tones. “I asked them. I said that my medication wasn’t yet at optimal concentration, and I was experiencing ongoing severe pain on movement. And they just spoke to me like I was a child, and did whatever they wanted. Four of them picked me up and tossed me in the chair.” The divot between his brows was deep, and so were the dark bags under his eyes, highlighting the bruising spreading down the right side of his face. He’d been beaten half to death, and looked it.“They have to get you up, Sherlock,” John said gently. “Gotta keep circulation going, prevent blood clots, start working on mobility. You’ll get better, faster, if you do.”Sherlock made a disgruntled noise. “Then they need to come up with a way to make the process more…” His voice trailed off as he looked over John’s shoulder as if the window had suddenly become fascinating. John, though, a veteran of Sherlock-speak, heard the unsaid word: bearable.And that, right there, was a problem. Because a lot of what the nursing and therapy staff would be doing to and for Sherlock over the coming days would consist, unavoidably, of inflicting pain. And Sherlock’s reaction to the very first step in the process was not a good sign.His concussion, the brief foray in the chair, and the temper tantrum to follow, had apparently exhausted Sherlock enough that he tumbled into sleep within ten minutes of John’s arrival (despite his apparent determination to retain a Firm Sulk for the rest of the evening).In the morning Sherlock was carted off early for a scan to make sure the various bones, plates and screws in his leg remained properly in alignment, complaining all the way. John took the opportunity to nip back to Baker Street for a while; he figured it was time to set up a Sherlock Scheme, as he’d come to think of the rotation of friends and relatives who took turns spending their evenings in the detective’s room. His mention of that possibility had been met with an eyeroll by Sherlock, which was as positive a reaction as John was likely to get. That evening, John had arranged for Gabe Austin to take the first rotation. The agent had often done the same during Sherlock’s long recuperation from the shooting, sometimes with Anthea, sometimes alone. Sherlock and Gabe got on well, in part because Gabe simply ignored the detective’s more irritating habits and encouraged the positive ones. Anthea observed that it was rather like training a Labrador, except that the Labrador would probably end up better-behaved and require fewer biscuits.John arrived early the next morning feeling relatively rested; both an evening at home and a whole night in his own bed, plus the presence of his happy little daughter, had lifted his spirits considerably. That lasted until he was in the corridor outside Sherlock’s room and was greeted by cries of pain from inside, followed by a deep voice uttering sharp commands.John burst through the door to see a mildly startling display: a group of three assistants and a nurse clustered at the foot of Sherlock’s cot, and an outraged Gabe Austin standing stiffly between them and their target. Gabe shot a quick glance over his shoulder at the interruption, but then turned back to his audience. “Look, you can’t keep doing that,” he said firmly. “I can tell you from personal experience that transfer shouldn’t hurt that badly, and if it does there’s something wrong. Went through three back surgeries, so I know whereof I speak, arright?”Behind him on the cot, Sherlock was huddled on his side panting, face ashen, eyes shut. John moved over quickly to take one bony hand, feeling the trembling running through the thin body. Sherlock gripped the offered hand tightly but said nothing.“All right, here’s how this will go,” Gabe continued. “You’re going to give this twenty minutes, to maybe give my friend here a top-off on his pain meds and let things settle down. And then you’re gonna get the biggest, strongest bloke on your staff in here, and he and I are going to move your patient the way it should be done. So he doesn’t scream the whole time, right?”The assembled medical staff nodded, the nurse herding them, rather shamed-facedly, out the door. Twenty minutes later to the second, Sherlock had had a dose of stronger-than-usual pain meds, a very, very large young man from Martinique had arrived, and the nursing team had reassembled. Sherlock waited, lips tight and body language anything but relaxed, while John stood guard behind the cot.Gabe looked at his “assistant”. “Right,” he said. “I’m on body duty. You have the legs, including managing the cast.” The big man nodded, and gave Sherlock a hesitant smile which was not returned.Gabe turned to Sherlock. “All right then,” he said, “Arms around my neck as best you can. I’ll use under your arms, and under your hips. Tell me if I need to move either arm, before I lift.” He waited until Sherlock gave him a confirming head jerk. Then he turned to his helper. “You wait to lift until I say so, yeah?” Another nod—the aide wasn’t much for words, apparently.Gabe looked one last time at Sherlock for agreement, then nodded at the aide. “One. Two. Three,” he said, and picked up his burden while the aide did the same with both legs. Sherlock gave one quick yelp of pain at the movement, but settled quickly as Gabe deposited him in the cushioned chair.Gabe looked down at his “patient”. “You all right there, Sherlock? Safe for me to step out for a mo?”Sherlock rolled his eyes, despite his corpse-white face. “Of course,” he said, and turned to address the aide in soft French. The big man’s face lit up, and he launched into quick, liquid speech.As John smiled in relief, Gabe turned a suddenly-sober face to him and jerked his head towards the door. John, mystified, followed him out.Once in the hallway, Gabe strode off towards an open waiting room at the end of the corridor. When he got there, he spun and addressed John. “What are they planning to do about his pain?” he said bluntly. “Because whatever they’re doing now isn’t working.”John blinked. “Um. I know it’s not ideal. But we landed on doing a moderate dose of meds to try and avoid him having to go through withdrawal again. He had a really, really hard time last year.”Gabe shook his head. “I don’t think you get it,” he said. “It’s not working. I was working on something a lot of the night, so I was awake. And so was he. I doubt he slept more than a couple of hours, all told, and when he did he’d wake up moaning. He looks terrible, and I bet he feels worse. And when they move him—Jesus, John.”And that, right there, took John aback. Because in thinking back, he had to confess that he hadn’t been awake for much of the nights he’d spent in Sherlock’s room—he was a past master at being able to sleep anywhere, and just assumed his friend would wake him if he needed anything.“Are you sure it wasn’t just a bad night?” John asked. “He hasn’t said a word about it.”Gabe’s eyebrows rose. “Should he have to? I mean, you heard him when they tried to move him. You really think he can handle that for another, oh, month or so? He’s already depressed—spent most of those hours staring at the ceiling and not saying a word—and that’s not likely to help, and it’s certainly not going to help him heal any faster.”And John once again found himself on a rear foot. Because it simply hadn’t occurred to him that, given the events that led to Sherlock’s hospitalization, it would probably be a good idea to have a therapist at least check in.John felt really, really stupid. “God,” he sighed. “You’re absolutely right. I should have called Dr. A* as soon as things calmed down, and I never thought about it.” He pulled out his phone. “That part, at least, I can fix right now. The pain management may take a little more work.” An hour later, Gabe had taken himself off and John was sitting with a dozing Sherlock when there was a light rap at the door, followed by a wheelchair which contained a familiar face. “Hey, John,” Dr. Arquette said with a smile. “Good to see you.”On the cot, Sherlock’s eyes popped open, and after a glance at the therapist he turned a betrayed look to John. “I didn’t call you,” he told Dr. A.“Well, you had other things on your mind,” Dr. A said peaceably. “But you were overdue for a session anyway, and I figured this way, I have a captive audience.”Sherlock bristled. “I am—”“Fine,” Dr. A and John chorused together, while Sherlock glowered. Dr. A glanced at John before continuing, and John headed for the door. “Let’s just have a conversation about how ‘fine’ you are, shall we?” An hour later, John and Dr. A headed down to the café for coffee and a council of war. “So Gabriel is correct,” the therapist said. “The pain Is a serious issue, and must be addressed, sooner rather than later. Sherlock was reluctant to discuss it; he felt you would be disappointed in him, though he was ultimately all right with us having this discussion. He finds it impossible to think about anything else but pain, which in turn reduces his mood below what was already a sub-par level.” He looked down at his coffee. “I can’t really share many details of the rest of our talk. Suffice it to say that Sherlock has a great deal to unpack, something that had never been addressed in any of our prior sessions and certainly should have been. We will begin working on that, but I suspect it will be difficult to make much progress before his physical state improves.”John gave an uncomfortable shrug. “Well. As it happens, I may already know a lot of what’s going to be on the table for you. Mycroft and I had a long talk while waiting for Sherlock to wake up from surgery. Pretty sure that’s what’ll take center stage. But he swore me to secrecy, basically, so I’ll leave it in your capable hands.”The therapist gave a wry grin. “As always,” he said. “Leave me to the heavy lifting.” When Dr. A left, wheeling himself toward the lifts, John headed back to Sherlock’s room, unsure of what he’d find. He’d feared a furious, resentful detective; what he got was a silent, weary wraith. “What’s wrong?” John said, moving over to touch Sherlock’s forehead for fever, to check his pulse for irregularities.Sherlock shook his head, closing his eyes with an exhausted sigh. “What isn’t?” he asked. “I’m stuck here in a cot again, I’m back under constant watch like a poorly-behaved toddler, I’m committed to thrice-weekly therapy visits, and everything in my body hurts all the fucking time.” The last was said in a pained whine, as Sherlock reached fitfully towards his damaged hip before subsiding back against the pillows.John reached over for the chair resting against the back wall and pulled it close to the cot, taking possession of Sherlock’s good hand before settling into place. “OK, I have to confess something. I’ve been an idiot.”Sherlock’s eyes opened warily. One eyebrow raised, a comment in and of itself (as well as a tiny sign of hope. If Sherlock could be snarky, things weren’t too bad).“Yeah, yeah, I know,” John continued. “Happens all the time. But in this case I’m afraid good intentions got the better of me. I remembered how awful your withdrawal was last year. I suspect you don’t remember much of it. But you told me, when things were at their worst, that you never wanted to go through that again, and I let that cloud my judgment a bit.”The dark curls shook on the pillow.“No, I did,” John insisted, “though if I was presented with similar circumstances I might make the same choice again. But I also should have kept a closer eye on you, and been prepared to change things if warranted. That’s the part that makes me an idiot here, and I’m sorry for it.” He patted the long, spindly fingers in his lap. “But I think we need to look at something entirely different than just hooking you back up to whacking great bolts of morphine.” He grinned. “Much though you’d enjoy that, in the short run.”Sherlock gave a philosophical shrug and settled deeper into his pillows before wincing and lying still again.John sighed. “OK, here’s what I’m going to do. Just for today, I’m going to get with Dr. Alvarez and have her place orders for appropriate levels of morphine—i.e., a lot higher than you’re currently getting, so you’re comfortable. That’ll hopefully mean you also get a decent night’s sleep for a change. I’ll take Greg’s place here tonight as well, just in case. Once you’re set for a while today, I’m going to go have a chat with the anesthetists. I’ve had a bit of an idea, but I want to run it by one of them to make sure there’s nothing I’m missing.”“What?” Sherlock asked. John noticed that his voice still sounded tight with pain. John rose to go initiate the first part of his plan, heading out to track down the surgeon.“You’ll see,” John said as he stepped out the door. “Don’t want to get your hopes up if I’m wrong.”When John got back to the room, just short of an hour later, Sherlock was sound asleep—no moans, no frowns, just a placid, peaceful face and tiny little whistling snores through his open mouth. John, though, sat back in the chair to wait, wearing a big smile.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Onryo—Japanese ghost believed capable of causing harm in the world of the living
It wasn’t anywhere near as enjoyable a conversation as John thought it would be (though in retrospect he should have anticipated at least part of the problem).Sherlock woke up slowly and (as was often the case with the detective and opiates) rather irritably. “What was your so-secret idea?” he snapped, almost before his eyes were properly open.John stomped on his annoyance and handed over a glass of water with a straw before he spoke, biding his time while Sherlock thirstily emptied it and asked for more.Finally, though, Sherlock shoved back the glass and fixed him with a forceful stare (made somewhat less effective by the black eye and bandages, but still). “You’re stalling,” he said.John shrugged his shoulders and grinned. “Yeah, a little,” he said. “But I wanted to make sure you were all the way awake before we went through this. Hope to get everything set up before dinner, if we can—you didn’t eat anything solid today, and that might be a good thing.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a sheaf of papers. “I’m going to go through the basics first, but you’re going to need to read through these—warnings, contraindications, possible side effects. This is simple, but not without its dangers.”Sherlock held out his one working hand imperiously. “I can read and listen at the same time. Give.” He wiggled his fingers, and John sighed and turned the sheets over. The rest of the conversation was directed to the top of that curly head.“So I had seen some recent studies about pain management in severe skeletal injuries,” John began, not mentioning that he’d begun that research as soon as he’d seen the external fixative on his friend’s leg. “And one of the things they’re coming to realize is that, for trauma patients especially, pain is a serious issue in terms of the healing process, and heavy doses of opiates bring their own baggage along with them. So they’re started doing some really good work on using local anesthesia for nerve blocks.” He looked over at Sherlock, who was now holding the papers close to his face and frowning rather ferociously. “In your case, we’ve got the issue of your concussion thrown in the mix.”“So you’re talking about individual injections, or an indwelling catheter?” Sherlock said, in a curious, strained voice. The papers were now right next to his nose, and the hand holding them was shaking.The other penny abruptly dropped for John, who quickly reached over and took the forms, now able to see Sherlock’s grey-green complexion and furrowed brow. “Lie back and close your eyes,” John said, reaching over to pour more water. “And sip at this. The nausea should pass, but tell me if it doesn’t.” He sighed. “And throw something at me if I suggest you read anything again before the concussion passes. Because, as we’ve already established, I’m an idiot.”Sherlock gave a raspy little chuckle that turned abruptly into a rough gag. John sighed again and went to get a damp flannel for his forehead. Ten minutes later Sherlock was feeling well enough to continue the conversation, albeit from a position flat on his back with his eyes covered by a cool cloth. “Tell me the rest,” he said. “Good and bad.”“Right. The good?” John began. “This can likely virtually eliminate your pain from your hip and leg, or at least reduce it dramatically. Can’t do much for your head or your fingers, but I suspect non-opiates should be able to handle those. The single-injection versions can work for 24 hours or more; the catheter, or catheters in your case, if they decide to take that approach for the hip as well as the lower leg, will last as long as they keep issuing boluses of anesthetic—months, if need be.”Sherlock was silent, though clearly listening. “The bad?” he said finally.“Because they’ll be implanting the catheter under the skin, they’ll do this in theatre. So the typical risks associated with general anesthesia, though it will be quite light and short-acting,” John began. “Potentially some numbness in your leg or in skin areas, though that usually wears off. Risk of infection from the catheter itself, though obviously we’ll stay very much on top of that.” He paused. “And, well, worst-case scenario—permanent injury to the nerves, paralysis or loss of feeling. It’s very rare, but it’s possible.”Another long silence. “What anesthetic do they typically use?” Sherlock asked, sounding a bit drowsy—his latest morphine dose not entirely out of his system yet.“Bupivacaine,” John said. “You’ve had it before, and tolerate it OK.”Sherlock reached up with his good hand, fumbled the flannel off his eyes, and turned his head cautiously towards John. “Should I do this?” he said simply. “Is it what you would do, in the same situation?”John thought about that—thought about the days, weeks, when he fervently wished the surgeons could just remove his shoulder entirely, if that would make the pain stop. Or the times when he floated around in an opiate haze for days on end, not sure if it was day or night, and not caring either way. “Yeah,” he said finally. “Yeah, I would.”Sherlock laid back down and flopped the flannel back over his eyes. “All right,” he said, and went back to sleep. In the end, they did the procedure early the next morning. The anesthetist John had spoken with had gone off-shift by the time John had explained everything, and John decided sleep was probably worth more to his patient than another procedure right now. When Sherlock woke, just as they brought the supper trays in, he was unconcerned with the change. He ate his soup, had his evening dose of morphine, and nodded back off immediately afterwards. John settled into the other cot with a book, and knew nothing until the nurse came in at 6 to prep Sherlock for his return to theatre.John scrubbed in this time; he’d never seen this particular procedure done, and he knew Sherlock was in no real danger, so he felt comfortable being in the room. Sherlock seemed pleased, in a drowsy sort of way—they’d given him a mild sedative in preparation, in part because the transfer from his cot to the table in the OR wouldn’t likely be pleasant.Once Sherlock was truly under, Dr. Carew, the anesthetist, began a narration for John. “We use a fluoroscope to make sure the catheter line is properly sited in relation to the relevant nerves,” he said, as a small camera-like device was rolled over and situated above Sherlock’s bared, terribly bruised hip. A small screen lit up, giving a live-action feed as the anesthetist made a small incision in the skin and began advancing the tiny line. Once it was in place, the line was attached to the round control box that would sit on the skin surface and anchored with transparent dermal dressings. Then the 3D cast on Sherlock’s leg was opened and the second catheter inserted very, very carefully, before following the same process with the controller.“All done,” Dr. Carew said cheerily, after a mere 30 minutes in theatre. “We’ll keep him in recovery for a short time, but he’ll be back in his room within the hour, if you want scrub out and wait there.”John realized that was his cue to leave. He took the suggestion, and went to the café for fresh tea before heading back to the room, texting Mycroft on the way to let him know everything had gone well. He received an austere “thank you” in return. John settled back in his chair, turning the telly on for a while since he was too anxious to read. He was surprised, about 10 minutes later, to look up and see Anthea pushing open the door and looking around. “He’s not back yet, then?” she asked, looking disappointed.“Should be, any minute now,” John said, gesturing her towards another chair. “I didn’t know you were coming—I would have let him know before the procedure.”She grinned. “Well, I’m not officially here, honestly,” she said. “But Mycroft couldn’t get away, and was so stressed he was shredding junior aides left and right, so I told him I’d come if only so he’d spare the children. They’re terrified of him, poor lambs. We just got in a new crop of uni grads and interns last week, and I’m prefer we didn’t lose all of them right off the bat. The attrition rate is high enough under normal circumstances.”John returned the smile. “I can’t imagine,” he said, rolling his eyes.They sat in companionable silence for ten minutes, Anthea spending most of the time on her phone, responding to a flurry of texts. “I told him I would let him know as soon as things were completed,” she huffed. “The two of them are just alike.” Which made John chuckle, realizing that they were among the handful of people in the world who would recognize the truth of that statement.They both jerked to their feet as the door bumped open, and a care crew moved Sherlock’s cot in, drowsy detective on board and interested. The nurse made one last check of vitals and dressings, made some notations on her tablet, and left with a smile and a wave, both of which Sherlock ignored.The patient turned groggy eyes to Anthea in a squint—vision still a bit of an issue, then. “Why are you here?” he asked.“Because your brother was worried about you, you tit,” Anthea said, reaching to rearrange pillows and offer water. “And tending to you in hospital is apparently one of my crosses to bear.”Sherlock smirked. “No, that’s John’s job now,” he snickered. Still a bit over-medicated, clearly, but feeling no pain at least.The door opened again, and Dr. Carew walked in, followed by an aide wheeling what looked like a small auto lift—wide, wheeled frame, long vertical riser, and a shorter horizontal bar at the top from which a small trapeze bar dangled. Sherlock watched from the cot with mild suspicion as the aide pushed the contraption to the far side of the cot, moving it up until it was level with Sherlock’s shoulders.The anesthetist nodded to John, bobbed his head politely at Anthea, and addressed himself to Sherlock. “So I know you’ll be nodding back off shortly. But I wanted to do a quick test on results before you did, and this is the easiest way.” He gestured towards the hanging bar. “Reach up and grab that with your good hand, just like you were in the circus. It would be easier if you could use both arms, but I think you can likely manage enough with the one.”Sherlock warily complied, clearly waiting for the pain to hit. It didn’t, or at least not firmly enough that it showed on the detective’s face.The anesthetist gave a satisfied huff. “All right, now the hard part. Put your hand in the middle of the bar. Then, using only your arm, try to lift your hips completely off the cot. Don’t try to move your leg just yet, and don’t try to shift your position—you’ll still need help with that for a bit, to get pillows in place to brace you. But do the lift now, and we’ll see.”Sherlock was even more hesitant now, the memory of pain reminding him of what might await. He looked helplessly at John, who bit his lip and nodded. “Give it a try,” John said. “Just try a tiny bit first, and if it’s OK you can keep going.”Sherlock looked back at his hand, suspended on the bar, then his bicep tensed visibly, and the covers over his lap shifted slightly. His eyes widening, he looked over at John again, then back to the bar. And his arm flexed more firmly, the strain showing in a mild tremor—and his hips lifted off the cot by a solid inch, before he slowly relaxed and lowered himself back. He blinked momentarily, before his face split into that crooked, goofy grin that very few people ever got to see.And, behind John, Anthea broke into applause. That was the turning point. Oh, it wasn’t all smooth sailing—there were a few days of mild fever that meant that release planning couldn’t take place until Sherlock had spent a full two weeks as an in-patient, much to his (and everyone else’s) dismay. But by the end of that time physical therapy, for both his hand and leg, had begun in earnest, and Sherlock had attacked it with his typical ferocity (though not without an abundance of whinging and pouting about the whole thing).Sherlock’s fervent (and loudly stated) preference was to return immediately to Baker Street, which was vetoed by everyone involved, though John bore the brunt of his displeasure.“It’s not practical until you get out of the hip cast,” John said, for at least the sixth time. “And before you start in on the bathroom again, yes, I know they widened the doorway and put in the pocket door during the renovations, so it would likely be possible to get a wheelchair in there. But none of us are comfortable with you basically being trapped on the first floor, with the only way to get you down being on someone’s back or strapped to a gurney. It’s just not safe, when there’s a readily-available alternative.”“But it’s Mycroft’s,” Sherlock whined, as if that was enough to disqualify his brother’s house from consideration.“Yes, and he’s been kind enough to kit out the guest room on the ground floor with everything you’ll need, and the en suite is already wheelchair-accessible,” John explained. Again. “He also says he’s arranged a bit of a treat for you,” he added coaxingly.“I’m not a child, to be cozened with treats,” Sherlock sniffed. But then, after a pause—“What kind of treat?” On Sherlock’s 16th day in hospital, then, the caravan finally departed for Mycroft’s Kensington townhouse. They had managed to avoid an ambulance trip, something their patient was adamant he would not tolerate. The ride was instead accomplished in a medical transport van, with Sherlock’s wheelchair anchored firmly to the floor in the back, with an attendant (and John) seated on the bench beside him. Sherlock spent the trip vibrating with excitement, eyes darting around at everything they passed. By the time they reached the townhouse, though, he’d worn himself out, and was more than happy to be tucked in the hospital-grade cot (though with much better sheets) for a kip.The next day an old friend showed up—or enemy, depending on who you asked, and when. John had just helped Sherlock finish a quick washdown in the shower and helped him back to bed when a light rap on the door came, followed by a wiry, practical-looking woman in scrubs and a cardigan. John, on seeing who it was, broke into a broad smile. “Denny!” he exclaimed, coming over to give her a hug. “I didn’t know Mycroft had enlisted you as well.”Behind them on the cot, Sherlock scowled ferociously. “What’s she doing here?” he hissed. “John, you know her. She hurts me, John.” The last was near-whispered and offered with a heavy dose of puppy eyes, with just a hint of tears. And John did know her, as it happened—she’d played a large role in Sherlock’s rehab sessions after the shooting the previous year.The woman snorted, and John rolled his eyes. “That’s laying it on a bit thick, there, don’t you think?” John chuckled.Sherlock had the grace to flush a little. “It was worth a try.” He gave the nurse a bit of a glare. “But I don’t need a therapist now. I can do it myself. John can help.”“No, John can’t, and I’m pretty sure John doesn’t want to,” Denny said firmly. “Unlike me, John doesn’t have training in both nursing and therapy. I’m a two-for-one,” she concluded cheerily. “And besides, your brother told me to tell you: I’m your treat!”
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Ayakashi—Japanese water spirit of one who died at sea or in the water, sometimes luring victims to drown
Things got easier (from John’s point of view, anyway) once Sherlock was established at his brother’s. The overnight vigils were no longer necessary; Denny was in residence in a bedroom right down the hall, complete with baby monitor (which Sherlock fussed about several times a day), and Andrew, Mycroft’s driver, lived in a separate flat in the basement in case lifting or emergency transport was necessary. At the time of Sherlock's injury John had taken a leave of absence from King's, but he was now able to let them know he could be added to the locum roster, and fill in when he could.That didn’t mean John didn’t spend significant time at Mycroft's, of course. He typically headed over after dropping Rosie off at her new crèche, on the days he didn’t work, or stopped off on his way home, on those that he did. In either case Sherlock was uniformly glad to see him, even if he spent most of the time whinging about how evil Denny was, or how obnoxious he found his brother’s (really rather endearing) attentiveness. John had heard from Denny (and Anthea, who had photographic evidence to prove it) that the two had a standing daily chess game, with the winner choosing that evening’s board game thereafter.To Sherlock’s chagrin, they played rather a lot of Operation.About a week into the detective’s stay in Kensington, John came into the bedroom at just past noon to find his friend asleep, mouth open and hair a bit of a sweaty mess. Denny looked up from her lunch tray and smiled, gesturing him over. “Come on,” she said quietly. “He had quite the workout, so he’ll be out for a while. And there’s enough for all of us.”John walked towards the second chair at the small library table, then stopped short when he looked closer at the cot. Or rather, what else was on the cot, snuggled along Sherlock’s side. “Where did that come from?” he asked, dropping into the chair.“That” was a large—well, enormous—steely-gray-and-white cat, with long, luxuriant hair and (since it now roused slightly to look at him) ice-blue eyes. John had never seen it before, though it seemed to be quite at home.Denny blinked. “You hadn’t met Cuddles before?” she said.“Cuddles?” John said, in astounded tones.Denny shrugged her shoulders. “Oh, well, if you insist. His formal name is Cuthbert. But I’ve never heard anyone but Mycroft call him that, and he refuses to answer to it.”Losing interest, the cat closed its eyes and snuggled back into Sherlock’s side, putting one possessive paw around his waist and digging its face into the blankets.“But when—I mean, where did it, he, come from?” John said, still trying to wrap his head around Mycroft sharing a house with something named “Cuddles”.“Well. I don’t know how long he’s been here—years, certainly,” Denny began. “But Mycroft’s the one who rescued him. He was the pet of a foreign minister who was arrested and deported, according to Anthea. Poor little thing was terrified of all the people milling about, and the staff was going to have him euthanized before they all headed home. So the ‘Ice Man’ picked him up, wrapped him in his coat and brought him home, and he’s been here ever since. Quite rules the roost, though he’s shy of strangers. Not as bad as Bub, but still.”John felt like he’d wandered into the middle of someone else’s conversation. “Um. ‘Bub’?”Denny was the one to look confused now. “You really haven’t spent much time here, have you?” she said, reaching behind her chair and making little clucking noises. To John’s astonishment, there was sudden movement in the dark corner behind the table, and a small, skinny animal came warily out to take a piece of ham from Denny’s hand, while growling quietly at John.Denny scritched the coal-black, bony head, and the little chin came up, to reveal a face with one ear flopped over with scar tissue, one blue eye and one yellow. Those eyes tracked on John, and the mouth (missing the left top canine) came open to give a small hiss. The cat didn’t run, though, which made John feel oddly gratified.“His full name is Beelzebub, and he came from Sherlock,” Denny said, resuming her scritching, while Bub started up a rusty purr. “Belonged to one of his Homeless Network, more than ten years ago. The man was murdered, apparently for his shoes.” Denny’s face reflected her feelings about that. “So Sherlock, who at the time didn’t really have much of a permanent home, brought him here. I suspect Mycroft wasn’t too thrilled at first, but Bub is quite a favourite these days. Sleeps in the master’s bed, so I’m told.” She gave the scruffy chin one last rub, then sat back to finish her lunch. The cat gave John a long, considering look, then sidled silently back to his corner.John reached over and placed a roast beef sandwich and some crisps on his plate and settled in. After his first bite, though, he remembered his mission for the day. “Listen,” he began, “I’d been wanting to ask you something, hopefully when Sherlock wasn’t around to hear it. Would you be OK with my bringing my daughter along next time? She’s been missing him, I think.” It was hard to be certain, but she’d certainly seemed to be, toddling over to Sherlock’s closed bedroom door and smacking it impatiently.Denny looked thoughtful. “How old is she?”“Fifteen months,” John said, and pulled up a recent photo on his phone and handed it to her. “She calls him ‘Sock’.” She did. It had been her second word, and Sherlock had been ridiculously smug about it. Her first, predictably enough, had been “no”.The therapist looked over at the limp form on the cot. “Do you think she’d be frightened by all the equipment? The cast, and the fact that he can’t really pick her up or play?”John had already considered that. “I don’t really think so,” he said. “She’s not really fearful by nature, and she’s exposed to a wider variety of situations than most toddlers. I mean, she lives with Sherlock Holmes.”Denny laughed quietly. “Well, there is that,” she said. “Let’s give it a try—preferably, oh, in the early evening? We need to get all his usual sessions in. He typically naps for a couple of hours after the morning set, since that’s when we do the more strenuous things. But the afternoon is usually devoted to his fingers, so that’s not as bad and he’s still pretty perky afterwards. Maybe plan on having dinner together, if she’s a good eater.” She raised her eyebrows enquiringly.John laughed. “Yeah, I’d say so—more adventurous than he is, sometimes.” He pulled up his phone and checked his schedule. “OK, then, tomorrow’s Saturday, right? That should be fine—I have a locum slot at a weekend clinic that ends at 4. So I’ll swing by Baker Street, pick Rosie up from Mrs. H, and we should be here by about 5.”Denny nodded. “And I’ll make sure he’s done with his workout and had his meds ahead of time, so he’s in a good mood.” She paused, and gave a rueful grin. “Ah. Well, for a given value of ‘good’.” John looked forward to the evening for most of the following day; Sherlock had casually asked about Rosie several times over the past week, typically with a bit of a wistful air; he was apparently resigned to the idea that he wouldn’t see the baby again until he was well enough to return to Baker Street, which was still likely a month or more in the future.Rosie, predictably enough, was happy to see John, happy to have a ride in a taxi, happy to greet “Uncle” Mycroft as they passed his study on the way to Sherlock’s room. “He’s awake, and reasonably coherent,” Mycroft said as he chucked Rosie under the chin. “I think this might serve as a welcome distraction; it has been a difficult day.”John felt his shoulders tighten with dismay. “Why? Something wrong?” He had hoped Denny would call him if there were any issues with Sherlock’s health.“Not physically,” Mycroft said, giving Rosie’s extended hand a courtly kiss, to her delighted squeals. “He had a session with Dr. Arquette today; it’s necessary, but it often leaves a mark. So to speak.” He handed Rosie back to John. “He needs something afterward to pull him back out of his head; our normal chess game wasn’t up to the task. Hopefully Rosamund will fit the bill.”John headed down the hallway as Rosie blew Mycroft a kiss over his shoulder (an especially endearing trick Greg Lestrade had taught her. Sherlock hadn’t seen it yet; John was looking forward to that). He could hear Denny talking as they neared the room.“…and you don’t have to really do anything,” Denny said coaxingly. “Just sit up enough to have some soup. We’ll save the rest.”Her only response was silence. John sighed, and pushed the door fully open.The first thing he saw was Denny, hands on Sherlock’s tray table. She looked up as they entered with profound relief on her face, and gestured silently towards the figure on the cot.Because of his injuries, the detective couldn’t actually turn his back to the room; his hips had to remain flat. But he’d tried; his torso was cantered awkwardly to the left, so that his shoulder and hair was all that was really visible. His posture radiated misery and isolation.Before John could say anything, before Denny could, Rosie took matters into her own hands. “SOCK!” she screeched, and threw herself in the direction on the bed, requiring John to make a frantic grab to keep her from landing on her head.Sherlock reacted like he’d been shot, jerking sideways with a pained gasp, nearly shoving himself off the cot entirely. When he saw Rosie, now thrusting out her arms imperiously and wailing, his face went through several permutations in a matter of seconds—before landing on pure, unmitigated joy. “Watson,” he breathed, as if someone had offered him the Holy Grail. Or perhaps a locked-room triple murder.As John held her out and placed her on the bed, the baby scrambled forward until she was draped across Sherlock’s torso, head dropping with a thump into the corner of his neck. As Sherlock’s huge hand came up to cover her back, Rosie reached out her own hand and began patting his chest. “Sock, Sock, Sock,” she crooned, in time with her pats.Behind John, Denny roughly cleared her throat before speaking. “I think it’s safe to say you were right,” she said gruffly. “She was missing him.”After a moment’s thought, John and Denny headed down the hall (Denny with the baby monitor receiver in her cardigan pocket) to have a cup of tea and a chat with Mycroft. They stayed twenty minutes; by the time they returned, both occupants of the cot were asleep, Rosie still draped across Sherlock’s chest, that big hand still resting on her back.Before Denny woke them for dinner, John took a picture. Well, three, actually. For Mrs. Hudson. The following days moved into a routine of sorts. John and Rosie spent a fair amount of time at Mycroft’s, to the point where both cats became comfortable enough to ignore her; Sherlock worked many, many hours at PT, and hated every minute of it; Denny won fabulous amounts of (imaginary) money at poker off Sherlock, Mycroft, John and whoever else chose to join in, at least once a week. “Not a one of you knows how to bluff well,” she said at one point, which sent Anthea off into gales of laughter and Sherlock into a fairly serious sulk.Sherlock had been in place for a bit more than three weeks before boredom became a serious issue. Before that, his hefty PT schedule meant that he tended to be exhausted when he finished. When you tied that to his ongoing sessions with Dr. A, he really didn’t have the physical or emotional bandwidth to worry about being bored. As he improved, though, the PT became less of an issue, and he spent more hours awake, with nothing more entertaining than his phone or the telly (or, bless her, poor Denny) to distract him.John had barely arrived and plopped Rosie down on the cot next to Cuddles’ sleeping form (where the baby proceeded to begin her new game—poking her fingers into the many honeycomb-like holes in Sherlock’s cast) before Denny grabbed his arm and dragged him out into the hallway.“I need you to speak with Dr. Arquette,” she hissed quietly, unsure if Sherlock’s batlike hearing would extend this far. “Find out if he can have something to work on. Cold files, current files, anything he can do while lying in bed or sitting in his chair. It’s either that, or I strangle him.” She paused, looking a little ashamed. “Well, no, I wouldn’t hurt him. But the antihistamines are starting to look awfully attractive—he likely wouldn’t notice them in his lasagna, I shouldn’t think.”John was stuck between laughter and concern. “What, being a little difficult?” he chuckled.“A little—” the nurse choked. “He called me at 3 AM to come open his juice bottle. The one that I had already unscrewed the cap of before I went to bed. He re-screwed it before he called me—don’t ask me how, with those fingers still splinted--then denied it. And that’s just one example. Anything for company, anything for distraction. Yesterday he called the water company and said a main had broken. The security team went mental.”John struggled not to laugh. “OK,” he managed. “I can see that’s an issue. But couldn’t you call Dr. A? I know you’ve spoken to him before.”“I did,” Denny sighed. “Two days ago. He said he preferred leaving it to your discretion; you know Sherlock better than anyone else, and have a pretty good idea of what things might bother him. The doctor says he doesn’t have a clinical problem with Sherlock working, as long as it doesn’t involve something potentially triggering. And you likely know what that might look like.”John sighed. “Yeah, I suppose I do,” he said. “Unfortunately.”That was how, two days later, John showed up (sans Rosie, who had a bit of a sniffle and was staying home with Nana Hudson) to find Greg Lestrade sitting beside Sherlock’s wheelchair at the library table, a pile of mouldering manila folders between them. John noticed Bub’s mismatched eyes glaring mistrustfully from his corner behind Sherlock.Greg looked over his shoulder and smiled. “Hey, John,” he said, “pull up a pew. We’re working on an old favourite of mine: Jack the Ripper.” Sherlock, behind him, never looked up from the crumbling papers in front of him. “Got an old mate of mine to loan me some of the stuff in the archives. Including notes from some academics at the time that the force just filed away and ignored. Hadn’t even been scanned, just shoved in a drawer.”“It’s fascinating,” Sherlock said absently, still deep in the thrall of the papers. “The things they chose not to see, because it didn’t fit their pre-defined theories.” He finally looked up. “Or because it came too close to what the senior members of the force knew to be the truth.”John walked to look over his shoulder at the faded writing on the pages. “The truth?” he said, knowing Sherlock was looking for an opening anyway.“That they knew all along who the Ripper was, but, until the very last, their hands were tied,” Sherlock said, flipping the folder closed and pushing it back towards Greg. “Tell me you don’t agree,” he said, in a challenging tone.Greg shook his head. “Nah, I’ve always suspected that, at least once I got to the point where I could legitimately have access to the files,” he said. “There were entirely too many ‘oh, we just missed him!’ moments, too many times where evidence was ‘accidentally’ destroyed. I mean, I half-believe that old story about it being one of Victoria’s grandsons. ‘Eddy’, wasn’t it?”“I always liked the theory that it was a woman: ‘Jill the Ripper’,” John said. “Didn’t they do some DNA studies on saliva from the letters, oh, ten years or so ago?”Sherlock snorted. “Which proved nothing, beyond the fact that the sender of the letter—someone who actually sealed the envelopes—was likely a woman. That’s quite a far leap to actually being the killer. Knowing the killer, very likely; but knowing the person who wrote the letter, which the sender may not have even read, actually was the killer? Not nearly as certain. There’s also the fact that virtually all of the letters are considered suspect, and may well be by copycats.” He gestured towards the files. “There’s no reason these victims, all either formally or informally engaged as prostitutes, would have entered into areas that were known assignation spots with an unknown female.”“So what’s your conclusion, then?” Greg said, leaning back and crossing his arms across his chest.“Sir John Williams,” Sherlock said firmly. “Nothing here contradicts it in any way, and it fits every known fact of which I am aware. Including why the police were so hesitant to act against him.”John sat down on the edge of Sherlock’s cot. “Williams? Who he?”“Queen Victoria’s surgeon,” Greg said. “He’s been implicated before; among other things, he had a clinic that treated the poor in Whitechapel, and had possibly met and/or treated at least two of the victims. The night of the second murder, he supposedly cancelled a dinner reservation because he ‘had an appointment in Whitechapel’.”“And, most convincingly to my mind, a descendant of the final known victim, Mary Kelly, found a locket in her stored possessions a couple of years ago that supposedly contained a photo of her ‘husband’. On examination, however, it proved to be a picture of Williams,” Sherlock added, with the air of someone sinking the final nail in a coffin.“If that’s true, though, why did the killings stop? Did he die?” John asked.“No. Had a ‘nervous breakdown’, so he claimed, and retired to Wales for more than four years. I think it’s entirely likely the Crown forced him to it, in lieu of arrest and execution,” Sherlock said. “I’ve always intended to examine the Welsh records from that time to see if any unexplained murders of women occurred, as well as any similar Ripper-style killings after he returned to work in London in 1894.” He gave Greg a speaking look.“Yeah, yeah, I’ll check,” Greg said. “Hope to God they’re digitized.”“We could always make a road trip, if not,” Sherlock said, a gleam of interest in his eye. “I can sit in cars now—lay the cast across the back seat.”“No,” John and Greg said in unison. Over the following week Sherlock graduated to regular cold cases—those of more recent vintage. Greg told John they were still “curated”—nothing to do with knife attacks, no young men or boys, no bondage or torture. Sherlock likely knew, but said nothing.Sherlock continued his sessions with the psychiatrist, but they had now been downgraded to once a week. Those were still stressful; on “session days” Denny asked Mrs. Mason, the cook, for Sherlock’s favourite dishes, and made sure John brought Rosie with him when he came. But Sherlock’s periods of quiet brooding seemed to be receding (except for his normal Mind Palace visits). And, finally, something came up that (after a hurried call from John to Dr. A, carried out from an upstairs bathroom) led the detective back to a real, and baffling, NSY case.Greg had called John in advance, of course, which had given time for the quick “clearance” call. That also let John (once he had “permission” to do so) lay the groundwork with both Denny and Sherlock, so that Denny knew that her PT and treatment protocols would be honoured, and Sherlock knew it as well and couldn’t complain later. Well, not as much, anyway. He would still complain.Greg spread a thick pile of photos, face down, on the library table while John rolled Sherlock’s wheelchair over. “I want to walk through what we know before we look at the photos,” Greg said. “They honestly don’t tell you that much, to be truthful.” He looked at Sherlock’s face. “Well. Didn’t tell me that much, anyway.”“There’s a ship,” Greg began. “The Dorothea. Medium-sized freighter, 45 years old, Liberian-flagged.” He looked at Sherlock again, who had yet to say anything aloud. “And yeah, I know that can be suspect. Flag it in Liberia so the ownership can’t easily be traced, and so on.”He flipped over the first photograph. Good-sized ship, rather rusty, though not badly maintained from what was visible. “Why we got involved—the ship had docked in London almost two weeks ago. But it never unloaded anything. During the investigation we got an unconfirmed report that there had been gunfire on board, two days after they docked, but nobody saw anything. After that it was just silence. The port sent someone to check after 10 days; no one had brought any docking papers or paid the fees, so they were concerned. They didn’t search the whole ship, but they went through the public spaces and the cabins and found nothing. It looked like the ship had been abandoned, so they went to court and got an order to seize it after posting the required notices for a week. That was up yesterday.”He slid forward another photo, but didn’t turn it over. “What got us involved—once the order was enacted, the port put a skeleton crew on board, fired up the engines, and pulled up the anchor to move the ship to a storage area. And when the anchor came out of the water, they found this.”He flipped over the photo, and there was the nude body of a young woman dangling above the enormous anchor, her hip-length black braid hopelessly tangled in the chain.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Pishacha (Hindu mythology): Demonic ghosts that feed on flesh and human energies
Sherlock leaned forward, peering closely at the photo. “Do you have a close-up?” he asked, without taking his eyes off the woman’s body.Greg reached over and picked up another picture. This one was zoomed in so the limp form took up much of the picture, but it wasn’t markedly better in terms of quality. Greg read Sherlock’s face. “I know, I know—it’s shite. Unfortunately the only ‘in situ’ photos we have were taken with a phone from the dock; as soon as the dock security folks arrived, they took her down.”“Without taking any official pictures?” John asked, astounded.Greg winced. “Yeah,” he sighed. “They’re not actually police, y’know—just security guards, really. The temp crew should have called 999, but they were so used to dealing with the dock people, they called them first.”“Do we have a cause of death?” Sherlock asked, still looking at the photos as if they were suddenly going to open up and admit their secrets. He flipped quickly through the rest of the stack—dimly lit views of the ship interior, one out-of-focus view of the body laid out on the dock.“Preliminary only,” Greg said. “Looks like drowning. Molly’s going to do the full autopsy tomorrow.”John looked at the photos again. “Poor girl,” he said.“The only question is, was this murder or misadventure?” Sherlock said, poking the photos back towards Greg. “I would think the latter; it’s not exactly an efficient way of killing someone, after all. But why would she be nude? And on that ship?” He thought about that for a moment. “I need everything you can give me on the ship—owners, cargo, crew, last ports, the lot. And in the meantime, John can attend the autopsy. I suppose bring me in via Skype.” A bit of his earlier excitement bled off as he realized how indirect his involvement had to be. He shrank back into his wheelchair, his expression suddenly withdrawn.John, happily, had something to offer that he hoped would improve his friend’s mood. “I can do better than that,” he said. “I ordered something for you. Well, for me, but also for you.” And he trotted out to the kitchen to pick up the package he’d dropped on the counter on his way in.John sat back in his chair and tore at the box, while Sherlock looked on warily. “See, I thought about how this would work, once you got the OK to see cases,” John said. “I knew you’d want to be involved well before you were able to physically attend crime scenes. So I thought of this.” He pulled a large clam-shell package out of the shipping box and handed it to Sherlock, who held it gingerly at arm’s length.“What’s a GoPro?” the detective asked, turning the package over. “Some kind of sports camera, clearly.”“Not just a sports camera,” John said. “This one’s sort of special. The camera can be linked via wi-fi to any display—a computer or a phone. So I can wear the camera, have an earpiece, and you can see everything I do and tell me where to look. It’s pretty high-resolution, too, so it should be a lot clearer than Skype.” It hadn’t been cheap; John Watson, prior to his financial windfall from Mary*, would never have considered buying such a thing. Now, though, it was worth it. He reached over and took the package back. “I’ll go open it—we can do a test run.”Ten minutes later, after a lengthy period of reading the manual (John), researching the unit online and telling John to disregard 90% of what the manual said (Sherlock) and drinking tea with Cuddles in his lap (Greg), they were ready to go. John had the tiny camera mounted with elastic straps at his hairline, like a third eye, with a tiny earpiece (provided, did Sherlock but know it, by his brother) in his right ear. The earpiece received; the camera itself acted as their “broadcaster”. Everything the camera picked up could be recorded and saved for later review as needed.“Go down to the wine cellar first,” Sherlock said. “Want to see how it’s affected by thick walls.”John dutifully went to the main entranceway, opened the tiny doorway that was concealed by the Tudor wood paneling, and descended the narrow, steep stone stairs. He’d only been down here once, when Mrs. Mason needed help carrying a few bottles up the stairs. He’d forgotten both how big this level was, and how, well, creepy, when you were down here alone.Sherlock’s snarky voice abruptly sounded in his ear, sending him into a startle that bounced him off the stone wall. “It hasn’t been a dungeon in 400 years, John,” he said drily. “The only ghosts you’ll find down there are those of drunken politicians who took a wrong turn on their way to the toilet.”“Yeah, ta for that,” John muttered. “You want to look around, or just head to the wine cellar?”“The cellar,” Sherlock said. “All the other rooms are empty at the moment. But we’ll need to disable Mycroft’s security on the door. I’ll walk you through that, assuming you still have your multitool in your back pocket.”“Wait a minute,” John objected feebly. “Can’t we just ask Mrs. Mason for the code?”Sherlock made a disgruntled sound in his ear. “Where’s the fun in that?" Ten minutes later, John was in—not through using his trusty multitool correctly, but rather through Dwight, one of Mycroft’s security team. The agent came cat-footing down the stairs, gun in hand, before spotting John, sighing and opening the door. John ignored Sherlock’s squawks of displeasure and thanked the man profusely.“Next time we do that first,” John said as he walked into the long, dark room lined with hundreds of dusty bottles in tall oak racks. An irritated huff in his ear was his only response.John walked towards the back wall, dimly visible in the distance. “How old is this part of the house?” John asked. “Seems very…medieval-ish”. The walls were whitewashed stone, and exceptionally thick. The whole basement level emanated a feeling of age, though it had been modernized to include lighting across the ceilings.“It’s…century. We…and bought it after…,” Sherlock said, his voice dropping in and out.“You’re breaking up,” John said. “Can you hear me all right?”“I…don’t…walls,” Sherlock sputtered. John, accepting that this was going to be a limitation to their new method, gave up and moved back into the hallway.“Does this work better?” he asked, and was relieved to hear Sherlock’s irritated voice respond.“Well, that’s annoying,” the detective said. “I think we can safely assume that stone or other dense walls are going to be an issue for the headset, though I could hear you perfectly through the camera link. I’ll ask if Mycroft has anything more ambitious he can give us for an audio link. In the meantime, though, the picture continued to come through perfectly, so there’s that.” Which was surprisingly philosophical for Sherlock, though John would never point that out. He wasn’t nearly as stupid as Sherlock thought he was. Well. Not always, anyway. After an hour or so of John skulking around the building, including an abortive attempt to access Mycroft’s study (“abortive” in the sense that Dwight once more appeared, more than a little annoyed, and told them both off), they declared the unit a success. Sherlock texted Greg (who’d left by the time John returned to Sherlock’s room) to have him secure access for John to the ship, hopefully in the morning. Sherlock had pushed to do it that evening, but even John wasn’t willing to go poke through an abandoned ship in the dark. Sherlock sneered but subsided, and John went thankfully back to Baker Street after dinner.John received a text at midnight—clearly Sherlock wasn’t sleeping tonight, despite his medication. Denny would be very displeased. Meet Lestrade at the Dock Manager’s office at 7, it said. I’ve attached directions, in case the cabbie is too incompetent to find it. We’ll use the existing earpiece for now.John, wise in the ways of Holmeses, read that last as “Until I can nag my brother into producing something better, hopefully for free.” Of course “free” in this parlance had nothing to do with money—Sherlock and his brother practiced an arcane, Byzantine scheme of points-counting and obligatory favours between the two of them. In John’s experience, the “favours” that Sherlock was obliged to do usually consisted of something excruciatingly dull or hideously dangerous—there was no in-between. Sherlock, of course, much preferred the latter option.John woke bright and early, rousing a crabby Rosie a full hour before her normal time, getting her dressed and fed before heading to the creche. It was, thankfully, quite a clear day, and relatively warm—John hadn’t been looking forward to wandering around on the docks in blowing, chilly rain.He had just dropped his still-frowning daughter off and flagged down a cab when he got a text from Sherlock. Put the earpiece in, it said. Set it on dual mode—it’s the little green button on the back. Because Sherlock always assumed John was hopeless with electronics.John fished the tiny silver tab out of his pocket obediently, settling it comfortably in his left ear before tapping the “connect” button. His friend’s deep voice boomed in his ear, and John flinched and tapped to decrease the volume.“Are you there yet?” Sherlock demanded. “Gilligan is already waiting.”“Good for him,” John said. “I, on the other hand, am about 15 minutes away. I’m in the cab. And I’m telling Greg you called him ‘Gilligan’. That one’s a bit insulting, you know.”Sherlock made an amused noise. “So I thought,” he said. He paused momentarily before launching into a new topic. “When you get to the ship, make sure everyone brings torches. There is apparently emergency lighting, but in my experience the red cast makes it very difficult to see details.”John nodded. “Yeah, agreed. I’m sure there are several in Greg’s car. Hopefully the dock guards are well-equipped as well.” He thought of something he’d meant to ask. “Did you hear from Molly about the autopsy? I need to know if I need to arrange for Mrs. H to pick Rosie up.”Sherlock hummed. “She says she’s shooting for 3pm.” He hesitated. “I could have Anthea pick Watson up and bring her here. She hasn’t been by this week.”“Oh, probably not,” John said reluctantly—he knew Sherlock missed her on the days she stayed at Baker Street. “You know you’ll want to follow along on the autopsy, so Denny or Mrs. Mason would have to watch her until that was done. And she wouldn’t be very happy if she came over there and couldn’t immediately see you.” Sherlock was silent, but John could hear the disappointment. “I’ll bring her over tomorrow, I promise.”A comfortable silence fell, as the cab wended its way through early-morning commuters. When Sherlock finally spoke again John gave a quick jerk of surprise. “I just heard from Donovan. They found the owners of the ship—foreign firm, based in Russia, despite the ship being flagged in Liberia. They haven’t heard from the crew in well over a week. Weren’t even sure if they’d made port, in fact.”John blinked. “Isn’t that, well, odd? I mean, don’t ships today have locator beacons and the like?”“Many do, but it’s far from universal,” Sherlock said. “Big lines, modern lines, honest lines, yes. But those who operate on the periphery—small companies, older ships, more-remote routes—less so. And those who may stop at ports notorious for smuggling, or piracy, or general lawlessness, are extremely unlikely to provide a GPS system that it would be entirely possible for some enterprising intelligence agency to tap into.” He paused, thinking that through. “In this case, the company was apparently hoist on their own petard. They didn’t want the authorities knowing where their ship was, but that also meant that they wouldn’t know unless their crew told them.”Just then the cab rolled up to the Port Authority office, and John saw Greg sitting in his car on the far side of the car park. “I’m here,” he told Sherlock. “I’ll ping you back once we get to the ship.” He disconnected before Sherlock could object. Greg walked over as John stepped out of the cab. “Took your time,” he drawled, holding out an insulated cup of coffee that smelled wonderful, even if it was likely not especially hot anymore. “We can go as soon as you like; Mr. Nakamura, one of the Port Officers, is here and has all the keys—they found them in the captain’s cabin.” He nodded with his chin towards a small, anxious-looking man hovering by the gangway.“Hang on,” John said, reaching up and tapping his ear. “Have to link Sherlock in and put the camera on.” He did both, feeling a little self-conscious as he strapped the tiny camera onto his forehead.Sherlock, predictably enough, was already speaking when he came online. “—and it was just as I told you,” he said, in a triumphant tone of voice.John grinned. “Yeah, I’m sure,” he said peaceably. He’d learned not to ask about the content of conversations like those.There was a suspicious silence—well, suspicious in that Sherlock thought he was being teased, but wasn’t sure how. The prospect of going on board the ship trumped his potential strop, though. “We can go now,” he finally said imperiously. “I’ll be recording everything. Tell Giselle I’m ready.”John looked to Greg. “We’re all set,” he said. “You’re apparently female and French today, by the way.”Greg gave a snort of laughter and led the way. They started their tour on the bridge, which looked pretty much like John expected—not terribly clean, but reasonably well-kept, all the equipment seemingly in perfect working order. “We tested everything already,” Mr. Nakamura said tentatively, when he saw John’s interest. “Nothing damaged, nothing really out of place. Just no people.”They walked on, wandering through public spaces and crew quarters. There was a meal spread out on the tables in the mess room, from which a foul aroma wafted. “No one’s touched anything, and all the meat’s gone off,” Greg said, wrinkling his nose. “Have a good look around, and then I want to get my crew in here to look for evidence and then clear that stuff out, at least.”“Unless he believes the food somehow caused the crew to disappear, I think it’s safe to proceed with that,” Sherlock sniped. “Take a 360-degree view, slowly, and then let’s head below.”John relayed that statement to Greg, who bowed theatrically. “Of course, your majesty!” he crooned, while John continued his slow spin. “Any reason we can’t get Forensics onto the rest of this level too?”“Not the radio/communications room,” Sherlock said, “but everything else is useless. So you can release the hordes of the inept.” John proceeded to relay that verbatim; he thought about editing, but Sherlock would just shout in his ear. They spent the next hour climbing down gangways, moving from huge spaces to small: engine room, equipment storage, lockers, cargo compartments. Most of the latter were filled with crates marked with Cyrillic script, which none of them could read. Well, none of them but Sherlock. “Car parts,” he muttered in John’s ear. “Toys. Shoes. More shoes.” On to the next vast compartment, where things were much the same. “Medical supplies,” Sherlock said. “Wine. Cheap wine, presumably. More medical supplies. More shoes.” John could hear the beginnings of frustration in his voice.They finally reached the end, in a smaller, oddly shaped compartment towards the bow of the ship. This one had many, many crates, largely filling the area floor to near the ceiling, with narrow walkways running between the stacks and along each outer bulkhead. Each stack was covered by thick rope cargo nets anchoring them to the floor. This batch was labelled in a language John didn’t recognize, and even Sherlock apparently didn’t speak. “I believe it’s Malay, or perhaps Tagalog,” he said grudgingly in John’s ear, after a long, sullen silence. “Does Mr. Nakamura know?”John relayed the question, and the small man shook his head. “Dunno,” he said. “I was born in Manchester. My dad’s Japanese, but I don’t know the language.”Sherlock made an irritated huff but stayed quiet, which was just as well as John planned on ignoring whatever insult came out of his mouth at that point.They had just reached the far end of the space when the detective spoke again. “How long are typical voyages for this type of ship? In time, not distance,” he said suddenly. John assumed that question was directed at Nakamura, and repeated it to the man.“It depends,” Nakamura said. “Ships like this likely make a number of stops, picking up and dropping off cargo at each. Small lots—things the bigger carriers aren’t interested in. What they used to call ‘tramp steamers’. I’d guess the average run would be, oh, couple of months, most likely—no more than that.”Sherlock pondered that momentarily. “John, go climb on top of one of the stacks. Any one of them—doesn’t matter which.”John sighed and complied, choosing one in a section that didn’t reach quite as high as the others. He shook grit and heavy dust off his hands as he reached the top. “These are filthy,” he said. “Wouldn’t have thought it—the rest weren’t like that, I don’t think.” He looked around from his high perch, eyeing the expanse of crates. “What now?” he asked Sherlock.“Pick something you don’t need from your pocket and throw it onto one of the other stacks, and watch it land. Again, any stack you choose,” Sherlock said, in that rather smug, I’ve figured this out tone he used when he was heading to the great reveal.John sighed, dug in his pocket and fished out a small bag of the mints he always carried, then tossed it over to the nearest adjoining stack, watching it as it flew and then landed in a cloud of dust and light debris. He watched while it settled, then waved his hand to clear the remaining bits of grit in the air. “Now what?” he asked Sherlock.“Climb down,” Sherlock commanded. “Now we need to measure the space.” John passed that on, earning a groan from Greg. Lacking any kind of measuring tool, they had to resort to the old-fashioned mode: stepping off feet, basically mincing along each outer bulkhead and passing on the results to Sherlock, who remained annoyingly silent about why they were doing this. No surprise there, though that didn’t make it any less annoying.They had to estimate height, by dint of having Greg stand with his back to the bulkhead and John estimating how many additional Gregs would fit before reaching the ceiling. Sherlock wasn’t happy with the inaccuracy inherent in that approach, but there was no help for it.Finally, all that was left was the width, along the forward bulkhead. “We can’t get at that one, Sherlock,” John said, turning his head so the detective got the full view. “The crates run all the way back, seems like, and we can’t really shift them. Can’t walk all the way across the top, either, because of the walkways in between.”“Not a problem,” Sherlock said airily, thereby surprising both John and Greg. “Take the first walkway and go as far towards the bow as you can.”John obligingly headed down the dark, narrow path, sweeping his torch back and forth to look for obstructions. He reached the end at a solid, single stack of crates butted up against the steel. There was no cargo net over the top of this particular narrow pile. “Try to push one of the crates,” Sherlock said. “Just a bit—to see if there’s any ease of motion.”John, mystified, did as he was bid. The crates sneered at him, figuratively speaking, and stayed resolutely in place. Even when he pushed quite hard, they shifted only a fraction of an inch.Sherlock made a satisfied little noise. “On to the next aisle,” he said, and John trudged back down the walkway, while Greg and Nakamura shone their torches down the corridor to light John’s way. That experience was just like the one before—tall stack of boxes, shoving, no results. Sherlock was undeterred. “And the next,” he said calmly.This time, though, things were different. To begin with there were only three crates stacked atop one another, meaning the whole tower was only 7 feet tall or so, rather than nearly ceiling height. And, when John gave the top crate a strong push, it lurched violently to the side, tilted, and almost brained John as it suddenly toppled off the pile and landed in front of him. John swore as he dodged, unhurt but startled. “What the hell?” he said. “Are these empty?”“Assuredly,” Sherlock said, sounding very smug indeed. “Pull off the next one.”John shoved the top box down the aisle for Greg to slide out of the way, then tugged at the top of the next, which tilted easily into his hands. He turned and shoved that one back as well, then turned back to look at the bulkhead—and found himself looking at a heavy metal door. “Excellent!” Sherlock crowed.John pushed the last box out of the aisle and stood by Greg and Nakamura as the latter looked through his ring of keys. “He may not find one,” Sherlock observed. “I give it a fifty-fifty shot at best.” The dock agent started working through roughly thirty keys, one at a time.John, though, was looking for answers. “All right, Holmes, give—how did you know?”Sherlock hummed. “Well. I cheated, just a bit. I had Mycroft send me copies of the ship’s design, including dimensions—got them from the shipyard that built it. And I noticed when you entered this last chamber that it looked significantly shorter than those plans would indicate—perhaps thirty feet or more. Which meant an additional chamber, which meant—”“A door,” John concluded. “Very clever. And the dirty crates?”“Window dressing,” Sherlock said. “For any port inspectors that came through. Almost all the crates are likely filled with legitimate, though low-value, cargo—but it hasn’t been shifted in years, and it certainly wouldn’t be off-loaded since that would reveal the presence of the secret compartment. They just didn’t think to keep it looking like it was recently stored.”“To be fair, no one else would have noticed,” John said. Sherlock made a pleased little sound.Behind them, Mr. Nakamura gave a crow of triumph, and the lock thunked open. The port agent slid an additional bar latch out of the way, the heavy door slowly creaked open—and a cloying, sickening miasma of corruption and decomposition flowed out.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Vetala-- (Hindu folklore): Spirits who tend to haunt places of burial and charnel grounds; trapped between life and the afterlife.
John had an avalanche of disparate impressions of the next few minutes—the firm grip of Greg Lestrade on his shoulder to keep him from launching himself into the compartment in an effort to help those who were far past help; the guttural sounds of Mr. Nakamura, vomiting behind them; the commanding tones of Sherlock in his ear, demanding immediate access to the room.He tended to Sherlock first. “Hang on,” he said firmly. “Greg needs me to stay out until the team arrives and takes their 'as found' crime scene pictures. I’ll stay here for that process and link back to you when we’re ready.” Then he shut off Sherlock’s mike.Mr. Nakamura was on his own—didn’t need John’s help, and would be embarrassed (further) to be asked.Greg—Greg let go as soon as he heard John speak and understood that he wasn’t going anywhere. But they all had to go back up on deck before Greg could get a clear line through to call Donovan.Within thirty minutes the ship was crawling with police of every ilk: some guarding the gangway, some re-searching the areas of the ship John and Greg had already searched, and many, many specialists working in the charnel house that was the hidden compartment. John had switched Sherlock on once the photographer had finished his first round of in situ photos, and flinched when the detective came on mid-shout.“—and I need to see it before they botch everything up!” howled in John’s ears.“All right, dial it back,” John barked. “Or I’ll mute you again. We won’t accomplish anything with you shouting at me.”There was a long, pungent silence from the other end of the line. Then, finally— “All right,” Sherlock muttered resentfully. “But you promised this would let me be involved.”John felt a little bit bad about that. “Yeah, I know,” he sighed. “But there’s nothing for it right now—I mean, Greg wouldn’t have let you in the room until the photographers finished even if you were here.”Another, less fraught pause. Then, slyly, “Greg?” Sherlock asked innocently, and startled a laugh out of John. By mutual, unspoken assent with John, Greg had removed all of his people from the compartment to allow the initial “walkthrough” with Sherlock observing through the camera. There was relatively little grumbling—no one wanted to stay in that room one second longer than required.On first glance, as John stood in the doorway and did a slow, side-to-side pan, it looked like a scene of carnage—perhaps the aftermath of the end of a siege in historical times, where the last defenders were ultimately trapped in what they had thought was a safe place.Now that standing lights had been put up in the corners, though, and it was easier to see the whole compartment, that narrative started to fall apart.First oddity—the dead, at first glance perhaps 30 in all, were arrayed in two distinct ways: one group of about a dozen lined along the right-hand bulkhead, the rest huddled together mostly under a large grating in the front wall—a grating that, now that John looked at it, appeared to be welded shut.Second thing: the group under the grate were all nude; the rest were clothed, some in uniforms.And, finally: by the group with clothing, there was dried blood. A great deal of it. While the remaining bodies had no visible marks or damage at all, at least from this distance.John was struck by the silence from his earpiece. “You seeing this?” he asked.“Yesssss,” Sherlock breathed. “It’s very odd, isn’t it?” He paused. “How long have they been dead, would you say?”John looked around again. “Well. Um. Judging by the smell, at least a week. Can’t say beyond that without a postmortem, honestly.”“Get closer,” Sherlock commanded. “I need to see the blood, and any visible injuries on the bodies.”Over the next half-hour, John obeyed many, many such commands, looking at every inch of the compartment, getting as close to the bodies as he could without actually touching them, taking close-ups of what proved to be bullet wounds on the clothed individuals. The nude ones, by contrast, remained frustratingly opaque—no wounds, no signs of struggle beyond some small injuries to hands and fingers. Some looked almost peaceful, as if they’d died in their sleep.Sherlock finally made a frustrated noise and called a halt. “That’s as far as we can take it right now,” he said. “We will need another look once the bodies are removed, and of course we’ll observe at least some of the autopsies. Speaking of autopsies—I just heard from Molly. The postmortem on the girl from the anchor chain is set for 3:30 this afternoon. I’ve already let Mrs. Hudson know to collect Watson for you.”John pulled his phone out and checked the time. “And you’re due for PT with Denny,” he said, and received a despairing sigh from Sherlock. “Remember, it’s the price involved—to be able to do the Work right now, you have to pay the piper and do your other work. Or all of this gets put on hold, as far as you’re concerned.”“I could always fit Wiggins out with one of those cameras,” Sherlock said darkly. “And you know he could easily get in.”“And I’d have Greg throw us off the case,” John said. “In a heartbeat.”Another long, charged silence. “All right,” Sherlock finally huffed. “But you realize this could well delay solving this.”“I’ll take my chances,” John said peaceably, and went to tell Greg they were done. John went back to Baker Street for a while; Sherlock would be busy with therapy all day (well, up to the point of the autopsy, anyway), and John didn’t have anything else on his social calendar at the moment. Mrs. Hudson greeted him at the door and hauled him into her kitchen, wanting an in-depth report on All Things Sherlock—she only made it over to Mycroft’s once a week or so, so she felt a little left out.“Denny says he’s doing really well,” John said, over a mouthful of shortbread and tea. “He’s on-track to be moved to the smaller cast in 10 days or so.”Mrs. H clapped her hands together. “And then he can come home!” she caroled. “He’ll be so happy!”And yeah, John reflected, he really would be. Sherlock had been surprisingly OK with staying at his brother’s, but it was always clear where he truly wanted to be, if only so that he had all his things around him. Quite the packrat, Sherlock was, and very concerned about other people touching or moving anything.“We just have to make sure the flat’s ready,” John said. “Get things off the floor and put away—pick up any small rugs—no wax on the floors, no stacks of books leaning about. I’ll help you, when it comes to that. Make room for the crutches, you know.” Because that was going to be the worst part, honestly. John had seen Sherlock on crutches before; it wasn’t pretty. The last time he used them, he’d fallen three times in a week because he kept forgetting he needed them when he got up. And this time he’d likely need the crutches, followed by a cane(!), for months, all told. At 3:15 John set out for Barts (though not without being “forced” to take a large bag of biscuits with him, to hand off to Denny and Sherlock once the autopsy was done). He pulled out a piece of shortbread to nibble on the walk and enjoyed the rare sunshine.Molly already had things set up in the morgue when John arrived and started pulling the GoPro equipment out of his pockets. “Oh, hi!” she said cheerily. “I was hoping you could come. In person, I mean. Since Sherlock isn’t. Coming here, I mean.” She flushed, laughed, and held out a set of latex gloves. “Shutting up now.”John grinned and took them. “Well, for what it’s worth, Sherlock will be in attendance.” He pointed towards his forehead. “This is our new linkup. He can hear you, see what’s going on, and he can tell me what he wants to know.” Thought not quite as he does in real life, with me as interpreter, John thought sardonically. Which is probably a good thing.Right on cue, his earpiece sputtered. “Tell Molly we can get started now,” Sherlock said imperiously. “And remind her I’m right here.”“Yessir, right you are, sir,” John muttered, and stepped into place beside Molly as she waved at the camera before turning to the compartment in the morgue wall to pull out their subject for the afternoon. The pathologist started her recording and went through the standard litany first (date, time, subject) while Sherlock fumed in the background. Then she pulled the sheet off the shrouded body and revealed the woman—girl—from the ship’s anchor chain.The pitiful figure looked much worse in person than she had in the photos. There were obvious deformities, with large (though not especially dark) bruises spread across the slight body. The skin also showed the obvious effects of having been in the water for the better part of a week—the small scavengers of the Thames had been hard at work.“Poor dear,” Molly sighed, and reached to tuck the sheet further out of the way. As she did, though, she inadvertently knocked the support under the corpse’s neck. The head came free—and suddenly lurched to one side in a completely unnatural way.Molly and John blinked at each other, while Sherlock said “Well” in a mildly surprised kind of way in John’s ear.After that momentary pause, Molly gently lifted the head and put the support back into place, then turned towards a bank of equipment against the far wall of the morgue. “I think we’d best start with x-rays instead,” she said, and Sherlock gave a hum of agreement. The rest of the autopsy took a solid three hours. But they were pretty sure of the cause of death as soon as the x-ray results popped up on Molly’s tablet. “Well. The good news is, she didn’t drown,” Molly said. “Based on this, she was already dead when she hit the water, most likely—neck broken, spinal cord torn completely.” She looked down the rest of the scan and held the tablet up for Sherlock’s view. “Lots of other fractures, as well, and all recent—no evident healing. Both shoulders, left hip, both bones in her right lower leg.” She flinched momentarily as she visibly realized the similarity to Sherlock’s current injuries.“Yes, I know,” Sherlock said quietly in John’s ear. “Tell her not to worry about it. I’m fine.”John did. Molly smiled at the camera, nodded, and continued. “Aside from the fractures, there are a number of very serious skin contusions consistent with the breaks—this was quite violent, and very quick, I think. If she’d been alive the blood loss alone might have killed her, if she didn’t drown. Aside from that, she’d been through some form of severe physical stress in the period immediately prior to death—tissues indicate dehydration and near-starvation. She would have been significantly underweight.” She shook her head and carefully pulled the sheet back up, covering the battered form completely. “The tissue and blood tests should be done late tomorrow. I’ll send you the results, and ring if anything unusual turns up.”Sherlock had been somewhat subdued the past half-hour or so; John wondered if he was tired and didn’t want to say so. Now, though, he had instructions to make. “We need to go back to the ship in the morning,” Sherlock said. “It needs to be in daylight, so we can see both the inside and the outside. And let Lestrade know we’ll need a welder and equipment.” Far too early the next morning John was once more on his way to the ship, this time in a car with an irritable Greg Lestrade. “Do you have any idea how hard it is to get a qualified welder to the docks in less than 12 hours?” Greg huffed. “I told Sherlock to give me an extra day and I thought he’d have a coronary. That, or burst into tears.”John, who’d been with Sherlock during that conversation, nodded in solidarity. “Yeah, he wasn’t at his best. He was in a lot of pain—he’d had a minor mishap in therapy, but wouldn’t let Denny give him anything for it. I finally dosed him with antihistamines after we hung up.”“You couldn’t have done that first?” Greg asked, and smirked at John’s crack of involuntary laughter.John patched Sherlock in as they stepped out of the taxi. The detective, predictably enough, was already speaking. “—and we need to see the outside closely before heading below. Someone needs to set up ropes or a bosun’s chair to lower you down the side for a closer examination of the exterior hawsehole.”John blinked. “OK, first—not sure I’m OK with being lowered over the side. And second—what the Hell is a hawsehole?”Sherlock made an exasperated noise. “It’s the external access to the chain locker, where the anchor chain resides until the anchors is lowered. The large, round hole, well above the waterline.” He paused, then continued grudgingly. “I suppose someone else could use the camera, if you’re truly hesitant.” There was a tinge of despair in that tone, and John was unsure if all of it was for show or not.In the end, John did go over the side, and it was surprisingly entertaining. Mr. Nakamura pointed out a rope locker on the main deck that proved to include a contraption consisting of ropes and what looked like a child’s swing. “Bosun’s chair,” Sherlock said in John’s ear. “Used for several hundred years to safely anchor a crewman on the side of a ship, or along masts, for repairs or viewing. Today there are competitions for rigging, raising and lowering them in sailing groups.”Under Mr. Nakamura’s tutelage, three of NSY’s finest tied off the support ropes and wrapped the active ones around their waists, while John stepped carefully into the rig atop the main rail and snapped himself to the seat with the safety belt. Then they lowered away, slowly enough that John had a careful look at the ship’s side on the way down. Soon enough he was in front of the large, dark opening, perhaps 15 inches across, with smooth, beveled edges and the huge chain running through the center. What he saw when he turned on his torch and looked into the opening, though, took away any enjoyment he’d felt at this new experience. “Are you seeing this?” he asked Sherlock.Sherlock made an affirmative noise. “Blood. Dried. A great deal of it, both inside and out. And likely bits of tissue, especially just there at the join of the metal sheets in the collar. Tell Grantham we need samples for tissue matching, though we all know what it will show.”And John, unfortunately, did know, and could now visualize roughly what had happened. Inside the ship, the girl had somehow encountered the ship’s anchor chain, huge links of metal coiled in preparation for lowering the anchor once the ship docked. When the signal was sent to the winch to start lowering, the chain began swiftly snaking out through the hawsehole—and the girl, long braid caught in a pinch point between links of chain, went with it. The weight of the anchor and chain would have been more than sufficient to force her body through the hole, even though it didn’t look large enough for an adult human to pass through. And in the process (hopefully very early on) it snapped her neck, broke many other bones, tore off large bits of skin and muscle—then left her dangling by her trapped braid, not far above the anchor, under 40 feet of water.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Visitant—a visitor, especially one thought to come from a spirit world
“Jesus. Poor little thing,” John said involuntarily, and waited for Sherlock’s scathing response.Surprisingly, it didn’t come. “Yes,” the detective said simply. “It was likely very quick, but I suspect her situation was quite dire before those events. We shall see.” By the time John was pulled back over the railing, the marine welder had arrived, a bundle of equipment slung across his back. “Hiya,” the man said, holding out one scarred hand. “I’m Arch.”“John,” John said. “And I have Sherlock on the camera.” He waved a hand at his forehead.Arch blinked. “Hiya,” he said hesitantly, and gave a quick wave towards the camera. Sherlock snorted but said nothing (not like John would have passed it on regardless, if it was as rude as such things usually were).They headed back down the many passageways and stairwells to the hidden compartment. John noted that most of the “cargo” had been removed, presumably to some police impound storage. Only the empty crates that once blocked the hatchway remained, stacked precariously to one side. “We kept those here in case Sherlock wanted to see them again,” Greg said. “Didn’t think so, but we can always toss them later.”“Tell Gerardo he can do that now,” Sherlock said imperiously. John ignored him.The hatch had been dogged open in the interim, presumably to air out the horrifying odor left by the remains. It hadn’t helped as much as one would hope. The welder, who hadn’t been there when the discovery was initially made, cringed and covered his mouth in horror at the bloodstains.“Yeah, sorry,” Greg said behind them. “Someone was supposed to warn you what it was like. Guess they didn’t, huh?”“No,” Arch bleated, and clapped his hand over his mouth again.They gave Arch a few minutes to acclimate himself, while John switched on the standing lights and wandered about the compartment filming the view for Sherlock. The bloodstain pattern was the most revealing, apparently. “They were lined up against the wall. The executions all happened at roughly the same time,” Sherlock said. “The patterns don’t overlay each other—they simply flowed together simultaneously, and dried as one continuous area.” He paused, thinking that through momentarily. “Low-velocity weapon, most likely one or more small handguns,” he continued. “Otherwise there would be ricochet marks all over the compartment. In this case the bullets presumably remained in the bodies, rather than passing through.”They moved to the section under the grating, where Sherlock had John squat down and get close-up views of the metal bulkhead. “There are minute scratches around the base of the grating,” he said in John’s ear. “As well as scuffs along the bottom of the wall. They were trying to climb up, repeatedly, trying to pry at the grate though it was above head height. Unsuccessfully, obviously, since they had no tools of any kind and the welding seems quite secure. That also explains the injuries to the hands and fingers on some of the bodies.”Eventually Arch was ready, and placed a sturdy metal folding stepstool in place to stand on, before stepping up to examine the grating. “Recent welds,” he said, running a finger around the edges. “No weathering or corrosion, not even much in the way of dust. Two-three weeks, maybe?”He turned to look at John and, by extension, Sherlock. “You ready for me to open this now?” he asked.“Yes,” Sherlock said, and John nodded. Arch took up his equipment, put on his hood, and set his glowing torch to the joins. In all, it took about fifteen minutes until there was a narrow, open space all the way around the grate. Arch put his equipment aside, gestured Greg over to help, then reached into the vanes of the grating and pulled. The heavy piece came loose with a metallic groan and was levered to the floor. Several bits of wiring projected out of the left-hand side.Arch beckoned John over. “Look here,” he said. “Whoever did this really didn’t know what they were doing. They wanted to seal it so the latch into the next compartment wouldn’t work—that’s clear, since that’s where all of the welding was. But they went side-to-side too far, and basically locked the vanes in place as well.” He reached to the sides, to finger one of the bits of wire. “This was an automatic grate—the vanes are set on a cycle, to open and provide ventilation. But once the welding was done, they couldn’t open. Likely wasn’t intentional, but…”And in John’s ear, Sherlock made an explosive “Oh!” To John’s irritation, his friend wouldn’t explain his sudden realization, and instead insisted they proceed into the next chamber. John grumbled, but went, with Greg close behind.It was an oddly shaped compartment, partly filled by a coil of enormous anchor chain taking at least two-thirds of the available, high-ceilinged space. The coils rose five feet up, even with the anchor now down. Each link of chain consisted of worked steel bands bigger around than John’s arm.There was some light coming in through the large, circular hawsehole up near the overhead, but it was quite dim in the compartment. Greg called for Arch to hand in one of the stand lights set up earlier, and that made a considerable difference.“She was here for some time,” Sherlock said, and John repeated it for Greg. “Note the discreet pile of what appears to be feces in the far corner.” John looked closer—yep, that seemed correct. But no remnants of clothing, no food wrappers, tins, anything.There was a long pause while John could almost hear Sherlock thinking. Then— “we’re done here. I need to see the grating again.”John told Greg, and they climbed back through the opening, leaving the light behind for the forensics team.Arch looking exceedingly glad to see them when they climbed back through—he had apparently hovered in the outer chamber, unsure if he’d be needed again. As it happened, he was. “Have him describe how the grate worked, carefully. Tell us how these are typically used,” Sherlock said, and John relayed the command.The welder leaned over and levered the heavy metal piece upright against the bulkhead. “OK, so these are used in most holds,” he began. “Almost all automated, these days. See, almost all cargo holds have water- and almost air-tight doors between compartments. Common sense, y’know? Good for protecting most things, considering. But that’s a problem if you have folks working below for any length of time—you can exhaust the available air relatively quickly, if you have a small compartment and a lot of people shifting stuff about, for example. So these vents are placed, typically towards the top of the spaces, and there’s a timer set up to open and close them, linked to either the outside or to ventilation pipes. They also can usually be shut off in case of really high seas.” He pointed back through the gaping hole leading to the next space. “In this case, the vanes opened into the chain locker—that has the hawsehole that lets in plenty of air, so there was no need for forced ventilation pipes. They just electrified the vent mechanism to open up at intervals and pull air into this compartment with the enclosed fan, in the middle there.” He pointed at the latch mechanism on the side. “That lever would open the whole grating up, for maintenance access to the chains. If you’ll notice, there’s no way to lock it—no hole for a padlock or anything. But—” and he reached up to run his hand along the opening again— “there’s also no way to open it from the other side, once it’s latched from in here. So what I think happened is, they were concerned someone had opened the grate, and wanted to keep that from happening again. So they had somebody weld it—somebody who wasn’t really experienced, and didn’t know how the vent worked. The welds kept both the grate, and the vents, from ever moving again.” He looked around the smallish compartment. “Would have been really dangerous to work in here, after that.”And at that, John gave an “Oh!” of his own. On the way back from the docks, John used his tablet to bring Sherlock up on Skype, so that he could participate in the conversation directly. Greg let his PC drive and sat in the back of his car with John.“So that’s how the nude ones died, isn’t it?” John asked. “Suffocation.”Sherlock nodded. “Almost certainly,” he said. “It also explains why the girl died, if you think about it—and she was indirectly responsible for the deaths of the others.” He looked expectantly at his audience, and frowned when they didn’t respond.Greg sighed. “All right, do tell.”Sherlock huffed but complied. “Think about it—we know the hatch was a one-way trip, unless someone on the outside kept it open. God knows how they got it open in the first place—they likely would have had to stand on each other’s shoulders to reach the latch. Perhaps they sent her through because she was the lightest—who knows? She got through, though she would have found very quickly that she had no place to go from there. But the hatch was, we know, attached to an automated ventilation system. And, when the hatch was opened, there would almost certainly have been a warning light appear on the bridge—they need to know such things, after all. The last thing a ship at sea can afford is open hatches.”On-screen Sherlock shifted, grimaced in pain, and re-settled. “Someone would have come charging below, and either seen the open grating, if the captives didn’t close it, or counted heads and realized one person was missing. We don’t know if they had any light sources in with the prisoners, though the captors would have certainly had torches—we would have to check to see if the switches worked once power to the ship is restored. There was no illumination in the chain locker, though, so they likely decided to latch the door back and hunt for the escapee once they docked. And, to ensure none of the others could take the same route, they brought down a welding kit and did an amateurish job of ensuring the grate stayed closed, without realizing they were ensuring something else at the same time.” He looked thoughtful briefly before continuing. “This likely happened no more than a day or so out of port. Otherwise they would have been concerned about extracting the escapee before lack of food and water became a serious issue. The tissue sample results from the girl’s autopsy will give us a better idea of the timing, perhaps, though her immersion in water may skew the results.”“But why did the crew die?” Greg said. “And why was the ship abandoned?”Sherlock scowled. “No idea,” he said grudgingly. “Hopefully the autopsies will give us a starting point.”Before John could respond, there was an outraged squawk from Sherlock, as Denny’s face appeared on the screen. “Sherlock has to go now,” she said firmly. “Physical torture awaits.” Then there was silence—well, except for John’s laughter. Knowing Sherlock would be occupied (and then recuperating) for several hours, John asked Greg to drop him off at Baker Street. He had lunch, did some tidying, made a quick run to Tesco, and worked briefly on his blog before heading over to pick Rosie up. The baby was ecstatic to see him; he knew she’d be even more excited to see Sherlock.When they arrived at Mycroft’s, Mrs. Mason let them in. “I’m the only one free,” she said. “Andrew and Denny are finishing up a bath for Sherlock. They should be done momentarily. Mr. Holmes will be here in an hour or so, but we won’t hold dinner for him.” And at that, she headed back to her kitchen.John set Rosie down to let her toddle down the long hallway, stopping to grab her hand before she made it to Sherlock’s room. “Just a minute, Rosebud,” he said, and scooped her wriggling body back up before pushing the door gently open and peering inside. “Everybody decent?” he called carefully.“Depends on your definition,” Denny called, with cheer that sounded rather forced. As the door swung open John saw Andrew just finishing tucking the covers around Sherlock, currently arched determinedly towards the wall. Never a good sign. John raised his eyebrows at Andrew and got a cautionary headshake, before the driver edged by him and headed down the hallway.Rosie let out her typical “Sock!” screech and tried to launch herself towards the cot, and Sherlock in his turn jerked (which looked painful) and turned himself back towards the room to receive her. In short order she was arrayed alongside her idol, patting him gently, and Sherlock, eyes closed, was combing long fingers gently through her hair.Over the tableau, Denny met John’s gaze and jerked her head towards the door. John, eyebrows raised, followed her outside and down the hall to the kitchen. “He’s stopped his antidepressant,” Denny snapped as soon as the door closed behind them. “Without telling anyone, including, as I found out, Dr. A. Who was, to coin a phrase, Not Happy. He’ll be by after supper for a ‘chat’.”John blinked. “Why…how did you find out? I mean, granted, he didn’t seem quite himself today—a little quiet, not a lot of side conversation—but nothing alarming.”“He wouldn’t eat breakfast this morning,” Denny said. “In retrospect, that was the beginning, since the medication usually makes him wake up hungry. He complains about that on the regular. But then he had a bit of a meltdown when I broke the connection with you earlier today—got really upset, much more than normal. Actually threw some things. So I started to wonder if something was wrong.”And John could see why that would be alarming. He’d seen Sherlock make scenes like that once or twice during his long convalescence from the shooting. It was almost always a prelude to something else—an infection, a reaction to medication, or, well, depression, which had stalked them both through that period. “So how did you find out?” he asked.“Once he calmed down a bit—I gave him some time, made tea, stepped out of the room for ten minutes or so—we started in on his PT. That didn’t go well either—he kept taking breaks, wanting to change exercises, that kind of thing. And then we were doing his mobility work on the parallel bars upstairs, with Andrew backing me up, and suddenly he stopped, looked alarmed, and threw up all over himself,” Denny said. “It happened again once we got him resettled, and again a little while ago. That bath you saw was his second of the day. Before that, though, I sent Andrew out, sat down next to Sherlock, and told him I needed to know what was wrong, or I was going to have to call you. And he cracked, and told me. I thought about making him call Dr. A, but he was so miserable I didn’t have the heart.”“What did Dr. A say?” John asked.“I don’t know what he told Sherlock—I gave him privacy for that part,” Denny said. “But when I came back in and took the phone back, he told me he was coming by later to ‘discuss’ things. It wasn’t a request. Oh—and asked how difficult it would be to prepare, if we had to transfer Sherlock to Sevenoaks for a bit.”“Well, shit,” John sighed.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Draugr-- (Norse mythology): Undead Vikings who possess superhuman strength, the ability to swell and increase their size or shapeshift at will, and reek of decay.
The mood at dinner was. Well. The best word John could think of was “funereal”. Sherlock was almost entirely silent, and, though Mrs. Mason had made some rich beef soup specially for him, consumed only the chocolate meal replacement that Denny (at John’s suggestion) kept stocked in the fridge. Rosie, picking up on the tension in the room, fussed and threw bits of cooked carrot and green beans, though she did concede to snuggling up to Sherlock’s side for her final bottle of the day.John carried her off to get ready for bed after helping her give Sherlock kisses, which the detective accepted with every evidence of pleasure. He picked up one pink little hand and bussed it theatrically, leading to delighted squeals from Rosie.By the time John returned from installing her, stuffed bee and tiny duvet in hand, in the portable cot in his room, her spot at Sherlock’s side had been taken by Cuddles, who kept a possessive paw over Sherlock’s good leg and glared at John. Rosie wasn’t the only one picking up on tension, apparently.After roughly half an hour, John heard the buzzer from the front of the house, and Mrs. Mason’s voice as she answered. Dr. A’s wheelchair rolled in shortly thereafter. “Hey, John,” the psychiatrist said mildly, while looking at Sherlock’s withdrawn figure on the cot. “Sherlock.”No motion from his main target. Denny, that wise woman, deftly slid out of the room. John had started to follow her when Sherlock suddenly spoke. “Stay. Please,” he said stiffly, his eyes now open but looking at the far wall rather than at the man in the wheelchair.Dr. A raised his eyebrows. “Are you sure?” he asked. “I am more than willing for John to remain, but I would prefer to hear agreement from both of you.”John, looking at Sherlock’s withdrawn face, walked over to stand on the far side of the cot under the window. “Yeah, that’s fine,” he said. He put his hand on one bony shoulder. “Until he wants me to leave.”Sherlock made an indeterminate noise that could have been either a scoff or an acknowledgement. John decided to take it as the former.Dr. A took out a tiny recorder, placed it on the arm of his chair, and turned it on. “So,” he began, “would you like to tell me what happened today? I’ve heard Nurse Denny’s version, but I’d like to hear yours.”“I decided to stop my medication,” Sherlock said tersely.The psychiatrist nodded. “Now, just to be clear, since you’re taking a number of other medications: you chose to stop your antidepressant, yes?”Sherlock gave a jerky nod.Dr. A nodded in his turn. “And you did this abruptly, without tapering? And without asking anyone for information about the potential ramifications of such a procedure?”Sherlock sniffed. “You know very well I am familiar with the potential issues. And I can’t think of anyone qualified to ask except—”“Me?” Dr. A asked sweetly. “The one you promised to inform if you had any medication issues?”Sherlock abruptly turned a rosy pink. John managed to resist the urge to laugh. “I was planning on telling you at our next session,” he said, very stiffly.The therapist nodded again. “In two days,” he said. “I understand. But, you see, I have a small problem with that, since you clearly have begun to develop a noticeable adverse reaction to this.”“I’m not—” Sherlock began, pulling himself up in outrage.“How many times were you ill today, Sherlock?” Dr. A said, still calm, still dispassionate. “Three? Four? And how much dinner did you eat? I passed the kitchen—saw a lovely pan of beef broth on the hob keeping warm. Looked untouched—and I know that’s one of your favourites when you’re not well.”Sherlock’s mouth opened. Closed. His brow lowered, and when he spoke his voice sounded somewhat strangled. “I can’t think properly,” he said roughly. “I can’t abide it. John—” he turned to looked at John, eyes almost pleading. “John can attest to it—that’s why I wanted him here. We worked together on the ship case. I was hopeless before—distracted, inept. Today, without the medication, was inifinitely better. Tell him, John!”He looked commandingly, pleadingly, at John—who was aware that his face was telling its own story, and it wasn’t the one Sherlock believed.“I think maybe you’re reading things into your perceptions, Sherlock,” John said, very carefully. “I didn’t see any problems, and we made a lot of progress. The only thing I noticed was you were a little quieter than usual, but I though maybe you were tired.”Sherlock looked like John had slapped him—mouth drooping, eyes glassy. John hoped they were done; unfortunately Dr. A had other ideas.“We haven’t actually touched on the bigger issue, though,” the therapist said. “When did you start on this change, Sherlock?”Sherlock looked at his hands, stimming openly in his lap in a way he usually only did when extremely upset. “Four days ago,” he said quietly.“And what was your number then?” Dr. A said. He gave no indication of what the number was tracking; John was unhappily aware that he probably knew.“One,” Sherlock said. “That was why…” he trailed off without completing the thought.“And the day after that?” Dr. A asked.“Two,” Sherlock said, with a hint of defiance.“And yesterday?” Dr. A continued, still calm.There was some hesitation now, as John could see, literally see, Sherlock debating lying. In the end, he didn’t, and earned a tiny smile from his interrogator.“Four. No. Five,” Sherlock said quietly. John’s hand crept back to his friend’s shoulder.“And today?” the therapist said, just as quietly. Sherlock silently shook his head, but Dr. A was having none of that. “Sherlock?”“Seven,” Sherlock croaked, and put his face in his hands. Sherlock spent three days at Sevenoaks. In a way it was a blessing in disguise; because the facility had both the psychiatric unit and a top-flight physical medicine setup, it was decided to go ahead and remove the supporting pins from the former external fixative cage, as well as the in-dwelling pain catheters, while he was there under observation. The latter had been tapered off—reducing the flow of pain medication during the day, replacing it by oral meds—over the past week anyway, so it made sense to complete the process while Sherlock was already in-patient and lightly sedated for the pin removal.That meant that, once his meds were regulated and he was released to return to Mycroft’s, he had something to look forward to: the smaller cast was scheduled for the following week, which meant a trip back to Baker Street shortly thereafter.To be honest, John suspected the schedule had been advanced (just a bit) beyond the norm to help lift Sherlock’s mood. And John was totally on board with that. Just as he was looking forward to heading to Mycroft’s for a reunion dinner, after he dropped Rosie off with Mrs. H.Gabe Austin had offered to pick Sherlock up at Sevenoaks and drive him to Kensington, since he had business in the area anyway—Mycroft had of course offered to send a car but been denied (huffily, most likely). John was amused to see, once the big man had texted that they had arrived, that he had borrowed Anthea’s extremely expensive convertible to do so. Sherlock, as they pulled up, looked windblown, pink-skinned, and happy.As Gabe maneuvered the wheelchair from the boot, John opened Sherlock’s door and helped him shift the cast out the door. “I must confess, there’s a certain attraction to this,” Sherlock said. “The immediacy of contact with the elements is invigorating.”Particularly when you’ve spent two months nailed to a cot, John thought, but kept to himself. Aloud, “From what Anthea tells me, she only gets a handful of days every year where she can lower the top—it’s not exactly ideal in the rain. Maybe Mrs. H would let you borrow her car now and again. It’s a treat, even if it isn’t a convertible,” he said. Privately John doubted it—he’d seen Sherlock drive, after all. He tended to consider traffic controls optional.As Gabe rolled the chair into position, Sherlock wrinkled his nose. “Unlikely,” he said with a groan, as he took Gabe’s hands and levered himself deftly into the chair. “And to be frank, I don’t have the best associations with that vehicle.”John could feel his face congeal. Sherlock, of course, noticed immediately. “Oh, stop,” he said, and waved a hand airily for Gabe to roll towards the doorway. “We’re done with that. We agreed.”John didn’t remember that conversation at all, but he let it go. Even though a tiny internal voice reminded him that that was rather cowardly.Gabe, who’d been courteously silent through that exchange, gave John a smirk. “Andy wouldn’t let him borrow this car, I can guarantee. She’s known him too long.”They all ignored Sherlock’s squawk of outrage as Gabe waved and drove off. John was glad to see a visible difference in Sherlock’s mood from the days prior to his trip to Sevenoaks. He hadn’t realized, until it was forcibly pointed out, how out-of-character a quiet Sherlock was.Now, though, the detective was better, in every sense of the word. Engaged, snarky, happy to be “home”, even if it was his brother’s home. Mrs. Mason outdid herself with dinner, producing a spread of Sherlock’s preferred foods (to the point that Mycroft, once he arrived and gave his brother a scarily comprehensive look, engaged in a genteel whine that implied the woman was playing favourites unfairly. The side-eye he gave Sherlock brought forth a reluctant chuckle from his brother).They had a surprise guest—Greg Lestrade showed up just before the plates were laid out, looking both tired and pleased. “Well, well, well,” he said, moving to drop into a chair next to Sherlock. “Look what the cat dragged in.”Sherlock raised his chin. “Not a rodent, thank you,” he sniffed.Greg smiled and lifted Sherlock’s fine-boned hand. “Oh no,” he said. “A bird, surely.” Sherlock snatched the hand away, but John didn’t miss the tiny smile he gave before he smoothed his features back out. They all made short work of the meal, including Sherlock, who now had an appetite again. Mycroft couldn’t stay—said he had just come by to dine and pick up some paperwork, which sounded thin even to John, but Sherlock notably didn’t call him on it. But the rest of them cleaned their plates, then slid back their chairs to digest and reflect.Greg, though—Greg had a Mission. “So, I have some news,” he said, and Sherlock’s head swiveled over like a hunting dog. “Got some test results, that kind of thing, that are very interesting.” He looked over at John. “I had Mycroft get me Sherlock’s doctor’s phone number—wanted to make sure it was OK to share. So we’re good on that front, within reason.”“’Reason’,” Sherlock sneered. “As if I’m delicate.”And in some ways, you really are, John thought, but held his peace. They moved to Sherlock’s room before they continued—the second jaw-cracking yawn that caught the detective unawares reminded them all that he was, after all, just out of hospital and sporting a severe, though healing, fracture. Once he’d been stripped and helped into pajamas (John), then basically picked up and lifted onto the cot (Greg) he was ready, eyes bright and posture attentive. “Give,” he ordered, and Greg did.Greg settled in one of the leather chairs from the library table, with John taking another. “So, first thing: the autopsy on the girl from the anchor—lab results show that she hadn’t had any food, and likely any water to speak of, in at least two days when she died. Wouldn’t have survived much longer even without the chain grabbing her.” John and Greg winced; Sherlock just looked focused.Greg picked up a folder he’d dropped on the table while getting Sherlock settled, flipping through the pages. “Then the others. The naked group—they’d been short on food as well, but not to the extent of the girl. And it was more chronic than catastrophic—they were hungry, but not starving. We found food wrappers and the like under the bodies, as well as some untouched water containers and protein bars. None of them had signs of injuries or illnesses, and they were all between about 16 and 24, near as we can tell. Ethnically a combination—Asian, Near Eastern, a couple that may have been Slavic.”He flipped another few pages. “The clothed ones—they were indeed the crew. We were able to find IDs in the pockets of several of them—one was the captain, based on the things we found in his cabin. We’re still searching out details on the others, but have no reason to think they’re anything other than generic merchant seamen. Captain was a functioning alcoholic, going by his blood and liver tissue results; a couple of them tested positive for cocaine use, but in relatively low amounts—recreational use rather than addicts, most likely.”“Did the nude ones suffocate, as we surmised?” Sherlock asked, reaching for the folder, only to have Greg shake his head briefly.“Yeah, they did,” Greg said. “And I’ll give it to you in a minute. Need to tell you the really interesting bit, first.”Sherlock leaned back and folded his arms across his chest—he was healed enough to do that now, happily. “Very well,” he sniffed. “What’s the nature of this ‘revelation’?”“Time of death,” Greg said smugly. “And this one even you would never guess. The girl, as you’d expect, died the day the ship anchored, near as we can tell. Then she hung on the anchor chain underwater for the next two weeks or so, until the port authorities raised the anchor to move the ship to Impound.” He flipped back through the files again. “The people in the compartment, interestingly, had been dead almost the same amount of time—perhaps a day or so more, but no more than that. It’s hard to be sure, what with her having been in the water so long.”“Wait,” Sherlock said, “the ones in the compartment were dead before she went out the hawsehole?”“Looks that way, yeah,” Greg said. “At least 24 hours, but no more than 48, according to Molly. She did some in-depth testing on the tissues to get as close as she could. Said to let you know she’ll be happy to discuss it with you when you’re up to it.” He picked up the folder, closed it, and held it out. “But again, that’s not the important part. That comes from the crew. Because the crew, even though they were killed in the same place as the naked ones, had all died at the same time—and that was roughly the time the ship docked, about a week after the rest of them.”
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Doppelganger—a ghostly counterpart of a living person
Sherlock thought about that, before giving a long “ooooooohhhh” of enlightenment.Greg grinned, settling back in his chair. “See, I knew that would get you going. So tell me, is it ‘obvious’ yet?”“Not entirely,” Sherlock sniffed. “Though some aspects of it should be, even to you.”“Well, thank you kindly,” Greg said. “I suppose some of it is. I’m assuming the girl getting into the chain locker led to the others being suffocated, yeah?”John held up his hand. “Even I got that part. In case anyone wanted to know.”“Watson could have gotten that part,” Sherlock sneered, but softened it with a smirk and a raised brow.“Charming,” John muttered.“So the girl gets through the vent—the louvers were big enough that someone very small could have squeezed through, if someone helped them up to reach the vent in the first place. Presumably went through hoping for an escape route,” Greg said. “Since it’s also obvious these people were prisoners, not passengers.”“And the lack of clothes would have made it harder for them to get away clean, even if they found an opening and got off the ship in a port,” John added. He’d thought about that aspect before.“All true,” Sherlock said with an indulgent nod, in the vein of congratulating an especially bright 5-year-old. “So what do we know, and what can we presume? First—” he held up one long, delicate finger— “they were essentially cargo. And they were not the first batch so treated—setting up the special compartment would have been neither inexpensive nor easy. Second, this was not something restricted to the captain and perhaps one or two officers—they all knew about it, so this was part of the ship’s typical routine. Third—and this is where things start to go awry—this particular batch of ‘cargo’ was smarter, or perhaps more determined, than the previous groups. Perhaps one of them was familiar with ships, and knew that the fresh air coming through the vent meant a link to the outside. Either way, they came up with an ‘escape plan’—hopeless, did they but know, but their options were severely limited, after all. I suspect the timing—i.e., only a couple of days prior to docking—was happenstance, since there’s no rational way they would have known how close to port they were, unless one of their ‘caretakers’ was careless enough to tell them.” He paused, reaching out for the bottle of juice on his tray, taking several large swigs.Greg took advantage of the break, earning him a glare that he completely ignored. “So, to summarize: the girl climbed through the vent. Likely quickly realized it wasn’t going to be of any help—nothing in the chamber but chains, and while she might have been able to shinny up the chain and get through the hawsehole, she would have found herself looking at nothing but ocean, many metres below. And certainly wouldn’t be getting any help from those on deck if she tried to climb up there.” He frowned. “And the worst part, I guess, would be when she realized she couldn’t get back. She could only reach the grate from the other side if someone lifted her on their shoulders. And there was no one to do that from the chain locker.”“And presumably someone from the crew checked on them at least once a day—valuable and delicate cargo, after all,” John chimed in. “Did a head count and found one missing.”Sherlock frowned. He didn’t much care for being robbed of his moments of glory. “At that point, someone in command—perhaps the captain, perhaps a ranking minion—gave the order to secure the vent, since that was the only possible escape route and they certainly would have been willing to force a confession from the remaining people. Maybe whoever gave the command assumed the girl would be retrieved first, maybe they decided not to worry about it since they would reach port shortly and could fish her out then. Most likely the former, since anyone with any common sense would realize she had no source of water and would be at risk if left without for that long. Either way, though, the ultimate response was unfortunately, delegated to someone (1) low in the pecking order; and (2) lacking in any knowledge of why the grate was there in the first place. They brought in welding equipment, and an inexperienced welder, most likely someone with no formal training, welded the grate vanes shut. The clock started ticking. By the next morning, all the captives, save the girl in the chain locker, were dead. The girl wouldn't have made a sound--didn't want them to know she was still alive, not that it made any difference in the end. And given that all the others were dead, the crew didn't really care about her anymore anyway. She wouldn't be enough to save them.”“Well, yeah, I think we all got that far,” Greg said. “But that doesn’t explain the rest of it—the crew killed, and the ship abandoned.”Sherlock raised one critical eyebrow. “Doesn’t it, then? Consider this: the ship pulls into port, where the crew had to contact the port authorities and, presumably, offload their ‘cargo’. But they had discovered the day before that said cargo was no longer in deliverable condition. They dropped anchor—then did nothing. Couldn’t figure out what to do, most likely. So they sat and waited—perhaps trying to think of an escape route of their own, who knows?”He tried to shift in the cot, grimaced in pain, resettled. “A week later, a group arrives, having been notified belatedly of the ship’s arrival or discovered it on their own. Not clear if that notification came from the crew or not, by the way. This group are either from the ‘shipper’—the ones who actually run the operation, and likely own the ship--or the buyers. To my mind the first is more likely, if only because the crew would expect payment of their portion on delivery, and that would come through the owner, rather than directly from the buyer. What self-respecting criminal organization would let a ship captain handle that kind of money, after all?”John thought about that. “Um. What kind of money are we talking, then?”“North of twenty thousand quid per head, last I heard,” Greg said soberly. “And rising fast. So, with 20 captives or so on each trip, you’re talking 400k per trip before expenses. And most of the expenses would be covered by the genuine cargo carried in the rest of the holds.”“Jesus,” John said. And then had another thought. “Is it likely that they had only the one ship?”Sherlock yanked back the reins of the conversation again. “No, it’s not. Why take the risk for a single ship? And it is a big risk—likely impoundment of the ship, imprisonment, long and hard, for everyone involved, confiscation of every other attachable asset. And, though four hundred thousand pounds sounds like a big payoff per trip, you have to consider that each trip takes weeks to complete.” He paused, looking thoughtful. “Which begs the question—who are the owners?” He gave Greg a pointed look. “Have you made any progress on that front?”Greg winced. “Not much,” he said. “Got a trail of shell companies and paper fronts a mile long, and it keeps running us in circles.”John thought they were losing track of the most important part here. “But aside from that—what happened to the crew?”Sherlock blinked. “Well. I would have thought that was obvious.” A quick search of John’s face evidently corrected that assumption. “The group who met the ship killed them, of course, yet another reason why I presume it was the shippers, or owners—the two may be the same, but we can’t be sure. They arrived, all ready to see their lucrative investment pay off, went with the crew to the compartment, and found it full of week-old corpses. The crew, of course, already knew and had been panicking for several days already. The owners rounded all of the crew up, herded them in with the dead ‘cargo’, and cut their losses. And they had good reason for doing so—this wouldn’t be something they could clean up in port without being observed, and customs officers would go over the ship once the official papers were logged in. And the clock was already ticking on that—remember that the port authorities were already concerned about the lack of contact from the ship after docking. The owners, after dealing with the crew, locked up the compartment, replaced the masking crates and left. I would suspect they have departed for a less well-policed part of the world for the time being as well, even though they’ve gone to considerable trouble to hide their tracks in this matter.”John thought about that. “So where does that leave us, then? What’s our next step?”Greg picked up that one. “Well. We’re already sure we’ll not get IDs on the captives. None of them have identifying marks, none match descriptions of known missing persons, and they could have come from virtually anywhere—God knows if the route on the ship’s papers had anything to do with where they actually docked. The crew are more of a possibility—we at least have names and locations on them, and they’re presumably listed in the merchant navy rolls of whatever country they’re based in. But given what they were doing, I think the likelihood of gaining any useful information from that is slim and none.” He looked at Sherlock and gave a wry grin. “But I’m sure I’m missing something Himself will point out.”Sherlock, predictably enough, smirked and nodded. “Indeed,” he said. “On two fronts. First, we need to do an intense search of CCTV records. I want to see film of the dock the night the ship arrived, and the following nights right through to when the girl was discovered—we know no one showed up during the day because the port authorities would have seen them. But the skeleton crew left on guard at night would have been easily avoided. Beyond that, we need to check buildings across the river. It’s not too wide for cameras pointed in the right direction to pick up a clear picture of the other side, and with a little enhancement we might get something we can use.”“Fair enough,” Greg said. “I already have someone picking up the dockside films; hope to have something by tomorrow, in fact. I can expand the search to the other shore readily enough. What are you going to do in the meantime, though?”“Oh,” Sherlock said with a grin, “John and I are going tomorrow to see a man about a dog.” They couldn’t leave early. Sherlock’s morning meds took a while to kick in after breakfast, and then Denny insisted he complete at least part of his PT before turning to anything else. By the time they got out the door it was almost 11.Sherlock was as excited as a toddler on the way to the beach—this trip, using Andrew as a driver in one of Mycroft’s many black cars, settling Sherlock’s cast across the back seat, was the first time he’d really been out of either a hospital or Mycroft’s home in two months. John settled in the front seat next to Andrew while the detective looked intently at everything they passed.Sherlock rolled his window down, taking deep breaths of the summery air. “It’s so warm,” he said delightedly. “Even more than it was the other day in Anthea’s convertible.” Andrew gave a sideways grin at John but stayed silent.Soon enough they were heading out to the suburbs. Andrew clearly knew where they were going but no one had shared it with John. All in all, he wasn’t fussed, though—just the trip itself was worthwhile, going by Sherlock’s face.Shortly thereafter all became clear—John recognized the streets, knew now where they were going. And Sherlock’s comments about a “man with a dog” now made perfect sense. As they pulled up in front of a familiar house, the door opened and a tall, chubby young man with a huge bush of curly hair came out the front door. John got out and trotted around to open Sherlock’s door, and the man—Craig—came bustling over, followed by an excited bloodhound, which darted around John and barreled into the car and onto Sherlock’s lap. Well, as much as would fit, anyway.“Hiya, Sherlock,” Craig said. “John.”Sherlock was currently trying to fend off the dog’s enthusiastic tongue, so John took over the conversation. “Hey, Craig,” he said. “How’ve you been?”“OK,” Craig said happily. “Been huntin’ down Russian hackers for this one’s brother. Nasty little pissers. It ent hard, and it’s good money.”Apparently, Mycroft paid well. Good to know.“Do you have time to do a job for me, then?” Sherlock’s deep voice asked from underneath the dog.“Sure,” Craig said. “Most of the Russian stuff is just settin’ traps and waiting for them to stumble into ‘em. Dead stupid, they are.”“I don’t think our target is stupid—in fact, based on current evidence they may be quite clever. But very dangerous, Craig—be cautious,” Sherlock said. “We have the specifics compiled for you, but the short version—we have a shipping entity that’s running a very particular type of contraband. They’ve concealed their ownership under a very deep layer of false trails. NSY has struck out, and I don’t want to ask Mycroft for this particular favour—I am rather hideously in his debt already at present. We need to get down to the real names, the real locations. The sooner, the better.”He waved his one free hand (the other was wrapped around the dog) airily at John. “Give him the memory stick.”He waited while John dug in his pocket and handed over the small electronic bar Sherlock had given him earlier before addressing Craig. “I don’t think sending information electronically is a good idea before we know exactly who, or what, we’re dealing with. Once you have some results, go ahead and go by NSY in person—ask for Lestrade. He’ll bring the information to me—I don’t want you putting yourself at risk.” Which was surprisingly thoughtful, John thought—but then, Sherlock had learned rather a lot about caring, these past few years. By noon, Craig had pried the reluctant bloodhound off of (equally reluctant) Sherlock and they were on their way back to Mycroft’s. “Well, that was a good first outing,” John observed. “Had everything you like: fresh air, dogs and a spot of espionage.”Sherlock smirked. “No murder, though.”John laughed. “Ah, well. There’s always next time.”When they reached Mycroft’s, Andrew helped Sherlock back into his wheelchair before returning the car to the basement garage. John and Sherlock, though, were met at the door by Denny. “Mrs. Mason has lunch all set up. But after that, you’re mine, Holmes.” Sherlock rolled his eyes but didn’t object.John didn’t stay; he had a locum shift in an hour, but he’d promised to bring Rosie by for dinner later. It worked out well for all parties to do that often—otherwise Rosie went and smacked Sherlock’s bedroom door at Baker Street at every opportunity, calling wistfully for “Sock” as if he were hiding inside.When John and Rosie returned, Sherlock was already ensconced at the library table, and dinner preparations were well underway. John dropped an ecstatic Rosie into her idol’s lap and pulled up a chair. “So, what’s on the agenda?” he asked, as Sherlock patted Rosie’s back and admired her bee.“Guilfoyle is bringing by the video from the docks and the far side of the river. There’s rather a lot, so it makes sense for us to share it out,” Sherlock said. “We may not finish tonight, but I would hope to be done no later than tomorrow.”They had a pleasant dinner; Denny stayed long enough to eat with them before heading off for a break in her room, and had a rousing round of snark with Sherlock that had all of them chuckling throughout the meal (even Rosie, though she of course had no idea why everyone was laughing). Greg showed up early on, grabbed an extra plate from Mrs. Mason and dropped into the empty chair at the table. Once they were through (Irish stew and salad didn’t take very long, after all), John and Greg cleared the table before coming back and putting Greg and Sherlock’s laptops in place for viewing. While Greg was setting up, John carried Rosie off to bath, bottle and bed. By the time he returned, Greg had slotted separate memory sticks into each computer, and had a tablet for himself as well.“I split things up three ways,” he said as he slid one of the laptops towards John. “There’s a lot to go through. I thought Sherlock and I could take the dockside stuff—that’s three cameras’ worth for more than a week, though we can fast-forward through a lot of it since we know no one came near the ship during daylight hours, based on the on-site dock staff testimony—and you could take the far bank stuff. That’s just one static camera, but it covers the whole period.”They settled in, plied at intervals by beer, juice and snacks dropped off by Mrs. Mason. John found it oddly soothing, to sit in the dim light and watch tiny figures on the river go about their business. As predicted, it took hours—before John knew it, he looked up and realized it was almost midnight. He caught Greg’s eye over Sherlock’s bent shoulders and was about to suggest they quit for the night when something on his screen caught his attention. He leaned forward to look closer. Reversed. Ran forward again. Reversed. He finally pushed it towards Sherlock. “Can you zoom in on this bit?” he asked, leaving it to Sherlock to figure out why. “I’m sure I could figure it out, it’s just faster if you do it.”Sherlock, his attention truly caught now, slid the laptop closer and tapped away at keys until he could focus on what John thought he’d seen. “That’s…odd,” he breathed, and worked away until the picture was even larger. When it finally popped into focus, all three of them were rivetted on the scene.As they watched, dark figures moved briefly around the deck of the ship before vanishing below. Greg made a note of the time and date notation before turning his attention back to the scene. And there, just towards the front of the deck (where, John realized later, the forecastle would block the view of anyone on the far side of the ship), a small figure climbed over the side, slid down what was presumably a rope or chain of some kind, and dropped into the water. Sherlock ran the tape forward, but nothing else of note occurred, until the figures who had gone below roughly 45 minutes before re-emerged and walked back down the gangway to disappear into the night.His face, when he stopped the film and raised it to look at Greg and John, glowed with delight. “We have a witness,” he breathed.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Revenant—a visible ghost or animated corpse that is believed to have revived from death to haunt the living.
Sherlock, with hardly a pause, pulled his phone from the pocket of his dressing gown and sent a one-word text to his brother: Come.Mycroft arrived with flattering speed—the Great Man had wandered off to bed an hour before but had clearly not been asleep, judging by his instant attention to the matter at hand.“What’s happened?” he asked, even as Sherlock shoved the laptop towards him. As the clip ran (now on a loop—Sherlock had worked his magic there as well) Sherlock responded.“Witness,” he said. “And well within your purview—this clearly is activity MI6 would be very interested in. Finding the witness is critical, but I have no channels that will lead to his likely location—the Homeless Network aren’t likely to encounter too many foreign sailors, and I have no real resources with maritime connections. You, on the other hand…” he trailed off suggestively.Mycroft nodded absently, still watching the clip. “Yes,” he murmured. “Very likely so. I believe Facial Recognition may be our only real hope. It’s effective, but rather a bother to get access. I’ll ‘encourage’ the appropriate people; in the meantime, could NSY perhaps review the ship’s paperwork and see if we can get a likely name? That might expedite the process, since his enlistment papers would likely include a photo. Otherwise we’ll have to try for enhancement of this dim-at-best video.” The evening broke up shortly thereafter. Mycroft made a couple of phone calls; Greg picked up his electronics and headed out the door with a groan; John made two cups of chamomile tea and came back to the table to find Sherlock’s head resting on his folded arms. He put down the tea and tapped Sherlock’s shoulder. “Come on, then,” he said softly, releasing the brakes on the wheelchair. “Bed.” It said something about Sherlock’s exhaustion that he never protested.The next morning he, Sherlock and Rosie breakfasted on their own. Mycroft had apparently headed out exceptionally early, according to Mrs. Mason, and Denny had gone to 221B to supervise the installation of Sherlock’s PT equipment on the second floor.That last, of course, generated a poorly-concealed level of subdued excitement in their resident Consulting Detective—they all knew that this was the final step before replacement of the hip-length cast and the long-awaited (and desperately wanted) return to Baker Street.The plan was for Denny to work this evening to bundle up all the sizeable equipment that needed to be shifted home, and enlist Mycroft’s minions to make it happen. The rest would follow when Sherlock himself actually moved. John was comfortable enough about the process to just let it be for the time being; he was pretty sure Sherlock would fret enough for both of them.Something else had come to mind, though, and it was a conversation that could only take place when he and Sherlock were alone. Well, except for Rosie, who wasn’t in a position to interrupt. This seemed the perfect opportunity.“I wanted to ask you about something from the other day,” John said carefully, and watched Sherlock quickly pull in on himself warily. “It’s nothing really bad,” John added hurriedly. “I don’t think so, anyway. But understand—if you’d rather not talk about it that’s fine. Your choice completely.” And he meant that, frustrating though that would be. He was done bludgeoning Sherlock into doing things against his will.“What are you referring to?” Sherlock said, with visible reluctance. He’d retreated into the formality he always used when uncomfortable with the topic at hand.“Before Sevenoaks,” John said. “When you were speaking with Dr. A.”A deep flush rose from Sherlock’s collarbones, overtaking his pale features. “I acknowledged that I needed help,” he said stiffly. “I’m not sure what else—”“The scale,” John said, with as much patience as he could muster. “He asked you for a number for each day. You both knew what the numbers meant, so it’s something you’ve agreed upon. I just—I wondered if you could tell me what it’s measuring.” He paused, swallowed, continued. “I thought it might be helpful for me to know. If maybe, um, sometime you were struggling, you could tell me your number, if you couldn’t bring yourself to talk about anything else. And I would know if you. Well. Needed more help than I could give.”That shouldn’t have been so hard to say; John knew that. But he was happy that he’d managed to get it out.Sherlock visibly pulled in on himself. John suspected that, if he’d been able to walk, he would have headed out of the room. As it was, his shoulders raised, his head went down, and his voice, when it came, was nearly inaudible.“It’s a scale,” he said. “A matrix. We... Dr. A and I worked on it together.” His fingers began to flick gently against each other.“Yeah, I figured that,” John said, moving a little closer, putting his hand on a bony shoulder. “But could you, maybe, give me an idea of what goes into the matrix?” He thought about that a moment before continuing. “And if you, if you’d rather I talked to Dr. A about it, that’s fine too.”Sherlock raised his head long enough to give John a long, searching look before dropping his eyes to his hands once more. “It measures several primary variables,” he said, in a studiously detached tone. “Those that have proved, have been relevant in my sessions.” He paused briefly, then continued. “They each carry different weights. It took us some time to agree on the parameters of that weighting.”He was stalling, filling the air with facts while conveying no real information. John, finally wise in the way of Holmeses, waited him out.“Anxiety. Depression,” he finally gritted out. “Dissociation has a role, but very rarely. It carries a large value when it does appear, since it is typically a symptom of other, worse things to come.” Sherlock’s eyes briefly made an appearance, darting up to judge John’s expression before dropping again. “And…” his voice trailed off, fingers now gripped tightly together.“And?” John prompted, as gently as he could.“Self-loathing. Impulses of self-destructiveness,” Sherlock croaked. His eyes flew back up at John’s involuntary sound. “Those are quite rare now,” he said forcefully. “Not for…it’s been months.”John managed to stop his mouth from saying the first things that came to mind—true, but profoundly unhelpful, and likely to make Sherlock even less likely to confide in him in need. Sherlock watched him anxiously; John was pleased to see those shoulders drop, just a fraction, when John finally spoke. “Well,” John said, “I can’t say I’m glad those appear on your scale. But I’m really glad they aren’t a constant issue. And I’m really, really glad you shared this with me.”And he was, mostly—but he also made a mental note to add this to his own session, the next time he saw Dr. A. The rest of that day was a bit of a whirlwind. As soon as Denny arrived back at Mycroft’s, John headed out to drop Rosie off at her creche, stopped at Baker Street to check that everything was ready and help Mrs. H do the final shifting and cleaning, then back to Mycroft’s to take Sherlock to have his cast updated.By the time John got back Sherlock was sitting in the lounge, all but vibrating in his wheelchair. Over his shoulder Denny rolled her eyes. “He’s been ready to go for more than an hour,” she said. “You suppose we can squeak in a little early? Otherwise I might have to sedate him.”“I told you we could leave ages ago, and have John meet us there,” Sherlock snapped. “You know as well as I do that they’ll insist on running an exhausting progression of evaluations before they do anything. The sooner we get that in train, the better.”It would indeed be a long day; as soon as they arrived, Sherlock would be carted off for a scan to ensure that his leg measurements still matched those completed when his original cast had been generated.John considered that aspect less than ideal—the reduced cast had already been generated with the 3D printer. What if it didn’t fit? He’d discussed it with Denny and been marginally reassured. “It doesn’t have to be completely skin-tight,” the therapist said. “In fact it’s better for his skin if it isn’t. And it’s relatively easy to do small adjustments to the printing—he can wear the first one while a revised version is made, if we need to. It’s not like the basic modelling of his leg has changed that much from the first scan, especially since we’re only talking about a knee-length cast now. We’ll do more when he’s ready for a true walking cast, but for right now, this is fine.”One of the hardest things was to convince Sherlock that moving back to Baker Street late in the day was a mistake—he’d been determined to spend hours at the hospital, getting scans done, getting the new cast fitted, getting an orthopedics review to make sure the fit was appropriate, have a crutches fitting, and then head immediately to 221B.“You’ll be exhausted, hungry and very likely in some pain,” John had explained, after Denny had given it her best shot and failed. “And you won’t have had any time to practice with the crutches, which is critical to getting you up the stairs, unless you want me to call Gabe and have him carry you.” Because he would—they both knew it, just as they knew that John could do that task if there was no one else available. But Gabe wouldn’t have to throw Sherlock over his shoulder to do it.Sherlock had finally conceded, though far from graciously. It had cast a pall over his relatively good mood of earlier in the morning, though, and John reflected that the proceedings at the hospital were unlikely to improve things. The hospital visit went pretty much as expected. John set it up so that he would call Andrew to pick them up as soon as Sherlock was ready for release. From John’s perspective the day consisted largely of waiting; waiting for the modelling scan to be completed, waiting while an updated x-ray was done of both the hip and leg to determine healing, waiting for the tech to show up and fit the new cast. Through all of this Sherlock was scowling and monosyllabic; he never did well in this kind of setting, especially when he knew that this wouldn’t be the end of it (since he wouldn’t be out of the short cast for another two months, most likely, though it would hopefully be converted to a true walking cast well before that).Sherlock had tried to explain it to John once, when John had become exasperated by how difficult his friend made himself to those who were trying to help him. “I have no words to explain the amount of energy it takes to suppress the overload of stimuli in these places,” Sherlock said, frowning. “You, perhaps, can ignore the monitors, the smells, the large number of people moving about, the background noise of large machinery in operation, the oppressive artifical lighting. I cannot. Each bit of input hits me like a brick between the eyes, and I must find a way to, if not ignore it, rather push it away from conscious notice. It’s exhausting and sometimes sickening, and all of this typically takes place in a context where I am already far from my physical and mental best.” He closed his eyes wearily. “I don’t expect you to understand; I do ask that you take me at my word.”And what could John do but nod, after all?The change to the new cast was the clear highlight of the day. Sherlock had been vibrating with tension and impatience, but once he was moved to the treatment table and the techs began opening the clasps on the old cast, he was riveted on their every action. Sherlock’s leg was carefully examined, then cleaned with sterile wipes and dried. And then the new cast was brought in and latched on, and the techs helped him to a sitting position.“We’re going to try standing with the crutches,” the lead tech announced, taking Sherlock’s crutches from John. “Remember: do not put any weight on your bad foot. You can touch the cast to the ground for balance, but no more than that. The x-ray showed that your pelvic crack is a ways away from being ready for real ambulation.” He reached for Sherlock’s hands and pulled him up, carefully placing a crutch under each arm. “Now. How do you feel?”Sherlock’s brow wrinkled. “A little, um. I’m rather dizzy,” he said faintly, and John moved closer, just in case.“Yeah, that happens,” the tech said, reaching forward to put a steadying hand on each crutch. “It’s a combination of your not spending much time erect over the past couple of months, and the difference to your balance now that the heavier cast is off. Your vestibular system gets a little confused. It should pass quickly.”They waited as Sherlock wobbled in place, until his face gradually cleared into a smile—the true one, that very few people ever saw. “Oh, yes,” he said, taking a careful step with the crutches, bad foot and cast carefully elevated. “Oh, yes, indeed.”There were a few more formalities to work through—a quick review by Dr. Alvarez of the cast’s fit, a list of things to watch out for (rubbing, sharp pain, anything otherwise alarming), another quick demo of his “walking” skills, all of which Sherlock bore with reasonable grace. By a little after 6 they were on their way back to Mycroft’s. John was starving, and he suspected Sherlock was as well and just hadn’t realized it yet. He sent a quick text to Mrs. Mason to let her know they were on their way and hoped she’d gone ahead and thrown dinner together on spec. It ended up being an early night. As John had expected, Sherlock was exhausted, though he nonetheless radiated a sense of satisfaction that had been absent for a while. By 8 he was yawning and leaning his chin on his hand, and had no objection when John picked up the crutches and held them out, then helped him undress and climb into bed.John went back to Baker Street a happy man, to be met by an equally happy Rosie and Mrs. H. He had plans for an early night of his own, and had settled on the couch after putting Rosie to bed to watch the sporting news when the phone suddenly rang. He pulled it out, hoping nothing was wrong, and was surprised to see it was Greg.“Hey, Greg,” John said. “I was going to call you tomorrow, actually. The hospital visit took all day, but he’s home now and very pleased with himself.”There was a longish silence. “Yeah, that’s good,” Greg finally said. “But. Um. I was wondering if you could come down to the morgue.”John’s brows rose. “Well, tomorrow,” John said. “I already tucked Himself into bed two hours ago. He’s not up to a trip tonight.”“No,” Greg said, “needs to be just you. I’ve got…I need you to see this first, to decide what we do from there. And how we handle it with Sherlock. Cuz I’m not sure this is something he should be involved in anymore.”
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Thaye—Burmese, deceased evil people condemned to be disembodied spirits. They often appear as tall, dark people with huge ears, long tongues, and tusk-like teeth.
This late in the evening, traffic wasn’t an issue. John got Mrs. H’s assurance that she and Rosie would be fine, and was in a cab on his way to Bart’s within 10 minutes. Greg had refused to give John any more information before he got there. “It’s…you just need to see,” he said, and left it at that.John still tended to give a mental flinch whenever he approached Bart’s in a taxi, but it was easier at night—couldn’t see the roofline. He paid the cabbie and headed to the mortuary entrance; it was easiest, since he knew there would always be someone on duty at the doors, regardless of how late it was. The attendants all knew him by sight, which relieved him of any necessity of providing identification.He knocked quietly at the autopsy room doors, and was admitted by a smiling Molly. She leaned in and gave him a long, sweet hug. “It’s so good to see you,” she chirped. “Seems like forever.” She turned to her right and John saw Greg, hovering by a shrouded figure on the table. “I just wish it wasn’t…well. This isn’t good.”John raised his eyebrows in Greg’s general direction, obeying the man’s “come on” gesture to approach the table. Molly followed, and pulled away the drape.On the table was a young man—boy—of perhaps 21, if not younger. Very slight, probably not much taller than Molly. Medium-brown hair, slicked back by heavy use of product on top but breaking into tiny, tight curls around the nape of his neck. He had not yet been autopsied—no Y incision—but nonetheless bore the marks of extensive, and merciless, knife wounds. Throat cut, deeply, multiple incisions on the chest and legs, what seemed to be defensive wounds on the hands.John looked up to Greg with recognition. “It’s another one,” he said quietly. “Another of the boys from the serial killer.”The detective nodded. “Yeah,” he said, looking back at the boy on the slab. “Second one since Sherlock’s been in hospital, actually. Intentionally didn’t mention the other one, for obvious reasons. We also found one more that predated the others that we’re pretty sure falls into the sequence.”“So I get why you thought you shouldn’t tell Sherlock,” John said. “But, I mean, what does that have to do with pulling him off the ship case?”Molly took up the thread from there. “I got this body in early this morning,” she said, picking up a clipboard and holding it out to John. A thin sheaf of papers, topped by a printout of a digital post-mortem picture of the deceased. “He was found by a leasing agent in a disused warehouse, in an older part of the dockyard. Looked like he’d been living there a while; he’d brought in food and so forth. This one was different from the others—they were all killed some place other than where they were found. But he’d clearly been killed there, and hadn’t been immobilized immediately—has defensive wounds, so the knife was out before he was tied up. He’s been dead for a day or so.” She took the clipboard back. “I was planning on letting Greg know that I was going to schedule the autopsy for tomorrow sometime, and see who he wanted to have attend. And then I got a very odd call, from someone who wouldn’t give their name but told me not to do anything until I heard from Greg. And that it was at the order of Mycroft Holmes.”John could feel his eyebrows creep towards his hairline, and looked to Greg, who was nodding.“And that’s not all,” Greg said. “Because, at roughly the same time, I got my own call. And I was told to come down and look this kid over, because the picture Molly put in the system when she logged in the corpse had pinged on our Facial Recognition alert. So this body—”“Is our witness, and he was killed by our serial killer,” John said, with dawning realization. “Which means the serial killer and the human smuggling case are tied together.”“Yeah,” Greg sighed. John made it home a little past midnight, still undecided about what to do. He could think about it tomorrow—most of the day would be taken up with getting Sherlock shifted home (thank God) and settled, and John had no illusions that that process would be quick or easy. But, in the end, he decided to steal some time (likely while Denny was running Sherlock through his courses in the newly arranged therapy space upstairs) and give Dr. A a call. This wasn’t a decision John was prepared to make on his own.The next morning John took Rosie straight to her creche and then hustled over to Mycroft’s house, hoping to avoid the (likely inevitable) strop from Sherlock over any perceived delay in moving him back home. He was greeted in the entranceway by a frazzled-looking Denny. “I had to hide all the car keys,” she said. “Didn’t trust him not to make a run for it. He’s been up since about 5, ‘practicing’ with the crutches and getting in everyone’s way while insisting that he can just call a cab, so I have his phone and wallet as well. I can’t get him to eat so he’s had, oh, eight cups of tea with enough sugar to sink a battleship.”John gave her a commiserating look. “Yeah, eating’s usually the first thing to go when he’s like this,” he said. “Mrs. Hudson will ply him with shepherd’s pie and ginger nuts once he’s settled.” Because their not-your-housekeeper had been baking for the last two days, giddy as a schoolgirl at the prodigal’s return.He heard Sherlock before he saw him. “There’s no reason for this delay,” that deep voice insisted. “John would be the first one to agree that—”“No, I likely wouldn’t,” John said, “but that’s never stopped you before.” He grinned as Sherlock spun dramatically on his crutches—clearly he had been practicing.“Finally,” Sherlock breathed. Because it was, after all, nearly 7 a.m. John managed to suppress an eyebrow-raise, and went to help bundle up the remaining detritus to move. God, it took forever. Most of the medical equipment—Denny’s kit, the many supportive pillows, Sherlock’s medicine, the wheelchair—had to be loaded on the van Mycroft had supplied before moving the patient himself. And then Sherlock insisted that John help him don “real clothes” (even though, when at home, he often wore nothing but pajamas for days at a time). They ended up compromising—none of the normal exquisitely-tailored trousers would go over the cast, which meant that the detective ended up (reluctantly) donning a pair of running shorts that presumably belonged to Mycroft. And a suit jacket seemed, well, incongruous once that decision was made, so a long-sleeved t-shirt it was. Sherlock sighed resignedly and slid a leather flipflop onto his good foot. “It’ll have to do,” he said of the outfit, “but I am never wearing anything of Mycroft’s again.”Traffic, predictably enough, was a horror. Even with Andrew doing his best to take side roads and avoid major bottlenecks, the typical London congestion had them idling in a sea of cars for ten minutes at a time. Sherlock, already anxious, was beside himself, gaze darting around as if a way out would suddenly appear.“We should have left earlier.”“Can’t we go [alternate route that Andrew had already considered and discarded. Three of them.]?”“Just run the light. Mycroft will take care of it.”Sherlock blurted out each of those, and more, without ever taking his darting vision off the road, the traffic, the buildings. John, in desperation, finally handed Sherlock his earphones and phone. “Play your music,” he said. “It’ll help.”It likely spoke volumes that Sherlock didn’t object, and did as suggested. He was still tense, but at least he was now silent, and they made slow but steady progress. When they reached Baker Street everyone piled out at the kerb. Denny went in ahead of the rest, carrying a load of pillows and medication. Andrew and John were left with the big job—getting the (anxious, twitchy) patient up the stairs. Mrs. Hudson fluttered in the doorway, beaming.“I don’t need help,” Sherlock snarled, gripping his crutches and heading towards the front door. John, knowing he had to nip this in the bud, moved over in front of him.“Yeah, you do,” he said calmly, and put his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. “You can go up on your own, so long as you’re able, but we’re going to ‘spot’ you. No point in reversing all your progress by tipping backwards down the stairs.” He opened the door and gestured Andrew forward. “Andrew can go in front, and I’ll go behind. Any time you’re ready.”That matter-of-fact approach seemed to get through. Sherlock stopped trying to push forward, looked at John, looked at Andrew, and sighed. “All right,” he said, “let’s get this over with.”It took longer than John would have thought--by the first landing Sherlock’s arms were shaky, and he was panting like he’d run a marathon—but they got there, with a smile on all three faces (though Sherlock quickly masked his own). John started towards Sherlock’s bedroom to open the door, only to have his patient make a sharp right turn and deposit himself on the sofa with a thump. He made it clear he wouldn’t be moving any time soon.John sighed and went to pick up the supporting pillows Denny had dropped in front of the fireplace, then came back to the sofa. “Budge over, towards the end, so your back is supported,” he said, and reached down to slide the one flipflop off before nudging Sherlock sideways, lifting the cast and tucking the pillows underneath the cast and behind his shoulders. “Is that comfortable?”Sherlock thought about it, wriggled a bit, then nodded. “Fine,” he said. “You can tell Denny I’ll be up shortly.” He leaned back against his pillow and shut his eyes.John moved to the kitchen to fix tea and biscuits, figuring they both could likely use them. By the time he came back to the lounge with the tray, though, Sherlock was out cold on the sofa, mouth open and limbs relaxed. John smiled and headed upstairs.John let Denny know about the delay, then headed to his own room to make a call. Dr. A, thankfully, answered on the second ring. “John!” he said, a smile in his voice. “How are things going? I know today was the Big Day.”John laughed. “Yeah, it was,” he chuckled. “Bit fraught for the trip itself—he was so anxious I half-expected him to try to claw his way out of the van. But it’s fine now; got him up the stairs and established on his couch. He’s sound asleep at the moment, and all’s right with the world.”“No, it’s not, or you wouldn’t be calling me,” the therapist said, with a certain amount of asperity. “So what’s up?”John launched into Greg’s revelations, the linked cases, and his shared concern about Sherlock’s continued involvement. “He’s been doing really well since he got back from Sevenoaks,” he said, “but before we leap back into anything related to the serial killer case, I want to be absolutely sure you’re on board. The last thing I want is for him to struggle along in silence and then break.” Again, he thought to himself.There was a long, thoughtful silence. “I can’t give you a snap answer,” Dr. A finally said. “We’ve done a great deal of work on his experiences in Switzerland since I learned of them. I think he’s gained some perspective on it, and would hopefully be able to segregate that from the current reality, common threads aside. Let me call him, and I’ll let you know later on today, all right?” It worked out well, in the end. Sherlock napped for two hours, giving John time to get the detective’s things put away and take a bit of a break himself. The phone rang just before lunch, and John went down to speak with Mrs. Hudson to give Sherlock some privacy. As she bustled around preparing food to be hauled upstairs (since she “needed to celebrate, John!”), he filled her in on the worrying developments in the case—well, cases—and could tell she shared some of his misgivings. “I don’t know the whole story,” she said, “and from what I can understand I likely don’t want to. But anything that made him that frantic to forget…”John nodded and picked up a pot of stew, looking around for the ladle. They were interrupted, though, by a Sherlockian bellow from upstairs, and John sighed and headed back up.“Come show me everything you have on the witness,” Sherlock commanded. When John hesitated, he huffed in resignation. “And yes, I have received clearance to proceed. You can confirm on your own if you need to.” He held out the phone with an imperious eyebrow, but John shook his head.“No, I trust your word. Just need you to tell me if something changes,” John said, putting the stew down on the kitchen table and going to pick up his laptop and put it on the coffee table. “But we’re eating lunch before you dive into it. Mrs. Hudson made it specially for you.”Sherlock scowled but acquiesced, and his earlier exertions had obviously given him an appetite—he ate almost as much as John. Denny was so impressed she willingly gave her patient an hour’s grace to work on the case before heading upstairs for PT, which Sherlock accepted with a mocking little bow. They settled Sherlock sideways on the couch, supporting pillows under his leg and back. John pushed the coffee table out of the way and moved one of the desk chairs into place so he could see over the detective’s shoulder. Sherlock booted the laptop up and puttered around, opening files and applications, humming to himself now and again. “I confess, I am perplexed by the relationship between these crimes,” he said while opening what appeared to be shipping manifests. “While serial killers are often highly intelligent, they are not generally involved in other organized crimes at the same time. Their obsessions take up too much time and energy, and it’s common for them to have other delusions or compulsions which limit their creative thinking.” He continued tapping away, moving rapidly through the records online.“Yeah, I can see that,” John said, watching the rapid shift of files on the screen. “So we apparently have an exceptional serial killer, so you’ll like that.” He gave a wry grin, which was met with a tiny jerk of the corner of Sherlock’s mouth. “But does it get us any further towards figuring out what’s going on?”Sherlock turned and gave John a smug look over his shoulder. “Oh, I’d say so,” he said. “Look here.” He pointed at the screen. “These are the dates each of the victims was found. I’ve included the ones I didn’t know about earlier. I haven’t included the current victim yet; the abnormal circumstances of that death may skew the narrative.”John blinked at that, not quite getting the connection, but decided to let it go. “But what do the death dates tell us?”Sherlock frowned, in that “how do you simultaneously walk and breath?” fashion that John hated. “Think, John. We now know that the trafficking and the killings are related. With the exception of, of Quinn, none of them have been identified, which is suspect in and of itself. That tends to imply the victims are not necessarily local. And where do we know that our killer would find a ready supply of victims on tap, with no one to ask unfortunate questions about their absence?”The light dawned on John. “The ships. The smuggling ships. They’re taking them out of ‘stock’?”“It’s a reasonable expectation,” Sherlock said, fingers flying over keys. “I think we must pull Quinn out of the list temporarily—he may be an outlier. But if we can get help to match the dates of the deaths with the arrival of ships into port—”“We can identify the shipper!” John said triumphantly.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Spectre—a visible, disembodied spirit
Sherlock
Yesterday had been an exceptionally eventful day. In some ways it could even be termed “satisfying”, were it not for the fact that he was still largely housebound and couldn’t undertake more than the simplest of hands-on investigation. Relocating to Baker Street (unpleasant though the actual transfer had been—the residual ache in his hip and shoulders reminding him regularly of that aspect), working directly on the case, achieving a major breakthrough in said case despite his physical handicaps—the day was better than any Sherlock had experienced in months. Twenty-hour hours later, he was still somewhat buoyed by that residual good feeling.He was not, however, completely sanguine about the case. While it was encouraging to know that the arrival of ships could be correlated to the serial killer’s attacks, the fact remained that most of the ships, like the one the group of victims was found on, masked their ownership under barrel loads of false leads, paper companies, and shadowy government obfuscation. Much like the large pirate groups off the African coast, many of these shipowners had protectors in high places, either through bribes, blackmail or out-and-out partnerships. Circumventing all of that took time—far too much of it, so far. Mycroft would probably be of use in that process, but Sherlock was unwilling to ask him for help unless no alternative presented itself, because, well, Mycroft.He paged through the abundance of ship listings again, hoping that something, anything, would leap out at him. This enforced reliance on other people was both maddening and demoralizing (not that he would mention that last aspect, to either John or Dr. A). A great deal of Sherlock’s day was still taken up with necessary medical treatments, both physical and mental, and endless physical therapy—all the dreary accoutrements of recovery from a serious injury. Given that he’d just gone through a similar process only a little over a year ago, it seemed grossly unfair to have to do so yet again, but there wasn’t anyone available to complain about it to, saving those people who were enlisted in helping him through it. And they were off-limits; even Sherlock recognized the unfairness of attacking those whose motives were completely benign.Throwing things occasionally proved necessary. But even that had its downside, as both John and Denny refused to return such items to him (though Puppy Eyes still worked to a degree with Mrs. H), and it was virtually impossible for him to recover them on his own. He might ultimately have to resort to throwing John’s things instead.Sherlock had spent the initial half of the day being helped to the shower (with reasonable grace), helped to dress (rather less grace, to the point where John ultimately left him to his own devices), then helped up the stairs to PT (with nothing short of malice). Now he was finally settled on the couch with multiple pillows, free of the day’s obligations. John was off to Tesco, the baby was at her creche, Denny had retreated to the guest bedroom (though with the hated baby monitor in tow, with its twin sitting on the coffee table), and he could finally think. Unfortunately, productive thought required data, preferably new data, and all he had was the same material he’d been reviewing for almost a week.It was hateful. Made all the more so by the fact that, despite his fervent desire to be alone, he felt the acute lack of anyone to share the hatefulness with.He reluctantly turned to secondary research—things to aid his understanding of the shipping industry as a whole, the kind of thing he normally relegated to John—flipping resentfully through screens on the laptop and finding that he didn’t, in fact, care about typical engine displacement or average speed of varying freighter classes. He struggled to resist the urge to launch the laptop across the room just to hear the crash.He was saved from making a decision on launching expensive electronics by another electronic item—his phone. Picking it up, he was thrilled to see a text from Craig—he had “worthwhile news”, and wanted to know if stopping by Baker Street was an option, rather than going to NSY and handing the data off to Lestrade. Sherlock quickly agreed, setting a time for a hour hence. Then he howled for Mrs. H and requested (demanded) tea and dog biscuits for the occasion.“I don’t have any dog biscuits,” Mrs. H sniffed. “We none of us have a dog.”“That’s all right,” Sherlock said, in his most reasonable tones. “You have an hour. Plenty of time to get some.” Then he sent her briskly on her way. It was lovely. John, Craig and Toby all showed up at the same time, so Sherlock didn’t have to worry about diverting attention from his review of the information Craig brought to re-explain the whole thing to John once he belatedly returned. One and done. And Craig had indeed outdone himself: he’d managed to find a route to backtrack the ownership of any ship line they desired, including all of the suspect ones. Once Sherlock had messaged him about the specific dates and ships, he’d applied his expertise to those immediately, with impressive results.“So they’re all clearly related. The ownership, I mean?” John asked, watching as Craig flipped through screens on the laptop and Toby crunched his third biscuit at Sherlock’s feet on the couch.Craig nodded, wiry curls bouncing. “Yeah, sure looks like it. Look here,” he said, opening a flow chart. “The ships all start as flagged in different countries, and the initial ownership documents are for different companies. But when you go a step further,” and he flicked to the next layer, “things start to line up. The initial ‘owners’ are all shells—paper entities only, with no employees and no physical location beyond a mailing address. The second layer,” he flicked again, “starts to get a little more interesting. Real companies, operating out of Riyadh, Tripoli, Manila, Vladivostok—all over the place, basically, except in Western Europe. Places where regulations aren’t a top priority.” He flicked again. “So I cross-referenced those companies with registry databases, and, lo and behold, found they all ‘roll up’ to three holding companies with basically the same listed board of directors. One company, the biggest, is in Russia, one in Saudi Arabia, and one in far eastern Germany, in an area that used to be part of East Germany. The board includes a couple of well-known Russian Mafia figures, some shady Saudi lesser princes, an Italian deported by the Americans for criminal activity—just the kind of folks you’d expect for an operation like this.”“So we can cross-reference these companies with upcoming dockings?” John asked. “So we can set a trap?”Sherlock felt a glow of pleasure at John’s intelligence. “Of a sort,” he said. “We don’t yet know if every ship owned by the group has the smuggling compartments, or even if every trip includes ‘contraband’. We have to have some advance warning before we throw a group of police and MI6 at the docks. If we do this wrong—”“We warn them off, and they dock the remaining ships elsewhere,” John said, nodding. He really was in sparkling form today.“Or dump the ‘cargo’ overboard while still at sea,” Sherlock said, since it had to be said. Because it could definitely happen, if they weren’t very, very careful.“Um. Yeah. That makes sense,” Craig said suddenly, as if hesitant to interrupt. “But, erm, there’s one of these ships docking in London tonight.” In the end there was nothing for it. Sherlock put in a reluctant call to his brother, who would likely materialize within the hour, minions in tow, though his involvement with this initial ship would likely be minimal. A second call went to Lestrade—the dockyards had their own police force, but in this case the international implications meant that that group had thankfully handed off leadership to the more-seasoned unit. The dock staff would supply muscle (which, in the end, might be most of what was needed) and knowledge of typical ship layout, but nothing more.For this operation, John and Sherlock were both sidelined, and Mycroft had left after the planning was complete. “You can see the ship afterwards, Sherlock, if need be,” Lestrade said, being loathsomely conciliatory. Sherlock half-expected the man to pat him soothingly on the head.And John was of no help whatsoever. “It’s basically just a raid,” he said. “Get on board, poke around, simulate surprise at finding a hold compartment full of naked kids. Think I’ll take a pass on that one, thanks.” Because that charade was indeed part of the strategy—until they were sure who and what they were dealing with, it was necessary to act as if finding the smuggling hold was a happy accident.Sherlock couldn’t contain his disappointment, and served up what he thought was a clinching argument. “But what if they fight back? What if the children are in danger?” Because appealing to John’s nurturing instincts was usually enough to seal the deal.“We’ll have a weapons response squad with us,” Lestrade said, in a manner he clearly thought was soothing but which in actuality made Sherlock long for something non-breakable within throwing distance. “And the dock people are going to try to get folks below-decks from the far side of the ship while we make a lot of noise and commotion at the gangway. Think it’ll go fine.”And with that, Sherlock’s temper broke. “Fine,” he snapped. “Enjoy what may well be a disastrous attempt which could have been averted with my help. Feel free to explain all of that to the press in the aftermath.” He gave both men a bitter look. “You can leave now. I’m tired.” And turned his back, as much as he was able, pulling one of his many pillows pointedly over his head. Toby made a mournful sound and dropped his head on his paws.There was a momentary welcome silence. Then John spoke up. “But I live here,” he said plaintively. In the end, Lestrade threw Sherlock a figurative bone (score one point for intensive sulking, apparently). He agreed to borrow John’s GoPro rig and earpiece, so Sherlock could at least observe the proceedings firsthand. It wasn’t satisfactory, of course, but it was something.The “raid” started at 7, after John had insisted on presenting a supper that Sherlock categorically refused to eat. The idea of food, while the anxiety and anticipation coursed through Sherlock’s veins, was nauseating just to contemplate. John, thankfully, recognized a lost cause and put Sherlock’s plate in the oven.As the time approached, John set up the laptop on the coffee table and made sure the link was available for Lestrade to access, then settled on the end of the couch at Sherlock’s feet. Sherlock had just started to fidget, worrying that Lestrade would forego the rig, when the computer suddenly chimed. John quickly leaned forward and accepted the entry request, and a view of concrete, men and cranes sprang into view. “Hullo you lot,” Lestrade’s voice said. “You getting me?”“Yeah, Greg, we’re good,” John said. “Don’t worry about giving a blow-by-blow, by the way—I’m sure Himself will ask questions if he needs to.” He gave a sly grin at Sherlock, which Sherlock of course ignored.The policeman did give them some of the background, though. “The dock police have sent a boat down behind the ship,” he said quietly, as three men walked up the gangway, clipboards in hand. “Six people; they’re to wait for our distraction and then nip up the side and below. Hopefully unobserved.”At the top of the gangway, a rather slovenly officer appeared, taking in the scene—in addition to the functionaries handing over paperwork, perhaps 10 others milled about on the dock (the weapons squad with their equipment still carefully hidden). An argument ensued, the officer shaking his head firmly. Voices were raised; Sherlock couldn’t make out what was said, but the tape could be enhanced later if need be. A second officer appeared; more shouting, with the clipboard people gesturing down the gangway for more support. Abruptly two men came out of the entryway with guns in hand, and the weapons squad used that as their signal to engage. Five military-grade machine pistols swept out from under coats, the users arraying themselves in an arc and demanding surrender. And, after a tense standoff, the crew on the ship lowered their weapons and raised their hands over their heads.There was a crackle of a radio nearby, and Donovan suddenly appeared at Lestrade’s side. “We’ve got ‘em,” she said, with a smug smile. “Compartment much like the last; 8 girls, three boys. Youngest apparently looks about 12. They’re scared and hungry, but not hurt. We’ll send in the medics and have called for Children’s Services; some of them may be of age, but until we know for sure that’s probably the best place for them.”Lestrade nodded, their view through the camera bobbing up and down. “Good,” he said. “Have someone stay with the kids until the medics arrive; don’t want them to think they’ve been abandoned.” He paused. “And make sure they leave the door open.”The view swung back suddenly to the gangway, where the remainder of the crew was being dragged off. Most went quietly, heads hanging. Two, though, officers going by their uniforms, put up a fight, protesting loudly in what sounded like Bulgarian—Sherlock knew bits of that language, but not enough to quickly translate.Soon enough all crew members—12 in total—were lined up along the concrete paving of the dock, hands secured with zip ties. Sherlock was about to urge Lestrade to step below for a look at the hidden compartment when he noticed one of the officers make a peculiar motion with his jaw. He had just enough time to say “Lestrade”, to call the officer’s attention to the man, when all Hell broke loose—the officer suddenly jerked, fell to the ground (while those around him scuttled quickly out of range), then broke into a grand mal seizure.By the time the medics came rushing up, changing their focus from the captives below to the one on the dock, all movement had ceased. They worked frantically for nearly ten minutes while John, Sherlock and Lestrade looked on silently. Soon enough, though, the lead EMT looked up, shook his head, and stepped away from what was now less a patient than a body.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Jiangshi—Chinese reanimated corpses that move by hopping around
“Just like you thought. Cyanide,” Greg said, as he dropped a thin file next to the pillows propping up Sherlock’s cast on the couch. “Very James Bond, honestly—had a false tooth and everything. Do they actually still do that?”“Who?” Sherlock said absently as he thumbed through the material.John snorted. “Ignore him—he knows very well who that is, he’s just being difficult. We’ve watched at least 10 of the movies together." He picked up the file as Sherlock discarded it. “This does all have a very ‘Cold War’ feel to it, though, doesn’t it?”“Yeah, but it seems to make a weird kind of sense—at least a third of the ownership in the entities rests in Eastern Europe or the old East Germany,” Greg said, dropping into John’s old red chair. “Lots of former KGB types running around there still.”“As well as some of the current ones,” Sherlock added. “The names of the employers changed, but many of the players stayed the same.”John’s head came up at that. “You think there’s direct Russian involvement in this?”“Hard to say,” Sherlock said, “but I have to confess, I doubt it. Not geopolitical enough, I would think—rather small potatoes on a global scale, after all. But it’s entirely likely that the Russians are willingly shielding those who are involved. This has the air of an organization with powerful friends.”“Powerful and amoral friends,” John added.“Same thing,” Sherlock sniffed, and took back the file. They questioned the surviving officer that afternoon. Sherlock, by dint of several hours of relentless whinging, was allowed to come along so long as he swore to stick to his wheelchair, and agreed to go home if John thought it was necessary. He and John rode to NSY in the back seat of Greg’s car, with the cast laid gingerly across John’s knees. It wasn’t especially comfortable, but it worked.When they arrived, Greg hauled the wheelchair out of the boot. Sherlock insisted on maneuvering himself out of the car with his crutches—John had to admit he was getting better at it. All that practice with Denny, presumably. The detective sneered at the hated wheelchair, but lowered himself in with an offended huff, nonetheless.The second officer had been ushered into one of the small, cold interview rooms at NSY—no two-way mirror here, just a table with several uncomfortable plastic chairs and a coffee-and-tea set in one corner. And, of course, the requisite recording equipment in the center of the table, which the suspect eyed like an unexploded bomb.Sherlock didn’t waste any time. “You speak English, I’m told. Where are you from?”The small, dark man blinked. “Oman,” he said finally. “But I now live in Morocco.” His accent had a slight French flair but was perfectly understandable.“And how long have you worked for the smuggling operation?” Sherlock continued. If anything, he looked rather bored.The officer cringed. “Smuggling is…we haven’t…I am a simple ship’s officer! I do not meddle in my superiors’ affairs! All I do is navigate!” He was visibly shaking; John found himself wondering about an operation that could inspire this level of fear in its employees.Lestrade spoke up from the end of the table. “Now, I wish I could believe that, lad,” he said. “But you’re the second in command, right?”The man nodded miserably.“So, last I heard, officers generally know what’s going on on their own ships, yeah? I mean, that’s your job,” the policeman continued. “And y’know, I’m finding it a little hard to believe that you didn’t know about the special compartment, the special ‘cargo’. Cuz, again, I doubt the captain gets too involved in ordering common seamen around. But I bet you do. So how is it that you didn’t know, Nasir?”Nasir’s head and shoulders hunched over the edge of the table. “I am ruined,” he said, in a dead voice. “And they will kill me.”“’They’, who?” Sherlock said instantly. “Who, Nasir? And why will they kill you? Your captain has already taken on the blame, presumably. So why would you also be in danger?”The small man shook his head violently. “No, no,” he said. “I will tell you nothing. I know nothing, do you understand? Even if I was foolish enough to speak, I would have nothing to tell.” He was weeping now. John found it difficult to sympathize, but this was nonetheless uncomfortable to witness.Lestrade clearly felt much the same. “But here’s the thing,” he said slowly. “Maybe we’d like to decide whether what you know is valuable or not. And you offering any help you could might go a long way to convince the judge to go easy on you. Because child abduction, human trafficking—that carries a pretty hefty sentence hereabouts. And the other lads in prison, they don’t much like folks who abuse kids, ya know? We could maybe, if you’re helpful, make it a little harder for them to find out what you were actually in for. Maybe.”“I never saw any children. I had nothing to do with that. I simply did my job and stayed in my cabin,” Nasir moaned. “I never wanted to be part of that. I told them, but they would not listen!”“Told whom, exactly?” Sherlock asked smoothly.Nasir jerked in his seat, eyes wide. “The captain. Only the captain!” he babbled. “I only ever talked to him, nothing but asked him to pass on my wishes. I saw no one else, I swear!”John found it unnerving—this level of fear, from someone who was clearly of next to no importance in whatever was going on. What did that say about the way this organization operated?“This can go one of two ways,” Sherlock said, in the coldest voice John had heard in some time. “Version One: you tell us the little you know. You will be placed in protective custody, outside this country. No one will know who you are, and you may be there for a very long time, but you will be safe so long as nothing you tell us proves to be false.” He paused for effect, looking down that patrician nose. “Or Version Two: you tell us nothing. You will be placed in a very comfortable cell in a low-security prison facility. And we will make very sure that a rumour follows you there—that you were very forthcoming with us, and this was your reward.” He placed his fingers together in front of his chin. “So, which will it be?”“Sherlock!” Greg hissed, in scandalized tones.“It’s the truth and you know it,” the detective said. “My brother will have no compunction to taking this approach whatsoever, and very little patience with anything that delays our solving this. If Nasir, here, is wise, he’ll take the offer. If not…well, he’ll have a nice few days, perhaps.”Nasir made a despairing sound and dropped his head to his knees. Five minutes later, he took the deal, and was speaking listlessly into the recorder. When he finished, he was on his way to, well, somewhere within the hour. John didn’t ask where. Didn’t much care, honestly. He wasn’t going to lose much sleep over the fate of someone who ignored child smuggling. Sherlock’s mood on the trip back to Baker Street seemed in equal measure happy and annoyed. Happy, because he was finally back to The Work in full measure; annoyed, because the sailor had actually known very, very little.
Item One: Nasir had never met or spoken directly with anyone involved in either the ownership of the vessel, or the smuggling operation. He had originally been hired through the Seaman’s Hall, a union of sorts. Each subsequent ship assignment had been initiated online—all he had to do was click and accept.
Sherlock (and John), after the lengthy interrogation, reluctantly believed that.
Item Two: While Nasir had never been directly involved in handling the children or spoken with those who arranged the shipments, he had once, inadvertently, observed the presumed shippers completing their handoff of the ‘cargo’—two men, European, in expensive clothing, who spoke in what Nasir believed to be Russian. He knew the captain was fluent in that language and had lived in Vladivostok for a number of years. This handoff had occurred in port at Calais; it was unusual, as they typically on-loaded primarily at Vladivostok or Durban, South Africa, taking on timber and ore, respectively.
They believed this, as well. But despite rigorous questioning, they could elicit no additional information. Even the descriptions of the men were vague; one apparently had dark red hair, the other grey/blond, but Nasir had been too far away to see any further detail, beyond a vague impression that they were young and older, respectively. Useless.
Item Three: Nasir had overheard the captain speaking on the sole satellite phone on board from his cabin. He heard nothing of the conversation itself—couldn’t linger in the passageway—but he did hear the man ask, in a respectful manner, to speak to “the German”. It was said as if it were a title.
Again, of very little use. They already knew that the shipping line had largely German ownership—east German, specifically, with a tinge of “East German” in the old sense of that title. And unsurprising in general—the former security forces in eastern Europe as a whole had found a turn to the criminal side very much to their taste, especially in light of their persona non grata status in polite society after communism’s collapse.All in all, it was a little dispiriting. No one was prepared to give up, though. “I believe, much though it pains me to say so, that we should proceed with Mycroft’s plan,” Sherlock said over a dinner of pasta and salad. “According to Craig, the next ship scheduled to dock in the UK isn’t for three weeks. But now that we have the ownership data and can search sailing registries, we can identify, in theory at least, the location of every ship in transit.”“And do what?” John asked, chewing the last of the garlic bread. “Go to other ports in Europe and raid them there? Sounds like we’d have to wade through a lot of red tape to get approval.”Sherlock shook his head. “No, simpler than that. We can intercept the ships while still at sea. Mycroft will enlist minions from MI6, and Navy ships from both the UK and the US, depending on the location. And the beauty of it is, it will be some time before the shippers realize anything is wrong, if we’re careful. Nasir said that they typically only check in when they reach a port—very few or no satellite phones on most ships, so no contacts en route. And weather can delay planned arrivals by as much as two or three weeks, if a ship is spectacularly unlucky.” And so it proceeded. It was a busy week; Mycroft, Gabe Austin, a senior Naval officer and Sherlock had several lengthy planning sessions, using the ship data from Craig. In the end 15 ships were selected for interdiction, most of them in the Mediterranean, and two off the coast of India. The two Indian ones were handled by the Americans, with no involvement with UK resources beyond coordination; UK ships handled the rest. Speed was of the essence; they needed to stop the ships and confiscate both the vessels and their human cargoes before the owners realized anything was wrong and re-routed all ships, or dumped their vulnerable contraband at sea.It went swimmingly, at least for the first few days. Only one mildly alarming piece of news came in: on Wednesday, not quite a week into his tenure at an undisclosed location, Nasir was found dead in his cell—no wounds, no known toxins in his system, just…dead. Mycroft, while buoyed by the success of the ship seizures, clearly found that development somewhat unsettling. “I am beginning to find the extent of this organization concerning,” the bureaucrat said. “Clearly they have tendrils embedded in several European security groups. And there’s also the profound ruthlessness of their operation. It seems both too sophisticated, and too draconian, for a simple human smuggling operation. This kind of reach doesn’t come cheap.” He sighed. “I will launch an extensive search for the source of the leak, but don’t have a strong belief that we will be successful.”The next shock came on the weekend. 5 ships had been impounded so far—the two in the Indian Ocean were first, and the Americans passed on video of the operations, which were facilitated by the Navy cruiser firing shots across the approaching bow of the cargo ships. The crews looked stunned and demoralized; the senior officers were Tased, as per Mycroft’s orders, to prevent another cyanide incident.The three handled by UK ships, two off Spain and one near Malta, also were stopped without incident—until the final ship. Sherlock and John sat in on a video call with Mycroft and Gabe, in which the on-site MI6 agent described their unexpected findings. “We didn’t expect anything different,” the agent began. “It was an older ship, and a bit bigger than the earlier ones—quite a bit more tonnage. Kinda slow. We did a side scan for heat signatures below deck before we boarded, and were a little concerned when we found nothing but a couple of crew members. But it was clear as well that there was a secret compartment, with a larger area than the others.” He paused briefly as the view, presumably from a laptop, slid abruptly to one side, before being yanked back into place. “Sorry,” he said. “Rough seas. Anyway, we encountered a little resistance, which surprised us—small arms, a couple of rifles. Had to shoot a couple of them, but they’re alive. One actually jumped overboard, but we managed to fish him out.”“Was the cargo intact?” Mycroft asked. If you didn’t know him, you would never have detected the concern under that calm tone.The agent scrunched his nose. “Well, yes,” he said. “But not the way you’d think.” He fiddled with the laptop, setting it to the side so they could only now see a dark walkway. Then the view changed, with higher resolution and a narrower frame. “I’ve switched the feed to my phone. Needed to show you this, and the laptop’s too cumbersome.”They watched, the picture swaying with the roll of the ship, while the agent stepped through an open metal hatch into a large cargo hold. Using a torch in his other hand, he wended his way through towering stacks of packing crates until he reached an opening in the line of boxes, just like the one John had seen on the first ship. In this case, though, the hatchway was wide open, and someone had apparently strung up temporary lighting.John found himself tensing, afraid to see another scene of abused, traumatized kids. But he was all the more shocked when the agent moved fully into the large space and panned the phone along what John had at first thought was a bulkhead—but proved, instead, to be crates of carefully-labelled military materiel. John couldn’t see clearly enough to identify everything, but saw enough to know the cargo included hand-held rockets and launchers, high-velocity rifles, crates of ammunition, small anti-personnel mines.Gabe managed to sum it up. “Well, damn,” he sighed.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Jinn—Arabic spirits made of smokeless, scorching fire, and can be evil, good, or neutral in their interactions with humans
Mycroft Holmes was Not Happy. John had seen him this way in the past, once or twice, but the bureaucrat normally held his concerns, and especially his emotions, very close to his chest.Now, though, he was striding back and forth across the lounge at Baker Street, waving a sheaf of papers like a wand in a wizarding battle, cursing under his breath in a fashion that had Sherlock looking on in fascination and not a little alarm.“Ten years,” the Great Man snarled. “Our German partners suspected this operation had been going on for ten years, but never passed along the information to either MI6 or Interpol. Supposedly because it was unconfirmed, but in reality, almost certainly because—”“Because someone in the highest circles wished it so,” Sherlock said flatly. “This can’t come as a shock, Brother.” He frowned at his brother’s rigid back.“That’s not—” Mycroft barked, then abruptly deflated, dropping roughly into Sherlock’s leather chair. “You are, of course, correct,” he continued, in a quiet, flattened tone. “I shouldn’t be surprised. Would have thought I was immune, after all.” He flashed a smile which held no true mirth. “In this case, though, I believe the one who withheld the information is, in himself, the one who wished it to remain suppressed. And he is someone I would have called—well, an ally, if not perhaps a friend.”Sherlock continued to frown, the expression he wore when he knew he was out of his depth in Human Interactions. His mouth opened. Closed. Then he turned and looked commandingly at John, who recognized a plea for help when he saw one.“So these things are usually pretty simple, right?” John said, in a carefully neutral tone. “Blackmail or threats.”A jerk of that patrician head. “Indeed,” Mycroft said. “In this case, a deep investigation turned up a Nazi connection that had been carefully expunged by my contact’s father. The kind of secret that would have easily come to light had anyone diligently searched, but clearly no one did.” He sighed. “It’s not uncommon in Germany and Austria; many families have such skeletons in their closets, and it is perhaps unfair that the current players should have their entire careers blighted by such an association that occurred before their births. But such is the way of the world, and Georg is, was, well aware of how it works.”“So he was…turned?” Sherlock asked, almost timidly. Somewhat spooked by what was clearly emotional upheaval on Mycroft’s part.Mycroft sighed and closed his eyes briefly. “No,” he said. “At least I don’t believe so, though Germany will presumably act as if he had been. I believe that he was coerced into remaining silent in this one area, or perhaps a slightly broader spread of activity relating to this particular operation.” He paused, then continued, speaking to the fireplace rather than his brother. “He sent me a message expressing contrition.”Friend, then, John thought, but didn’t say so. He was pretty sure Mycroft had already figured that one out, sadly. The discovery of the arms shipments changed things. A coordinated effort was set up to identify every ship owned by the conglomerate worldwide, with Mycroft’s people working with several European, Asian and African counterparts in security services (though not the Russians—it was clear that the Russians had, at best, been silent on the human trafficking in their areas of control, and may have had their fingers in the pie at some juncture. Too risky to give them a heads-up that an operation was being planned to bring it all down).Sherlock and John weren’t directly involved in most of this planning; this had devolved into a quasi-military/naval operation that really didn’t require the services of a consulting detective. They were kept in the loop, of course; Mycroft had started popping by for tea once or twice a week, in addition to their existing weekly dinners. John had made a point of being nonchalant and welcoming; it was his considered opinion that both brothers benefited from these interchanges, however much they fluffed up like startled cats at the beginning of each session.They had one such meeting at the end of a rather exhausting day of PT (Sherlock) and A&E work (John), about a week into the planning. Mycroft seemed equally exhausted, dark circles under his eyes. “It’s taking too long,” he sighed, sipping daintily at his steaming cup. “We know the ships are normally out of contact with the main office for extended periods, but I can’t see multiple ships missing their docking dates going unnoticed. But our partners, while not actively dragging their feet, are understandably hesitant to commit large amounts of resources on a venture that is, admittedly, somewhat speculative in the case of any given vessel. When your Navy only has four ships active in a given quadrant, diverting even one of them represents a 25% drop in capabilities. And our knowledge of the target vessels’ location is fairly general, based on their filed sea route and average speed, which means that tracking them down at sea can be a lengthy process.”Sherlock eyed his brother with a calculating look. “But there’s more,” he said. “What is it?”Another sigh. “You’re correct,” the bureaucrat said. “We have come into possession of some potentially critical information, and I must decide whether to act on it or not.” He paused, sipping thoughtfully at his tea. Stalling.Sherlock made impatient motions with his hands. “Aaaand?” he said. “What’s the nature of this ‘information’?”Mycroft glared, but continued. “We have ‘reverse-engineered’ your contact’s information on the principal owners of the shipping line, trying to develop both histories and current whereabouts so that we can insert local assets into their operations and—”“Spy on them,” Sherlock said impatiently. “So far, so obvious. What have you learned from that process?”“Sherlock,” John said quietly, and was gratified to see the detective blink, then look at his brother.“Apologies,” Sherlock muttered. John nearly cheered.Mycroft gave a magisterial nod, then went on. “We have learned,” he said carefully, “that two of the names are rather obvious aliases. ‘Obvious’ in the sense that they have no verifiable history before about 15 years ago. But what is most suspicious about that is that even our best efforts have turned up exactly nothing from prior to that date—these individuals are completely opaque.” He looked at John. “This is unprecedented. I have never encountered an alias so perfect that no loose ends remain, if the best minds are turned to the question. And they have been.”Which meant, by implication, that Mycroft himself had probably had some hands-on involvement here, and also failed. John had to agree—that was, well, alarming.“So these people are very, very dangerous, and you’re, um, going to be very, very selective in who you insert?” John asked, since that was what he would do.Mycroft looked momentarily startled, before bestowing an almost-smile on John. “Indeed,” he said. “We have managed to get a very-deep-cover agent in place this week, working as an IT operative in the home office location in Berlin, where these two are based. His mandate is to establish a covert means of tracking the movements of these two individuals, if possible, while passing on any relevant information he turns up that has a bearing on the smuggling operations. And, for our part, we are putting together assets for a raid on the headquarters, once our agent lets us know that he’s collected everything he will be able to access. Everything will be seized; we have buy-in from the EU for this, and hope for similar cooperation for the company’s locations in Asia and Africa, though I believe those are less critical.”“What’s the plan in the interim, then?” Sherlock asked.“We continue to intercept the vessels at sea. And we wait,” Mycroft said, rolling his eyes at Sherlock’s scowl. “And yes, I hate waiting almost as much as you do.” It took eight days, during which time John, in desperation, asked Greg to break into his secret vault of cold cases (the ones they saved for Sherlock’s Black Moods, generally) and bring over two or three before Sherlock decided to pry his cast off and fly to Germany to “move things along”. He also placed a surreptitious call to Anthea to ask for someone to watch the back of Baker Street, just in case Sherlock made a break for it out his bedroom window.Anthea made a rude noise. “As if we haven’t had that set up for the last month,” she said. “Really, John. It’s like you don’t even know me.”The ships continued to be stopped at sea; of nine total, 6 carried human cargo, 2 weapons, and 1 nothing other than scrap metal. Mycroft came by for dinner in the middle of that period, and was both smug and concerned. “I am pleased by the disruption we’ve managed,” he said, while sipping his soup. “But I remain worried about the passage of time without a reaction of any kind. These people are capable, observant and lethal. I have sent an encrypted message to our imbedded asset, reminding him rather forcefully of the urgency.”“You’re sure he’s safe?” John asked. “Did you get a response?”“I am reasonably sure of his safety,” Mycroft said. “But I didn’t ask for a response—a two-way conversation heightens the risk. He knows this, and will only reach out if the need is urgent.” Unsaid was the fact that silence could also be a sign that the agent had been discovered.On the eighth day, John and Sherlock received a summons to Mycroft’s underground control center. “I can’t leave in the middle of this operation,” he said, “but you’re going to want to see this.” And on that note, he hung up.Rosie, luckily, was at her creche for the day, so John only had to bundle up Sherlock’s necessities in a carry bag and call a cab (since Sherlock, to his dismay, was apparently invisible to his usual hoard of taxi drivers while using crutches and sporting a cast). They were in front of the office in half an hour, and were ushered inside by Dwight, one of Mycroft’s security team. “They’re all down below,” Dwight said. “Been there all night.”The agent led them from the lift to a side corridor, rapped quietly on a closed door, and opened it to reveal a viewing room dominated by a wall-sized video screen, currently showing roiling waves over the railing of a ship.Mycroft looked over at their entrance and gestured to the large leather couch along the wall. “Make yourselves comfortable,” he said absently. “I’m waiting for Mr. Austin to come back online.” He typed briskly on a laptop on the table in front of him.Anthea walked in from a small alcove behind them, tea tray in hand. “We got word this morning,” she said, handing over cups and a plate of biscuits. “The raid is underway in Berlin and three other locations as we speak. But the two company officers of interest boarded a ship two days ago in Marseille, supposedly heading for Morocco and Alexandria. That’s likely a pretext; the end destination may well be Syria or the Suez Canal, since the entity has long and deep associations in the more lawless of the Middle Eastern states, as well as Yemen. We tracked their route with satellites, and Gabe flew to Malta yesterday and took a helicopter from Gozo to our nearest British Navy asset, a destroyer normally used for hunting pirates. They’re closing on the target now, not far from Tunis.”The view on the screen abruptly sputtered, and Gabe Austin’s smiling face came into view. “Hey, gang, how’s tricks? We’re about ready to rumble, here. John, Sherlock, good to see you.” He pointed the camera out to sea, where a second ship was now visible and getting rapidly closer. “We’ve hailed them and told them to stop. They haven’t been terribly responsive, so we’re going to use a little persuasion.”The camera shifted sideways, to include both the ship in the distance and an array of armament at the front of the destroyer. As the Navy vessel rolled with the oncoming waves, one large barrel slowly tracked to the left and lowered slightly. “I call that the Big Fucking Gun,” Gabe said solemnly. “It has another name but I wasn’t paying attention.” There was a flurry of quick movement, the camera suddenly lowering as if placed on the deck. “Sorry—need to cover my ears,” Gabe added. He had no sooner said that than there was a deep, pervasive boom, and the gun fired with a huge flash of red-yellow flames. A piercing whistling noise continued for a few seconds before a huge upheaval of water flared perhaps ten meters from the side of the other ship.Gabe had picked the camera back up and focused it on the fugitive vessel. Crewmen were running around the deck like ants; their ship slowed, but continued to move. The destroyer, on the other hand, was dashing forward with startling speed; the two ships were now no more than 100 yards apart and closing fast.Gabe turned the camera to capture a uniformed British officer with a bullhorn at the rail. “Stop and prepare to be boarded!” he yelled, and repeated the phrase in French, German and Russian. More running and shouting on board the other vessel, which now put on a burst of speed. The officer looked behind him and nodded sharply, and a large machine gun anchored to the deck opened up and stitched a line of burning holes in the side of the other ship, just below the deck. The shouting grew more frantic. And, finally, the other ship slowed, then stopped, as the destroyer edged alongside and fired lines to anchor the two together. A sharply dressed officer appeared from below and walked to stand by the rail, waiting silently.Gabe continued to record as a gangway was rigged, and a detachment of Marines trotted over, their officer addressing the other commander sternly. “Well, that was fun,” the agent said. “I’m not much of a sea-going type, but I do like their toys.” He panned the camera along the side of the captive ship. “Wonder where the bad guys are? Hiding below?”On the other deck, the remainder of the crew had been summoned, and were lining up along the railing as the Marines searched them. Gabe had started towards the gangway, presumably to join the group on the other ship, when the enemy commander suddenly reached into his pocket and drew something out. Sherlock had just gasped and howled“Austin! MOVE!” when there was a sudden, deafening roar, and the camera view shuddered violently sideways, before flaring in a great smear of red and yellow—and then went black and silent.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Wraith—the exact likeness of a living person seen usually just before death as an apparitionJohn’s memories of the next five minutes, when he looked back, were fragmented. There were suddenly too many people in the room, summoned by Mycroft’s imperious (and startling) shout, all talking away on phones or jockeying for the bureaucrat’s attention. Sherlock had frozen briefly, then thrust up a commanding hand. “I need to move,” he barked. Once John levered him up and got him settled on his crutches, the detective began a manic lurching around the room, going nowhere and accomplishing nothing. His eyes remained riveted on the screen, as if brain waves alone would bring back a view of the ships.John’s eyes, though, went to Anthea, as he suddenly realized how this appeared to her—her fiancé suddenly vanishing from the screen, under violent circumstances, and with no real way to help.She was made of strong stuff, Anthea. She stood like a rock, fingers flying on her phone, gaze rigidly focused (and, in no way coincidentally, not going towards the still-black screen on the wall). Despite her corpse-white face, her hands were steady, her eyes clear of tears.John found himself gravitating towards her, if only to offer a shoulder to lean on. Sherlock, who almost certainly also needed support, would never admit to it, and continued skittering around the room.Abruptly there was another flurry of activity at the doorway. Two agents bustled over to Mycroft, held a quick, quiet conversation, then nodded firmly towards the blank screen. Mycroft fiddled briefly with his phone (which John had long suspected was actually an alien transmitter of some kind), pointed it towards the screen, and a blurry picture began to build—likely coming from a satellite feed, based on the way it was loading.Anthea suddenly gave a soft little gasp. John managed to catch her as her knees went, and lowered her quickly into a nearby chair before turning back to see.On the screen, a round blob abruptly shivered, fluttered, then crystallized into an image of Gabe Austin. A very, very wet Austin, largely intact but for a large, swelling welt on his left cheek and a tiny streak of watery blood snaking out of his hair. He was wrapped in a large silver heat blanket. “What happened?” Anthea quavered, then forced herself back to her feet. John smiled. Iron spine, that woman.Gabe stared. “The damn ship blew up,” he said, with a certain amount of asperity. “Would have thought that was fairly obvious.” Despite his easy words, he was visibly shaking, either from cold, reaction, or a combination of the two.“To you, you great tit,” John said. “Are you alright?”Gabe wiped absently at the water and blood running down his face, trying to sweep his fringe out of his eyes. “For the most part,” he said, looking carefully at the silent Anthea. “I saw the detonator the same time Sherlock did. Didn’t have time to do anything but launch myself over the rear rail. I knocked my face on something on the way, and got a few nicks from shrapnel, but nothing more. The Navy lads had a boat out already, as it happened, and picked me up.”“The ship?” Sherlock barked, still roaming back and forth in agitation.“Which one?” Gabe asked. “Theirs sank to the bottom like a brick, I presume. Somebody said whoever set the charges must not have understood how the force would work differently on a ship, and it tore the hull out below the waterline.”“But?” Sherlock continued, trying to see over Gabe’s shoulders.“But it also severely damaged the destroyer, the ship I was on,” Gabe said flatly, looking over at someone they couldn’t see. “I’m on the escort vessel now—that’s who had the boat out. They’re hoping to keep the destroyer afloat, but it’s not certain yet. No tally of casualties, either.”Anthea had recovered at least part of her equilibrium, and was working furiously on her phone. “Two missing, presumed lost; four more injured,” she said. “They’re trying to put in a temporary bulkhead in the forward hold; if it works, the escort can tow it back to port for repairs. Don’t want to run the engines because the vibration could destabilize the patch.” She put the phone in her pocket suddenly, raising her eyes to glare fiercely at the figure on the screen. “And you can never do this again,” she said. “It is insupportable.” Then she spun on her heel and stomped towards the door.On screen, Gabe looked alarmed. “Well, I wasn’t planning on it,” he said to Anthea’s retreating back. “I’m sorry?”Anthea spun on a dime. “Oh, don’t channel Sherlock,” she snarled. “You don’t even know what you’re supposed to be sorry for. And I know it’s not your fault, but you’re going to need to set aside an extended amount of time for me to yell at you when you get home. Soon.” And on that parting shot, she left.“Looking forward to it,” Gabe said weakly. “Really.” Gabe was headed back to London within three hours; Mycroft dispatched a helicopter from Tunis that lifted him from the escort ship and took him to the airport, where he boarded an MI6 jet. He would arrive back in London around midnight; John was fairly sure Anthea would lead the delegation to pick him up, if only so she got first access for yelling. Mycroft had scheduled a debrief meeting for 9 am, to give the agent a chance for at least a few hours’ sleep.In the meantime John dealt with his own “situation”—an anxious, exhausted Sherlock who was finding it very, very difficult to wind down. “Anthea was angry,” Sherlock blurted in the car, rephrasing a virtually identical query from ten minutes before. “Why was she angry?” There was a deep divot between his brows. His hands fluttered in his lap.“She wasn’t really angry at him,” John said, for the second time. “She was upset, and that’s the way it came out. It’ll be fine. Gabe understands.” Because he suspected, as Sherlock liked both of them, that the detective was concerned that it wouldn’t be “fine”.Sherlock looked out the window, still troubled. “I’ll talk to her.”“No!” John barked, then reined himself in. “No,” he repeated. “That’s really not a good idea. Let them work it out on their own.” He thought about it a moment before continuing. “If anything, you can listen if either of them wants to talk. Be a neutral ear. Like Switzerland.”Sherlock gave a snort of laughter, and subsided for the rest of the ride. Some of the agitation drained away, but he remained anxious and overtired, dark circles growing under his eyes.The baby had long since been tucked into her travel cot downstairs. Mrs. Hudson, bless her, had left a pot of stew on the hob for them, and it was still warm. It smelled delicious; even Sherlock, once they’d navigated stairs, crutches and cast, gave the kitchen an interested look. John wasted no time in dishing up bowls for both of them, along with chamomile tea for Sherlock, which his friend grimaced at, but drank. By the time his bowl was empty, Sherlock’s anxious energy had faded, and he made only a token objection to being chivvied off to bed. The next morning they were up with the sun; John trotted downstairs to collect Rosie while Sherlock thumped and moaned in the bathroom. By the time he’d escaped from Mrs. H and made his way upstairs, the detective was seated at the kitchen table, having a text argument with his brother.“He insists we wait until 9,” Sherlock sneered. “Despite the fact that all of us are already awake, almost certainly.”“Yeah, but all of us didn’t get blown off a ship yesterday,” John said, handing the baby over while she shrieked with delight at the return of her idol. “Let’s cut Gabe some slack, yeah?”“He jumped,” Sherlock grumbled, but dutifully plopped Rosie in her highchair and set to distracting her with her stuffed bee.By eight Sherlock was climbing the walls, and dragging the rest of them along, with Mrs. Hudson bearing the brunt of his fidgets when she came upstairs to fix breakfast. Even Rosie was affected, rejecting every toy offered and insisting that each of them pick her up, only to whine and wriggle for release two minutes later.John caved. “All right,” he sighed. “Let’s just go ahead and go. I’m sure one of Mycroft’s minions can stash us somewhere until Gabe arrives.” John walked Rosie to her creche, then flagged down a cab.They met in Mycroft’s underground lair—not John’s favourite environment, but certainly the most-secure spot available. Anthea, surprisingly, met them at the door to the conference room, Gabe visible at the table behind her, bruised cheek now an impressive purple blue colour. “He was up at 6,” she said. “Champing at the bit. I figured I’d bow to the inevitable.”John gestured at Sherlock, crutching along behind him. “And here he is. Bow away,” he said, leading the agent to dissolve in giggles.Mycroft strode in, frowned repressively at their merriment, but made no comment, shutting the door to ensure privacy. “I’m expecting some additional information shortly, but I think we have enough to proceed. Mr. Austin, how are you feeling?”“Pissed,” Gabe said, moving in his chair with a grimace. “Well. Battered, a bit. But mostly pissed. This was a set-up. You know that, right?”Mycroft nodded serenely. “The thought had occurred,” he said. “The destroyer made it safely to the naval base in Malta, with no additional loss of life. The source of our information on the two corporate officers has disappeared. Possibly dead, but also possibly heading to a beach in Brazil with a great deal of money, and not really worth the effort to pursue.”“So, the two observed on camera were imposters, presumably,” Sherlock said, reaching for the files Anthea had arrayed on the table. “Were there any survivors from the sunken ship?”Mycroft shook his head. “No. Between the explosion and the rapid sinking, none of them even made it off the ship. And it’s too deep to send divers to examine the vessel itself, even if we believed there was anything of value on board in the first place, which seems extremely unlikely.”“A Trojan horse, then,” John said. “Wonder how they convinced the crew to go along with that?”“I doubt anyone other than the captain knew,” Mycroft said. “Much easier that way. Given that we don’t know his identity, it’s unlikely we’ll ever know what incentive he was offered. Or what kind of threat he was hoping to avert.”“I really think all of this is beside the point,” Gabe interjected. “It was a hit job, designed to punish us for disrupting their operations. Important question is, did your people turn up anything in the office raids? Anything that gives us a legitimate next step?”“Perhaps,” Mycroft said, turning on the screen on the far wall. A dimly lit scene popped up, clearly from a security camera. “This is footage from the Berlin office, taken four days ago—the building the targeted officers departed from. This footage shows that departure.” On screen, a sleek black limousine waited at the kerb, a uniformed driver leaning against it. Three men came out of the building behind it; the driver jumped into action, taking the hand luggage and stowing it in the boot, then opening the doors to settle two of the men inside. The third man spoke briefly with the men in the car, bobbed his head at the driver, then went back inside. The driver climbed in the front seat, and the car drove out of sight.“And?” Sherlock said impatiently.“Wait,” Mycroft said, and rolled the picture forward roughly two hours. Two additional cars came into view, drivers moving to open the boots and wait. Seven individuals came out of the building—three women, four men. Five handed over small bags and entered the second car; the remaining two, the first.“We believe they were tipped off,” the bureaucrat said. “The downside of this whole operation, because of its multi-national focus, was the need to notify foreign governments and Interpol. Leaks were inevitable, though we did our best to limit the concrete information—times, addresses—that we offered. It seemed extremely unlikely that the two officers filmed boarding the ship were up for ritual suicide; we did some additional digging yesterday evening and came up with this. I can say, with reasonable assurance, that the two men in the front car here are the actual officers involved, and the set in the first video were imposters. I would be surprised, though, if even those two didn’t exit the ship before it sailed. No film from the dock exists past the time of initial boarding, so we can’t be positive, but…”“But there are limits on the number of voluntary sacrifices one can expect to have,” Sherlock sniffed. “Obviously. And likely immaterial; the imposters may even be nothing more than actors who were hired for their physical similarity to the individuals under scrutiny. Speaking of: do we have any specifics on those individuals? Names, addresses, mobile numbers? You know, the typical kind of thing one would expect MI6 to have already gathered?” His tone was waspish at best.Mycroft rolled his eyes. “That was gathered some time ago. Unfortunately, it has come to light that virtually every corporate officer has operated under an alias. A very good alias, in most cases, to the point that it went unremarked through several levels of in-depth research. That is the bad news.”Anthea had no patience for this. “And the good news?” she snapped. Gabe gave a quiet chuckle beside her.Mycroft sighed. “The good news is, we have managed, we believe, to link a face with a location. Not a name—the property is titled under yet another alias, and is in fact in Switzerland, rather than Germany. But we used facial recognition through a very large database indeed—one that doesn’t officially exist—and found satellite photos used for Google maps, which happened to capture one of the individuals getting out of a car in front of the building. We will have agents ready to go on-site by this afternoon, but in the meantime, we have used one of our own satellite links to confirm activity at the location, and a car parked out front which matches the one shown four days ago in the security footage.” He turned off the video and looked at Gabe. “I wondered if perhaps you would like to be a part of this operation.”“Is the Pope Catholic?” Gabe said, and turned to Anthea. “Honey, let’s take a weekend in Switzerland!”
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Daemon—a supernatural being or spirit whose nature is intermediate between that of a god and a human
The argument about who was going to Switzerland seemed to last longer than the trip itself. Gabe and Anthea were easy—Anthea didn’t technically need to go, but pointed out that she could coordinate between MI6, Interpol and Mycroft’s own people, something Mycroft himself likely didn’t want to have to do. And even Mycroft wasn’t prepared to argue with her, given her reaction to Gabe’s last mission.Mycroft himself debated on whether his presence was required; Anthea thought not, from a pure security standpoint. Dwight, the current head of Mycroft’s daytime security team, argued vociferously against it. “We can’t risk it,” he near-shouted. “You know that. You are a tactical genius, but you haven’t been in the field in decades.”“Not quite,” the bureaucrat said mildly, sharing a darting look with his brother. “But do relax. I have no intention of joining in with the initial assault. My concern is in viewing the findings in the house before they are touched by others, and in leading any interrogation that may occur.” He didn’t look as if he expected that to happen.And that, to John at least, was an indication that Mycroft presumed that there would be no surrenders in this operation—the likelihood of having anyone to interrogate was vanishingly small.“I need to go,” Sherlock said suddenly. “I got us here, after all. I’m entitled. I can help with the materials in the house—you know I can.”John and Mycroft, oddly enough, spoke as one. “No,” they said firmly. As if that would make a difference.“Um…why not?” Gabe ventured. “I mean, not on the actual incursion, obs, but held at a safe distance until the coast is clear? Get him some fresh air, y’know—supposed to be good for invalids.” He ignored the rude gesture Sherlock made.John shook his head, aware of Mycroft mirroring him from across the room. “It’s a bad idea, Sherlock,” he said reluctantly. “You’re not even in a walking cast yet, and your hip is still giving you pain if you sit in one position for any length of time. And you know how you are on planes—we’d need to give you antihistamines so you could sleep, and it’s not a good mix with your other medications.” He paused a moment, then mustered another argument when he saw his friend’s stony glare. “And—”“And, and, and!” Sherlock shouted furiously, crutching manically around the room. “There’s always some reason why I can’t do what I want, and God forbid anyone should ever ask my opinion. Why do I constantly have to bow to what everyone else thinks is best? I slog away at that hateful physical therapy every damn day, and for what? To get a figurative pat on the head and be told that it’ll ‘only’ be another month, or two, or three, before I can get out of this thing? I solved this case. Me. And this would be—I could finally finish something.” He struck the cast furiously with his right crutch, hard, as John (and Mycroft) flinched. And John suddenly saw that Sherlock was on the verge of tears. Real ones—John knew the difference, even if others didn’t.Unfortunately Sherlock seemed to realize that John was aware of his distress. His face flushed a deep rose, and he started propelling himself rapidly towards the open door. John lunged after him, but Mycroft beat him to it. The bureaucrat put a restraining hand carefully on his brother’s shoulder, and shook his head. “Alright,” he said softly. “Alright.” It didn’t really take as long as John feared to arrange things, but it still wasn’t easy. Mycroft changed the plane arrangements, moving everyone from an existing diplomatic flight to his own plane, with its fine fittings and bedroom at the rear. It delayed things by two hours, but in the grand scheme of things that wasn’t entirely a negative—that gave time for John and Sherlock to head back to Baker Street to eat a quick lunch, dole out Sherlock’s medications and throw together light travel bags, as well as arrange for one of Mycroft’s meticulously-vetted childminders to come officially take charge of Rosie once she was through at the creche for the day (though Mrs. H would certainly insist on sharing that particular burden). John also took the time to restock all of Sherlock’s necessities in the medical kit.John fretted a bit about leaving without telling Rosie goodbye, but realized that doing so immediately after picking her up would just confuse and upset her. She’d be fine with Ms. Garcia (John’s first choice, thankfully, one who’d been a big hit with Rosie in her prior meetings), with Mrs. H as backup. He also gave himself a mental pat on the back for remembering to call the creche and tell them she wouldn’t be there for the next few days (in large measure so they wouldn’t be calling him in Switzerland to check on her).Sherlock, reading John’s mind as usual, spoke from the kitchen table, where John had parked him while packing. “She’ll be fine,” he said, flipping through his phone. “You can bring her something needlessly expensive from Switzerland.” He looked up, struck by something. “Did Mycroft tell you where in Switzerland, exactly?” he asked, looking annoyed that he hadn’t thought of it at Mycroft’s office. John was pretty sure he knew why, but decided not to offer that explanation up. The detective had recovered his emotional equilibrium by the time they reached Baker Street, and John wanted very much for it to stay that way.John paused in the middle of digging through his bag to make sure nothing needed replacement. “Um. Locarno, I think. Lake Maggiore area, yeah?”Sherlock hummed in reply. “Far south, on the Italian border—at the base of the Alps. The views are quite attractive, but the town isn’t as modern as some in Switzerland. My grandmother once described the prevailing style as ‘chocolate box’. I find the waterfront oddly reminiscent of Saint Petersburg, myself. Lots of pastels.”John looked up from his bag and chuckled. “Is there anywhere you haven’t been?” he asked.“The Antarctic,” Sherlock sniffed. “But only because I turned Mycroft down.” By 2PM, they were at Mycroft’s house. The bureaucrat was standing in the entryway when they arrived, his driver Andrew beside a large black (of course) Range Rover with room to fit all of them plus a load of tourists, if necessary. “Anthea. We need to leave now,” Mycroft called back into the house. “Stop worrying about packing—we can purchase anything you need there.”Gabe hustled out of the house, a large leather bag tucked under each arm. Anthea marched out after him and glared at her employer. “Not unless you can source two encrypted sat phones and a hardened laptop, we can’t,” she snapped, and shoved the latter into Mycroft’s hands. “You left it in the kitchen. The one you packed is the decoy we prepped for that trip to Odessa next week.”Sherlock smirked; John chuckled, and Mycroft flushed an unattractive pink. “Hmph,” the Great Man said succinctly, and climbed into the front seat of the Range Rover next to Andrew.John and Sherlock got the second row to themselves, with Sherlock’s cast draped across John’s lap—it was the most comfortable, and likely the safest, way to handle the detective’s still-healing leg. Gabe and Anthea took the third row, which was a bit of a squeeze for the big man (and led to not a small amount of whining during the trip, until Anthea finally smacked him with a rolled-up magazine).John loved flying on Mycroft’s plane. The airport experience was entirely different from the “cattle car” experience of modern commercial flight. They were able to drive the car directly to an area of private hangers on a quiet, remote part of Heathrow, stopping only for the occasional security checkpoint en route. The plane was already waiting on the tarmac, steps down—which led to the first issue.“He can’t take the crutches up that,” John said, and Anthea rolled her eyes.“Yes, that did occur,” she said dryly. “We’ll use the power lift at the rear.”John blinked. “Power lift?” he and Sherlock said together.“It’s designed to enable us to lift heavier equipment on-board, as well as the furnishings for the cabin,” Mycroft said smoothly, moving to a space just behind the last porthole. “It’s not pretty, but quite efficient.” As he spoke a sudden rectangular split formed in the smooth skin of the plane, and an automated door swung slowly open. A black metal mesh platform slid out from below the door, and a crewman from inside leaned forward and attached heavy chains and pulleys to it. The whole contraption then lowered smoothly to the ground. Mycroft raised an arm to his brother. “Your chariot awaits.”John rode on the platform with Sherlock; he took the role of hanging on to the chains for balance, since Sherlock was occupied with keeping his crutches under him. The lift was surprisingly smooth, though, and only took a minute or so to raise them to the edge of the carpeted hull entrance. The attendant carefully grasped Sherlock’s forearms and guided him in with a smile, while John waited his turn. “Good afternoon, gentlemen,” he said cheerfully. “I’m Daniel; I’ll be helping with whatever you need on the flight.” He looked directly at John. “I’m also a trained EMT, so there’s a substantial med kit on board if needed.”He carefully did not look at Sherlock, who sniffed in irritation. “I’m hardly that delicate at this juncture,” he said sourly. “And if we could dispense with all of this mutual admiration and get moving, that would be splendid.” He got his balance and stalked—well, poled—his way towards the front cabin, while Daniel rolled his eyes.“He doesn’t remember, but I was on the flight that brought him back from Serbia,” Daniel told John confidingly. “It’s good to see him strong enough to be sarcastic.”John made a mental note to sit next to Daniel once Sherlock was settled in the cabin. They had Things to Talk About, clearly. John and Sherlock had had a conversation about the flight on the way to Baker Street. “I can just take one of Mycroft’s prescription antihistamines,” Sherlock said. “Puts me under very quickly, to the point where I don’t even remember take-off, for the most part.”Because that was the thing: for Sherlock, airplane flights were fraught with difficulty. The noise, the enclosed space, the constant vibration were all triggers for the worst of his sensory issues. It was similar to his problems with the Tube, but magnified by the inability to get off at the next stop if necessary.“Yeah, but that’s not going to be great here—I know Mycroft told me you didn’t wake up for six hours the last time you flew together, and we’ll only be in the air for two,” John said. “Not much point in flying to Switzerland to be in on the denouement if you’re going to sleep right through it.”Sherlock scowled. “That’s better than the alternative,” he said. “And you could likely give me something to wake me up enough to function. High-dose caffeine, maybe?”John laughed. “Ah, no,” he said, trying to imagine Sherlock Holmes on the equivalent of three espressos. “But I think I have an alternative that’ll work.”Which was why he now chivvied Sherlock into the rear cabin, helped him get settled on the surprisingly large bed, and open his belt and trousers so his hip was exposed. “So, this is promethazine,” John said, as he cleaned the spot with an alcohol wipe and held up the pre-prepped syringe. “It’s both a sedative and an anti-anxiolytic. But it’s also, chemically speaking, an antihistamine, so we can be reasonably sure it’ll be safe for you to take.” Because that was the other side of treating Sherlock Holmes: his non-neurotypical brain often had paradoxical reactions to drugs, so it was always better to stay with something he’d had before, where possible. “A full dose would probably keep you sedated for four to six hours. But I’ve reduced the dosage by half, so I’m hoping it’s enough to put you under, but only keep you there about half the usual time. I can always increase it if it’s not effective at this level, but I think it’s worth a try.” He looked enquiringly at his friend, still holding the syringe, not moving to use it without consent. John was working on that—no more assuming that Sherlock was fine with whatever John suggested.Sherlock, however, had few such qualms. He gave a jerky nod and gestured towards the syringe. “Get it over with,” he said, and laid back with his eyes closed. The flight was, well, pleasant, John thought, though he could hardly lose track of the intent of their trip with Gabe chatting on his tablet with the heads of the assault units throughout. This would be a meticulously timed and planned encounter, on two fronts: while the physical attack was underway, a corresponding cyber intrusion would be in process as well, using a combination of computing “brute force” and stealth. John understood just enough of that to know that he didn’t know enough to even discuss it.The physical combatants would consist of 12 people, divided into two sections. Mycroft was taking no chances, clearly; their latest intel indicated the house in question contained no more than 7 people, and possibly as few as 4. The attackers would all be in heavy protective gear; their prey were known to be bombers, after all. Two demolitions experts would also accompany the units, though they would not be involved in the assault itself.They arrived in Switzerland in just under 2 hours, as advertised. John spent the last twenty minutes or so gazing in wonder out the windows, stunned by the beauty of the Alps, the lakes, the traces of snow, the occasional glacier glinting in the distance. Their route took them in low over Lake Maggiore, which proved as beautiful as Sherlock had said; he caught glimpses of the pastel buildings lining the waterfront as well. It was charming—just the kind of place John would have liked to visit, sometime when they weren’t coming here for an armed incursion. They’d have to look for cases in Switzerland once Sherlock was healed.Once they’d touched down and were taxiing slowly towards the private hangers in the distance, John headed back into the bedroom to wake (Well. Try to wake, anyway) Sherlock from his drugged sleep. That was rarely pleasant; while antihistamines worked a treat for sedation, they left him groggy and irritable in the aftermath. And in this case, it proved a little more difficult than John had hoped to wake the man; in the end John resorted to running cold water on a flannel and wiping his face and hands until his eyes opened and stayed that way. Finally, though, Sherlock groaned, stretched gingerly, and propped himself up on his elbows. “I feel like I’ve been asleep for a week,” he whinged.“Two hours,” John said, holding out the bottle of water he’d brought along. “Here, drink this. The sooner you excrete the remnants of the drug, the quicker you’ll feel better.”Sherlock made a face but complied, and then grudgingly let John help him up and to the tiny en suite since he was still a little dizzy. When they arrived, though, he turned and firmly shut the door in John’s face. “You’re welcome,” John muttered, and wandered towards the front to see what the plan of action was.“We want to go well after full dark—eleven or so,” Gabe said, while Anthea passed around a tablet with views of the house, tucked into dense trees. “Our resources will meet us here at the airport—Locarno shares space between civilian operations and the Swiss Air Force. They should be here within the hour.” He unfolded a large paper map that had features drawn in infinite detail. “The area of the house is a ways off the beaten track, so there isn’t much ambient light after sundown. We’ll keep an eye on things with a drone using night vision cameras and sound deadening—the only way they’ll pick up on it is if they’re using motion sensors overhead, which doesn’t seem likely. Park our vehicles perhaps a mile down the road and come in on foot, front and back. We’ve pulled the house plans from the architect’s files, so unless someone’s made structural alterations we know where all the doors and other potential exits are.” He tapped his tablet and held up a photo of detailed plans, then tapped again. “We’re also going to cut their power about an hour ahead of time. Power outages are relatively common in the area; they’re a long way out of town, with a lot of big trees and occasional storms that come across the lake. They almost certainly have a generator, but we’re hoping it doesn’t extend to operating any outside security lights they may have set up. They may have working motion sensors, but we have jammers that will hopefully make them think the failure is related to the power outage.”“The best asset we have is the fact that I do not believe they have any idea we’ve identified this place,” Mycroft added. “In all honesty, it was more chance than not—we would never have done so without the serendipitous visit from Google.” He gave a wry grin. “Not a sentence I ever expected to hear myself say.” Once they had left the plane, a Swiss military van picked them up and drove them the mile or so across the tarmac to the military installation, fronted by a large hangar with a host of aggressive-looking black helicopters inside. A delegation of three figures in black fatigues met them.“I’m Captain Rolf,” the leader said in lightly accented English. “My second is Sergeant Ayres, and this is Corporal Weiss. Your people are inside; we have set up a light meal since our launch time is still three hours away.” He smiled and gestured behind him, towards a long, one-story building near the hangar.Twenty minutes later they were all arrayed along a huge table, tucking into chicken and rice and fresh fruit. Well. And some excellent beer. The Swiss always addressed the priorities.Considering the import of what they were preparing for, it was a surprisingly relaxed dinner. Sherlock sat in a wheelchair at the end and held court with Gabe, Anthea and one of Gabe’s team, discussing (as far as John could hear) something ominous to do with demolitions. John sat amidst the military types, feeling oddly at home despite the very “Air Force” setting. Soldiers were soldiers, in the end, regardless of their service or country.Towards the end of the meal, Captain Rolf nodded to his subordinates, who rolled out a large whiteboard and bowed theatrically to Gabe before moving back to the table. The big man stepped forward and pinned the large map he’d carried on the plane to the corners of the board.“We’re coming in on land, though we’ll employ Captain Rolf’s hardened drone to pave the way,” Gabe began, nodding towards the Swiss at the end of the table. “We were offered the copters, but the terrain’s a little rough and there are far too many trees. And though the copters do have noise abatement fittings, they’d still be pretty noticeable in what is basically a high-end residential area.” He pointed back at the map. “We have two roads—one comes over the ridge from north of town, the other rises directly from the waterfront and is the more heavily-travelled of the two. Captain Rolf’s folks will set up on the ridge and operate the drone; it’s armed, but we hope not to have to use that aspect since it tends to lead to heavy damage to whatever you’re trying to secure. The video will transmit directly to our tablets.” He looked at Mycroft, settled next to Sherlock’s wheelchair. “Mr. Holmes Senior will stay on the main road in the command vehicle with his brother, Ms. Holder and Captain Watson. He will monitor the situation throughout and advise on tactics as the situation dictates. Team A will follow the ridge road to a turn-off roughly 1000 meters from the house and come in on foot; Team B will follow the main road up, pass the house and leave their vehicle about a half-mile above it, returning down the road to come in from the left side of the house and approach the front under cover of the trees. On my signal, we’ll take out both doors and deal with whatever ensues. While securing prisoners is a priority, if the choice is between them or us, the correct answer is ‘us’—I won’t keep any of these bastards alive at the expense of one of my own people.” Gabe looked over the attentive crowd. “Any questions?”The ensuing discussion was relatively brief; everyone in the room was clearly anxious to get this done, and as professionals had a clear idea already of what needed to happen. By just past eleven an agent bustled up to Gabe, who nodded and pointed towards the door. “Our vehicles are here,” he said. “Everyone please do your final equipment and coms checks, and let’s get this party started.” He beamed until he saw Anthea’s stony face. “Well. Not quite a party, of course,” he said, and hurried over to make amends.They loaded into three vehicles—a small, Jeep-like SUV for the captain and his men, and three Humvees for the rest of them. John felt a mixture of nostalgia and revulsion as he helped shove Sherlock onto the rear seat—he’d spent entirely too much time in these things to get any enjoyment out of it now. Noisy, uncomfortable, and generally reeking of "unwashed soldier". These were much cleaner than the ones he remembered, thankfully.Mycroft spent much of his time in the front speaking quietly with Gabe on his phone—Anthea drove, her mouth a straight, tense line. By the time they reached their designated parking spot, though, all had gone quiet. They waited on the verge of the dark, tree-lined road for perhaps 10 minutes, Mycroft and Anthea watching the drone views from the tablet, with John and Sherlock looking over the back of the seat. “No security lights,” Sherlock observed calmly. “They weren’t expecting company.” The words were no sooner out of his mouth than they heard Gabe breathe “Now” over the coms link, and shadowy figures began to flit towards the front and back of the barely visible house.The team at the back reached their destination first, and shouted a frantic warning to their compatriots that Gabe quickly seconded. “The back entry is wired,” Gabe near-whispered. “Hold on the front entry—we’re looking for the wires. We don’t want to attract attention till we see if we can disarm it. And we want the demo people to take a look.”They sat in tense near-silence for the next eight minutes (John was aware that Sherlock was counting, and couldn’t help but follow suit) until they heard that quiet voice again. “OK, sorted. Had a bit of a nasty surprise waiting under the rhododendron bushes, but the demo folks took care of it. We are good to go in one minute, by my count from—NOW.”When the assault started, they could hear gunfire, but couldn’t quite identify the source at this distance. Mycroft and Anthea were glued to the video, with Sherlock and John doing their best to look over their shoulders. They could also hear Gabe’s shouted commands as well as other noises of combat. Heard Gabe announce that they were “in”, and the progression from room to room—which was suddenly interrupted by a great, deep boom that rang on both the screen and through the surrounding hillside. It was entirely too long—at least a year, or maybe two, John thought—before the radio crackled and Gabe’s voice came through clearly. “The bastards had wired the door to the basement as well,” he said, sounding both furious and impressed. “Furness is dead, Amberly is injured—may lose his hand, but he’s stable as far as we can tell. The back two rooms are on fire, but we’ve got suppressant spray on them now so that should be under control soon. But we’ve got, well, a bit of a situation—think it’s something you need to see, Myc.”Mycroft blinked, looked at Anthea, then nodded. “Very well,” he said calmly. “On my way.” He opened the car door and headed downhill, with Anthea following closely behind, pistol at the ready. John—John wanted to go as well, very, very much. But he was painfully aware of two things: one, no one had so much as offered him a weapon, beyond the armoured car which could likely make a reasonable attempt at driving right through what remained of the house. And second, the man sitting behind him also wanted very much to leap into the midst of whatever was going on, but was simply not able to do so. And John’s job, right now, was to do the best he could to make that palatable.Sherlock was staring gloomily into the darkness, as if intensity of gaze would somehow make things visible. “I hate this,” he finally said, very, very quietly.“I know,” John said. “But do you hate it less than you would if you were still sitting back at Baker Street, having to wait for someone to call with an update?”“I doubt it,” the detective said, and lapsed back into silence.They had sat in gloomy quiet for the better part of five minutes before the radio in John’s lap crackled again. “Um. John,” Gabe said, an odd tone to his voice. “Myc says you need to bring Sherlock. Drive around the back, and be really careful coming in—there’s a lot of debris. I’m sending someone out to help you—it’s not really geared for crutches, so we’ll just bring him in manually. My guy knows where to take you.” He hesitated, then dropped his voice to a level John struggled to hear. “You might want to stay really close to Sherlock when you get here.”
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Haint-- a type of ghost or evil spirit from the Carolina coast of America. According to Appalachian historian Dave Tabler, the word haint can refer to an angry dead spirit, but also to “an undefinable something that scares the bejeevers out of you.”
John moved from his rear-seat position beside Sherlock to slide into the driver’s seat, while Sherlock peppered him with questions. “What’s going on? Why do they want me there now? Why didn’t Mycroft come himself?”John could give him no more than a shoulder shrug and a “dunno”, in each case.It was an easy drive until they reached the now-smoking lodge. John tried to carefully navigate around the side, avoiding every bush and tree, until Sherlock huffed in annoyance. “We don’t care about the landscaping, John! Just drive.” John sighed, recognized he was right, and ploughed right through the next hedge he encountered.The front of the building had still looked largely intact, save for the smoke rising lazily from the roof. The rear, though, spoke more clearly to the events of the past half-hour: broken windows, walls streaked black with soot, and a great, gaping hole in the center of the house that stretched into a pitch-dark interior. Two men were working industriously on the remaining small licks of flame, ignoring the Humvee as it passed. Next to the enormous hole, though, a man who John vaguely recognized waved them over, and John obediently parked in front of him. He trotted over to John’s window as the vehicle came to a stop. “Hiya,” he said, holding out one gloved hand. “I’m Carter. You’re Dr. Watson, yeah? I understand Mr. Holmes needs some help in.”John gave the hand a firm shake, then gestured with his head towards the rear of the truck. “We can have him sit on our hands, if you think that’ll work,” he said, stepping out and moving to Sherlock’s door. “Don’t see any point in trying to get the crutches through that lot,” he continued, pointing with his chin towards the piles of stone and charred wood barring their path.Sherlock abruptly shoved the door open, tired of being discussed without participating. “Or I could just put my arms on your shoulders,” he sniffed. “I don’t need to be carried like—”“Someone with a serious orthopaedic injury,” John interjected, not interested in arguing under these circumstances. “Remember—I’m making the medical calls here. You agreed. And this is as far as I’m willing to go.” He crossed his arms and waited, while Carter loomed warily in the background.Sherlock maintained an affronted air momentarily, before deflating with a gusty sigh. “I hate this,” he muttered darkly. “Just so you know.” Then he held out his arms to his “bearers”. Getting in was more awkward than difficult. John and Carter clasped their respective right and left wrists together to make a “seat”, and Sherlock draped his arms around their shoulders. Of course, the fact that it was so easy was unsettling in and off itself, given that Sherlock didn’t seem to weigh anywhere near enough for a six-foot, muscular young man. John didn’t say anything aloud, but made a series of mental notes, to be addressed tomorrow: get an up-to-date weight (he was sure Mycroft could locate a scale); have (another) conversation with Sherlock about the necessity of calories for healing; set up a reasonable meal plan, including mandatory snacks.All of that was quickly shuttled to the back of his mind when they reached the edge of the true devastation, to be met by a grave Gabe Austin.As Sherlock wriggled and demanded to be put down, the big man moved forward to stand beside them. “OK, here’s the layout,” he said, ignoring the silent struggle between detective and bearers. He waved a hand to either side of them. “This is just your typical after-explosion debris: wood, drywall, the occasional metal bit. But you need to stay to the far left as you move in—the floor is undermined on the right-hand side, and we’ve still got a few flare-ups of flames. Just follow right on my heels and you should be fine.” He spun on his heel and headed into the smoky darkness.It required a fair amount of concentration to avoid tripping, to the point where John finally snapped a firm command at Sherlock to “keep the fuck still” (and felt bad, but not bad enough to rescind it). Lots of falling bits from overhead, poor lighting, soot on everything. In front of them, though, Gabe abruptly stopped and moved to one side.“So, here’s where the basement door used to be,” the big man said. “As you can see, nothing much left. There was a short flight of three, probably wooden, stairs—only thing left are the brackets. So you two can just hand Sherlock off to me from up here, and I’ll manage until you can climb down.” He turned and hopped off the concrete floor into an area of sooty darkness, lit slightly by lights strung up from the ceiling in the distance.John and Carter moved forward and handed Sherlock over, to drape briefly in a fireman’s carry over Gabe’s back, then quickly hopped down to reassume their positions as bearers. Sherlock was maintaining what he probably considered a dignified silence; the scowl on his face made it somewhat less so, but at least he wasn’t shouting insults.That scowl disappeared, though, as soon as they moved towards the rear of the devastated building and saw Mycroft standing beside what looked like a steel bunker, half-exposed by the explosion and fire. Sherlock began wriggling again. “Take me closer!” he demanded, and almost wrenched himself off of their clasped arms. John grabbed his friend’s shoulder to keep him in place, then yielded to pleading eyes and edged towards the elder Holmes.“It’s a safe room,” Mycroft said, as if he and his brother had been conversing all along. Gabe moved over to stand beside him, picking up a large crowbar on the way. “Built in at the time the lodge was expanded, presumably. It was sealed when we arrived.”There was an odd pause, broken by an impatient detective. “But you got it open, presumably?” Sherlock said. “Why all the drama? I presume our smugglers were inside.” He looked closer at the steel frame. “Well. Some of them, anyway—not room for more than 2, surely.”Mycroft nodded. “Indeed. But there was a…complication,” he said, with an odd look over his shoulder at Gabe, still holding the crowbar at the ready. “We had no way of knowing if the room was occupied, nor if it had any kind of defences built in. So we used an experimental demagnetizer, which can disrupt and open most electronic locks.”Another awkward silence. “Did it not work?” John finally asked, picking up on an unsettling undercurrent now.“It clearly did,” Sherlock interrupted. “Hence the crowbar—the door is very heavy, and likely tries to reclose unless blocked with a sturdy implement. But you didn’t want to leave the door open. Why not, especially if there was no one of importance inside, as the lack of any slightly-damaged prisoners would tend to argue?”Mycroft sighed, and nodded at Gabe, who stepped up to the side of the structure and slid the crowbar into a barely visible seam. “We left the door closed for two reasons: first, because we wished to preserve any evidence inside, as it clearly wasn’t adequate to contain all of the officers we were hunting for. We need leads, and they may be in there. But beyond that—our approach of cutting the power had an unexpected effect.”Behind him, Gabe gave a grunt of effort, and a section of the side of the frame slowly moved sideways, to expose a dim cavity inside. John and Carter, by unspoken consent, lowered Sherlock to the ground so that he could balance on his good leg, one arm still around John’s shoulder, and edge forward to peer within.Gabe silently lowered his crowbar and handed Carter a high-powered torch, and the agent obediently shone in on the interior.John peered past Sherlock, and saw two bodies on the floor immediately in front of the opening—as if they had died trying to get out. He looked at Mycroft and raised his eyebrows in inquiry, and was mildly surprised when the bureaucrat deigned to answer, in a rather un-Mycroftian tone of voice—bemused, and, well, unsettled.“Asphyxiation,” he said. “You can examine the bodies, of course, but we have no reason to believe some other cause of death was involved.”Sherlock, who had tried to lever himself far enough forward to observe the bodies closely, took up the thread at that point. “Oh,” he said. “The power cut. When you severed the lines, the house would have gone dark. But these individuals, correctly as it happens, presumed it to be a precursor to an attack, and entered the hidden bunker to wait things out. But whoever installed the room made a mistake—a lethal one. The room could be entered manually—it has to be, in case the structure the bunker is installed in loses power. But what was presumably supposed to happen thereafter is the self-contained generator kicks in as soon as the door closes. Most will last for, oh, twenty-four hours or so. Plenty of time for invaders to lose interest and go away, since the bunker would have been well-hidden under normal circumstances.”Mycroft nodded. “Our smugglers entered the room, and the door closed. There was presumably a link of some kind with the closing of the latch that should have started the generator automatically. There was likely even a manual switch that would turn it on somewhere inside. But neither worked—either the room was incorrectly wired, or, more likely, someone had drained the petrol tank, either for cleaning or replacement, and it was never refilled.”“So they suffocated,” John said slowly. “And it wouldn’t have taken long—that’s a small space, and there are two of them. But why didn’t they just open the door? Even if they were captured, that’s still better than dying in a tiny box.”Gabe shone the torch on the inside of the door, reflecting off a smooth metal surface with an embedded keypad. “Design flaw,” he said simply. “There was no manual lever on the inside. There were only two ways to open the door: by entering a code into the keypad—”“Which required power,” Sherlock interjected.“Which required power,” the agent continued, “or by someone entering the same code from the outside. And because the other people in the house were busy fighting us, there was no one left to enter the code, even if they’d been aware of the problem with the generator. Even then, they would have had to hook up an external power source to get it to work.”“Jesus,” Carter said quietly behind them.“Yes, well, I’m not inclined to spend too much time mourning these particular individuals,” Sherlock said briskly, “and it does have a certain poetic resonance, considering the fate of the ‘cargo’ on the first ship. Now, can we…” His voice trailed off, having caught a passing expression on his brother’s face. “There’s more,” he said slowly. “What is it?”Mycroft nodded, and gestured for Gabe to move into the cramped space with the bodies. “I asked for photos of the dead, so that we could match them against our database of officers in the smuggling entity. I hadn’t paid much attention to the bodies before that—as you say, these are not individuals for whom any mourning need be done, regardless of the nature of their deaths. But when I saw the face, I—” behind him, Gabe wrestled the bodies onto their backs, and stepped away— “I needed a second opinion,” Mycroft finally managed. “And you were the only one available—Anthea is currently arranging the cleanup for this operation and has headed into town to meet with the incoming assets.”He motioned Sherlock forward, and John half-carried his friend carefully up to the prone corpses. Sherlock’s scowl was back in place, but he dutifully leaned forward, before suddenly jerking back upright, grabbing John’s shoulder painfully, and gaping at his brother. “That’s…it’s Albrecht Messer, isn’t it?”
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Ghoul--
An evil spirit. In Arabic folklore, ghouls could change their shapes but had one unchanging feature: donkey's hooves for feet
It was a long, long night. On the surface, the identification of Messer was a non-issue; after the initial, very visible shock, Sherlock pulled all external reaction into himself and turned into the calculating automaton John had first met all those years ago. The difference was, John now knew all the things that cold affect was trying to bury. And, in this case, he was pretty sure such an approach was ill-advised. The wounds from the events at Peeps ran deep, in both Holmes brothers, and shoving them back under wraps was something John knew Dr. A, at least, would be very unhappy about.There was also the physical aspect. Despite his inability to navigate the half-destroyed space on his own, Sherlock insisted that his help was required in making an in-depth analysis of any clues the house could offer. Mycroft tried, in an admirably non-threatening way, to dissuade his brother, pointing out that they would have a much better chance of seeing clues under natural light (i.e., after dawn) than under the harsh glare of the exposed bulbs strung along the ceiling. Sherlock sniffed imperiously at that. “You know as well as I that any delay could end in the destruction of the one vital item we need to point us to the rest of the leaders,” he said. “Even now, this place is on the verge of collapse. Who’s to say it will still be standing, come morning?”And the Hell of it was, thought John, he was correct—with the group on the run, the survivors wouldn’t be wasting any time heading for whatever boltholes they could find. MI6 couldn’t assume they wouldn’t be monitoring any back channels they could find (and John always sighed at the recognition that Mycroft assumed leaks would occur), which meant that news of this assault would put them on the alert and make them all the harder to find.John gave Sherlock as much leeway as he felt possible, taking turns with Gabe and, occasionally, Mycroft to act as the detective’s physical prop moving through the building. John plied him with granola bars, water and medication as required, though the latter sometimes took more persuasion that he would have preferred.The problem finally solved itself, at sometime past 3 am—John was too knackered to check his watch, honestly. They had been taking turns hauling Sherlock around the ruins. When Sherlock’s good leg abruptly buckled, Gabe, his current bearer, was able to catch him before he actually hit the debris-littered floor, and looked urgently to John while swinging his burden over his shoulder. “Think we’re done here, yeah?” he asked, ignoring Sherlock’s indignant squawks.John heaved a relieved sigh and looked to Mycroft. “Absolutely,” he said. “Do we have quarters set up, or do we need to head back to the plane?”Mycroft, who looked as exhausted as John felt, pointed with his chin towards the back entrance. “A car is waiting,” he said. “Anthea has arranged for several rooms in town. I assume you are comfortable sharing.” He looked around at the soot-stained timbers. “The rest of us will follow shortly; I believe we have reached the realm of diminishing returns.”John, Gabe and Sherlock (furious and hissing like a wet cat) worked their way carefully to the back opening—couldn’t really call it a door anymore, after all. John was relieved to see Dwight, from Mycroft’s regular security team, standing by the door of a waiting Humvee.Sherlock continued to snarl as he was loaded into the back of the vehicle (with more care than he likely deserved at that particular moment). But John was amused to look over, when it grew suspiciously quiet, and note his friend’s head dropped straight against the back of the seat, eyes closed and mouth open. When they reached the hotel, Gabe hauled Sherlock just as carefully out, and he and John acted as crutches for the trip to their rooms, while Sherlock struggled to keep his eyes from sliding closed again. John helped the detective take off his jacket, shoe and shirt, but left everything else on and pulled up the duvet. Then he staggered to his own bed, climbed in fully dressed, and knew no more. They spent another two days in Switzerland, all told. The first Sherlock spent mostly in bed, with his healing, swollen leg propped on pillows and a laptop working overtime beside him. John acted as his legs, making one run out to the explosion site with a tablet for a camera, and ordered room service for everyone who wandered in. Mycroft spent a few hours in the room, going over material with his brother; John took the opportunity to use the spare bed in Gabe’s room for a lengthy nap.The following day, they went to a viewing at the Swiss Air Force base of all the (potentially) useable material that had been recovered. It was spread carefully across a group of tarps in an empty hangar, laid out in areas marked to indicate where each item had been found.Sherlock rolled his wheelchair slowly around the edges; he and John had decided the crutches weren’t really the best idea, after yesterday. “It’s not a very impressive array, is it?” he asked, with a downturned mouth.“My expectations of physical evidence were never high,” Mycroft said philosophically. “They were on the run, and had little-to-no time to gather materials to take with them. I don’t believe Messer was ever on the ship, but he, they, were certainly in transit at the same time. Even considering that, the destruction in the house was fairly comprehensive.” He gestured with his foot at a pile of electronic bits and blackened plastic that may have once, possibly, been a laptop. “This has been through both exposure to direct flame, and to the effects of a falling beam landing atop it. We may eventually be able to recover something from it, but it will take weeks, sophisticated equipment and many, many hours of work.”“By which time whatever’s on there will likely by useless,” Gabe sighed. “But, on the other hand, these particular arseholes will never, ever, ship any more naked kids across the world. So I’ll take it.”“But what about the rest of them?” John asked. “Do we have any leads on them? Or are they just in the wind as well?”“The latter, almost certainly,” Sherlock said. He sounded as tired as he looked. “This operation eliminated two senior officials, as well as 5 lesser lights. Our best information indicated that there are still three remaining principals, though we know them only by what are almost certainly false identities, which further complicates the search. And we know they have extensive resources and contacts in the less accessible parts of the world to Western intelligence—Russia and its satellites, Saudi Arabia, Iran. They can, if they wish, insert themselves into the criminal underbelly in any of those areas, live comfortably and wait until the pressure has died down. In fact, I’d be shocked if anything else occurred that hit our radar.”Mycroft frowned. “We have no plans to abandon this operation, Sherlock. And we have many assets imbedded in—”“In governments,” Sherlock interrupted. “In diplomacy, cyber and bureaucracy. But I’ll wager you have next to nothing available in what’s generally termed ‘organized crime’ in any of those areas. And I can tell you from first-hand experience with one of them that they do not take kindly to outsiders.”There was a long, charged silence as everyone in the room—who all knew, to varying degrees, why Sherlock could say that—considered their options for response. Sherlock, however, beat them to it. “Oh, for God’s sake,” he sighed. “That wasn’t an allusion to trauma. It is simply a pragmatic observation. I am not nearly as fragile as all of you seem to think I am.”They all, wisely, chose not to comment on that.Mycroft broke the brief impasse. “Not altogether incorrect,” he sighed, ignoring the second part of Sherlock’s statements. “While we have been successful imbedding agents within the Russian Mafiya, for example, they have always been Russian or Ukrainian nationals. And setting those emplacements up took many months of planning. There are none currently in situ. However, we are on no particular timeline here: the smuggling operation is defunct. More than half of the leadership is either in custody, or dead.” He looked down at his hands, twiddling idly at the ring on his right. “I believe we have enough contacts, hidden contacts, within both eastern Europe and the Middle East to let us identify those players who have aided and abetted our prey. That’s where we’ll start, since it’s almost certain that the escapees will reach out to them first—they’re on the run and have no other assets.”“That we know of,” Gabe interjected glumly. “Don’t think we can rely on that 100%.”“It’s the best we’re likely to get,” Anthea said from behind them. She’d been least-in-sight this morning, tied up with the arrangements for their transport home. “I think we have to be prepared to be philosophical about it, for the time being: we stopped the operation, and it’s highly unlikely the remaining group will have the resources, or the will, to start up anything similar for the time being.” She handed a tablet to Mycroft, ignoring Sherlock’s scowl. “Approve that, so we can leave.” The next couple of weeks were busy, but John was aware of a feeling of “waiting for the other shoe to drop.” He figured Sherlock felt the same—would catch him, in unguarded moments, staring fretfully at reports from Gabe or Mycroft of the continued failure to track down the remaining smugglers. They did have their moments of success—as the remaining ships were tracked down at sea, two more groups of kids were released, as well as one other shipment of arms—but there was nothing that would let them (as Gabe notably put it) “tie the whole thing up with a bow and kiss it goodbye”.Sherlock, though, had other fish to fry that took up most of his time and energy: he was in the home stretch of healing enough to move to a walking cast, and was working hard to get there, while making John’s life miserable in the off hours. He was still in some pain, he was tired, and, above all, he hated the enforced restrictions on his movements, all of which John understood and sympathized with.But it didn’t make it any easier when the detective decided to alleviate his frustration by dropping glasses, plates and bowls out the lounge windows to “observe the spray patterns of breakage” (which brought on a thundering scold from Greg, and what John suspected was a series of payments from Mycroft to several passersby who suffered near-misses). Or bribed one of the homeless network to bring him a supply of live eels for the bathtub. John would never live down the frankly embarrassing noise he made when he got up to use the toilet in the night without turning on the light, and saw eyes glowing in the darkness.Finally, though, after several pitched battles with Denny and Dr. Alvarez, the big day came. Sherlock had had his leg re-scanned three days before, to ensure a perfect fit for his now slightly smaller limb (given that some atrophy was inevitable in the short run). So, on a rainy Monday morning, they headed to Kings for a flurry of final x-rays, removal of the old cast and fitting of the new “walking” one. Mrs. Hudson had helped Rosie wave bye-bye from the door as Sherlock was loaded into one of Mycroft’s black cars; the old lady had promised to keep her all day, to give Sherlock time to “settle in” once he got home.The look on Sherlock’s face, as the printed cast was snapped closed and he rose to (gingerly—he was eager, not stupid) put part of his weight on his bad leg was almost worth the lengthy wait to get here. Pure, unrestrained joy—John barely restrained himself from taking a surreptitious photo while Sherlock was pelting manically around the room on his crutches.It was a good day.
Sherlock
Finally receiving his “freedom” had buoyed his spirits considerably. In retrospect, that led inevitably to what happened next.Sherlock maintained firmly that the only ones who bore any responsibility in this matter were Denny and Dr. Alvarez. If they had told him, in blunt terms, that overuse could lead to pain, and swelling, and enforced periods of “rest”, that would—well, all right, might—have led him to moderate his campaign to regain full mobility on an expedited basis. It had seemed to make perfect sense: in addition to the three hours spent daily on the boring, boring routines with Denny, he could sneak upstairs after John went to bed (he could fit into the dumbwaiter now. Didn’t even have to risk the stairs!) and work at levering himself around the “gym” until he reached exhaustion. And he had been able to convince Mrs. H. that a daily walk around Regents Park while John did his shift at Kings and the baby was at her creche were suggested by Denny. All he had to do was keep the two apart, so they couldn’t compare notes.It started slowly—he noticed a sharp spike of pain in his leg each morning when he got up. But after his initial dose of paracetamol (the only pain medicine he was allowed, these days) kicked in, it faded to a level that could be ignored, just like the continued occasional protests from his cracked pelvis.As time passed, though, it intensified, and lasted longer. After four days he was forced to drop his late-evening sessions. He continued his normal work with Denny, but had to devote considerable energy to keeping his discomfort off his face.The (unfortunate, mortifying, humbling) climax came on the 7th day. It was a Saturday, so Rosie was home (though John had a double shift, so he was out until dinnertime at the earliest). Sherlock had sat in the lounge after he finished with Denny, trying (and failing) to eat his lunch over the throbbing pain in his leg, and the newly-added one in his hip—it had subsided as the pelvis healed, but now it had returned, with a vengeance. His knee also felt stiff and uncomfortable. He was fighting low-level nausea, and ultimately could manage only tea—perhaps the result of the high-dose anti-inflammatories he’d been forced to resort to, in addition to paracetamol. Mrs. H, once she had finished feeding Rosie, bustled over for his plate and stopped in dismay. “But you like ham,” she said, looking at the untouched sandwich and soup. “What’s wrong, dear?”“Not a thing,” he said airily, waving at a bag sitting by John’s chair. “I ate some crisps earlier. Spoiled my appetite.” Which was not entirely a lie—John had left the bag there yesterday evening, and there had been one left in the bottom, which he’d eaten in an effort to settle his stomach.Mrs. Hudson prepped everything for their walk, including popping Rosie into her pushchair. “I’ve got this. You just worry about you, dear,” she said. “You’re looking a bit peaky.”While he waited for his not-your-housekeeper to get the baby ready, he’d popped back to the loo for an extra dose of anti-inflammatories. Preventive medicine, hopefully—have them already starting to work before the exertion of the walk got everything outraged again. John would be proud of his foresight. Well. If Sherlock ever told him about it; John was peculiarly “law-abiding” when it came to things like medication dosages and timing.His stomach, however, disagreed with his rosy assessment, and made its opinion known within five minutes. As he levered himself slowly down the stairs, crutches waiting at the bottom and Mrs. H acting as a guard in case of a slip, he told himself firmly that all he needed was something to settle his digestion. They’d get ice cream in the park. The ice cream didn’t help. His stomach was on fire, and Mrs. Hudson was insisting on extending their walk so that Rosie could spend some time at the duck pond. Normally not an issue—Sherlock was rather fond of throwing old bread or corn to them himself—but today it seemed like a march through the desert. At gunpoint.Rosie, at least, was having an excellent time, squealing with delight every time Mrs. Hudson threw a new handful of crumbled rolls and the birds bustled closer to nab the best bits. Sherlock, on the other hand, was aware of cold sweat running down his back as the pain level from his leg—break, knee, hip, all were in play now—was making him light-headed, and his stomach howled relentlessly. His every effort was concentrated on keeping his companions unaware of his situation—Mrs. H would certainly over-react and maybe even insist on calling John. Sherlock would never hear the end of it, particularly if he had to confess his recent, unauthorized activities. He wiped his palms surreptitiously on his trouser legs and got a firmer grip on his crutches.Likely because he was focusing so hard on his internal difficulties, Sherlock never saw disaster coming. He had just time to hear Mrs. Hudson’s alarmed cry before a large boy in a rugby costume, eyes facing the other direction and hands upthrust to catch the high-flying ball, barreled full force into him, ripping his crutches from his hands and thumping him onto the paved path on his bad side. The boy was briefly atop Sherlock before scrambling away with an alarmed cry.The pain was appalling. Sherlock could hear Mrs. Hudson wittering in the background but couldn’t respond—could do nothing but writhe and make little breathless sounds of agony. The boy tried to help him up, grabbing one outstretched hand and pulling firmly—and Sherlock’s stomach gave a final lurch, and he vomited onto the pavement before thumping back down.And then Mrs. Hudson looked down at the mess, and saw the blood.
John
John couldn’t escape immediately, when a nurse told him Sherlock had been brought in—he was in the middle of examining a possible heart attack victim, and had to finish up before hustling over to the first bay in A&E. Damien Monteith, a gastroenterology attending John had consulted with a few times for emergency patients, was in the process of watching a nurse insert a second IV line into a glacially-pale Sherlock, this one of blood—not a good sign. The detective was already sedated, apparently—eyes closed, breathing even. A gastric line snaked up his nostril, and his clothing had been replaced by a hospital-issue gown.The surgeon looked up as John entered, while nurses continued their work getting Sherlock ready for transport. “I understand you know him,” Monteith said.John nodded. “Yeah—best friend, in fact. So I’d appreciate you giving me a rundown. I’m also his medical proxy, if you need documentation.”Monteith waved his hand. “Nah, I trust you.” He turned back towards Sherlock. “An older lady with a baby was with him, according to the ambulance lads—said they were at the park and a ‘young hooligan’ ran flat into him. Knocked him down, and he was clearly in extreme pain. But then he vomited blood, so she called 999.” He looked back enquiringly at John. “He’s on his way upstairs momentarily for an endoscope, though we’ll likely do an MRI while he’s still under as well to look at the orthopaedic situation. His ortho’s on her way over. I’ve seen his records from St. Thomas, but they don’t say anything about gastric issues. Any history there?”John shook his head. “Not that I know of,” he said. “He’s only taking paracetamol these days. Past smoker, but keeps to patches, mostly.” He paused, swallowed, then continued. “Past recreational drug user, with a history of OD. But again, mostly years ago, with the occasional short-term lapse.” He paused again. “Most recent was about 3-4 months ago.” He had an unhappy feeling that he was betraying Sherlock’s confidence, but it needed to be said.The surgeon just nodded. “It’s in his records,” he said simply. "Not really relevant right now." He looked at the transport crew, then at John. “Let’s get this show on the road, shall we?” When John returned to Sherlock’s room later that evening, he came prepared. Once Sherlock was on his way to Recovery, John asked Monteith to send him a number of views from both the endoscopy and the MRI, and checked with Dr. Alvarez for her take on the latter. Mycroft had arrived while Sherlock was in surgery, so he was prepared to keep vigil in John’s absence. John headed home to ensure Mrs. Hudson knew what was happening and to check on Rosie, though he made sure the nurses knew to call him as soon as Sherlock was awake and coherent. He didn’t want the detective to forget their coming “chat”.Sherlock was dozing when John pushed open the door to the (now-private, as per Mycroft) room the nursing staff pointed him to. He was surprised to see Anthea sitting in an uncomfortable-looking chair in the corner. “I came by to bring a music player, and just stayed while he slept,” she said quietly, standing and stretching. “You know how he is if he wakes up alone in a place like this.” She gave John a friendly hug and started to gather her things.John blinked. “I thought Mycroft was going to be here,” he said. “Sorry—I never would have left if I thought—”Anthea waved an airy hand. “He got a call from the PM’s office and had to go. It’s not like I’ve never done this before, after all.” She handed him the tiny electronic device, complete with earpieces. “Mycroft took his phone away, so I proposed this as an alternative. He’ll still be cross about the phone, but this should help.” She started out the door, but paused. “Don’t be too hard on him, OK? He’s had a pretty terrible day.”John sighed. “Yeah, yeah. No shouting, I promise.” He waited for her to reach the end of the hall before pulling the tablet he’d brought along out of his satchel, dragging the bedside table over to lay it on. Then he moved over and laid his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. “You can open your eyes now,” he said. “I know you’re awake.”Two red-rimmed, colourless eyes peeped open before shutting again. Sherlock lifted his hands and scrubbed clumsily at his face. “I’m not sure I am,” he groaned. “Not fully, anyway.”“Nonetheless, I need your full attention,” John said firmly, putting a tinge of Captain Watson in play. “You and I need to have an important talk, and we need to do it before you’re strong enough to put together counterarguments since this is something we can’t compromise on.”Sherlock shifted uncomfortably, then stopped abruptly when he realized his bad leg didn’t come along for the ride. He opened his eyes wide and stared down at the mountain under the bedclothes.John followed the look, nodded, and carefully pulled the blankets away to reveal Sherlock’s casted leg, propped quite high, secured with foam wedges and draped under numerous icepacks, with another pile stacked against his hip and pelvis. “Let’s start with this, then,” he said, and rolled the tray table and tablet over next to him, so they both could see it. “How much extra PT were you doing on a daily basis?” he asked.Sherlock flushed; it was very visible against his paler-than-usual skin. “Perhaps two hours. I…it had been more, but I reduced it by roughly half several days ago.”“Because of pain,” John prompted.The flush deepened. “Because of pain,” Sherlock muttered.“But you didn’t stop, and didn’t tell me, or Dr. A, or Denny, what you were doing,” John said. “Even though the pain intensified.” Because that had been clear—his level of pain today had to have come on gradually. “Why not?”“Because you would—”“Because you knew we’d make you stop,” John finished, too impatient to wait. “And you’re absolutely right. And that would have prevented something that I know, for a fact, you never realized could happen. Not something I’ve ever seen before, outside of a textbook.”The flush was gone now, those dark eyebrows folded together, mouth pursed and unhappy. “What is—” Sherlock began, and John shoved the tablet over, screen now showing a series of images from the MRI.“I’m sure you know enough to identify the bones and so on,” John said. He pointed at a spot in the center of the images—a blurry bulge on each of the two leg bones. “But do you know what those are?”Sherlock looked, frowned, looked again. “No,” he said finally, as if the word tasted bad.“It’s call tibiofibular synostosis,” John said, flipping through the other images. “It’s essentially an abnormal bone overgrowth, in this case at the spot of an existing injury. And, if it continues, it will essentially build a ‘bridge’ between the two bones—one that isn’t supposed to be there, and that will significantly impact your mobility. And here’s the really, really important part, Sherlock: if conservative treatment fails,” he looked pointedly at the pile of foam and ice packs, “the only alternative is another surgery. And the kicker is, recurrence after surgical intervention occurs at a very high rate.” He pulled up one last picture—this one an example of bones with a complete abnormal join between them. “Guess what causes it, in some cases?”Sherlock was now as pale as the sheets behind his head. “Overuse,” he said quietly.“Got it in one!” John exclaimed, feeling his leash on his temper slip just a bit. “I knew you weren’t as stupid as this stunt seems to indicate.”Sherlock’s head came up at that. He looked like John had slapped him. But John couldn’t afford to relent now.“Every joint on that side of your body shows signs of inflammation; your hip was out of alignment by a notable percentage. The foam block is there to work on that, and is a big part of the reason you’ll spend at least 2 or 3 days here. Your knee cartilage looks iffy, and may need surgery at some point if it progresses,” John continued. “Hopefully your upcoming ‘downtime’ will make that unnecessary. Because you’ll have a lot of that over the next few weeks. But before that—” He pulled up the next set of films, this time camera views from the endoscopy. “See that?” he said. “Guess what that is?”“Ulcer,” Sherlock said dully.“Ulcer,” John confirmed. “Bleeding ulcer, in fact, which explains the two bags of blood you required over the past 8 hours. But it gets better.” He flipped through to the final picture, but didn’t immediately turn it so Sherlock could see. “Do you know what caused it?”“H. pylori, I presume,” the detective said stiffly, shoulders now rising towards his ears. “Antibiotic therapy, bland diet—”“Wrong again,” John interrupted, and shoved the tablet over to his friend. “Look at this. You see those white things adhering to the side of the tissue walls? What do you suppose those are?”Sherlock leaned forward to see better, squinted a bit, then shook his head. “No idea. You know medicine isn’t—”“Ibuprofen,” John said. “We found 3, sitting undigested and stuck into already-inflamed areas. Which indicates you’ve been using them, a lot of them, for some time. With, mostly likely, no or little food to help cushion the effects. Which is why you now have two ulcerated areas that will bleed at the slightest touch. And why I will tie you to your bed before I’ll let you take any more of them. Jesus wept, Sherlock.”“I didn’t…it didn’t occur to me that over-the-counter medications could be harmful,” Sherlock said. His eyes were closed again.“I know,” John said, anger suddenly leaving him abruptly. “I know you had no idea, on any of this. But you knew enough to know that, if you’d asked, we would have stopped you, on both fronts. Am I wrong?”The flush was back. Sherlock shook his head, very slightly. John let the silence grow, waiting for, well, something that indicated how the next few weeks were going to go. Because he was prepared to be a childminder, if need be, but he’d really prefer not to.Sherlock, after a long, long pause, gave a shaky sigh and turned his head away. “What do we need to do?” he croaked.
Sherlock
It was hateful. Everything was hateful. And, most damningly, unavoidable.Three days in hospital. Two new medicines for the ulcer, and a stringent diet that John literally checked off item by item to make sure Sherlock hadn’t hidden it behind his bed. (It was one time!) No tea or coffee (except de-caff, which defeated the purpose). And, perhaps worst of all, enforced bedrest after PT for several hours a day, with ice packs and foam holding him bound in place.Things were worst that first week, to the point where Sherlock, in desperation, begged John for something, anything, to alleviate the boredom. His solution, surprisingly, was…almost acceptable.Archie Pierce didn’t seem, on the face of it, to be a saviour. Their former ringbearer was now a big boy of 14, gangly and growing. With John’s encouragement he had spent the occasional day at Baker Street over the past year or so, acting as Sherlock’s “assistant” for labour-intensive experiments; nothing dangerous, of course, but the child had a true interest and was better at completing mindless, repetitive tasks (the kind often essential in scientific investigation) than Sherlock was, honestly. After speaking with his mother, John smilingly informed Sherlock that Archie would now be coming by after school each afternoon.Sherlock was slightly concerned that the boy was being coerced, and dreaded his first appearance—he knew how he would have reacted at that age, if presented with a mandatory task that would take up large portions of his time. He was relieved (and surprised, honestly) to have a smiling, eager face pop into his bedroom. “Hey, Sherlock!” the boy piped, voice abruptly spanning a different octave than it initially occupied. “My mum said I could come here after school each day. It’s brilliant!”And so it was—at least compared to what had gone before. Their time varied. Some days Sherlock would complete his PT and the following bedrest early, and be able to crutch his way around the kitchen, guiding Archie through whatever chemical investigation came to mind; others, the boy would keep Sherlock company while the hated bedrest-and-ice protocol was completed. They played chess, critiqued music performances, watched crap telly. It was enough, at least to keep things bearable until John got home with Rosie.They had some excitement towards the end of Archie’s first week in attendance—a burglary, or attempted one, at Mrs. Turner’s next door. “The locks weren’t broken, and she can’t find anything missing,” Mrs. Hudson had said, telling the story in breathless tones. “But all of her pictures were pulled off the walls, the carpets pulled up and dumped in corners, and someone took a hammer to the plaster here and there. Just imagine!”Sherlock could imagine, as it happened, and what he imagined was a group of bored teenagers finding the door unlocked and going in to see what vandalism they could manage before the homeowners, or the police, showed up. But he recognized this as a potential teaching moment for Archie, and sent him next door with a tablet to take photos and record his observations.If nothing else, it whiled away another dull day. The following afternoon was a lazy one. Sherlock’s PT had been quite difficult—a new exercise that was at the limits of his current capabilities. So he was, for a change, quite content to take to his bed and his icepacks for a while. Archie had had a heads-up from Denny and come in quietly, sitting on the bed next to a dozing Sherlock and studying through one of the chess problems they had been working on together. Denny left shortly after the boy arrived, so they were alone, enjoying the blissful silence of the empty flat.Sherlock wasn’t sure why the sound roused him; he hadn’t been asleep, quite, but was quite close. But he knew every creak, every whistle of the old building, and some subliminal instinct pulled him suddenly alert. He made himself lie absolutely still, Archie still frowning obliviously at the chess board beside him. The next sound was slightly louder, and came from upstairs.The hair rose on the back of Sherlock’s neck. He shot his hand over, pushing Archie near bodily off the bed and onto the floor behind. “Silence,” he whispered, while grabbing his phone, pushing one button and tossing it at the boy. “Under the bed. Don’t come out, no matter what you hear. Vatican Cameos!”
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Phantom--the soul of a dead person thought of as living in an unseen world or as appearing to living people.
Sherlock used what he feared were precious seconds to set the stage for whatever came. He leaned far over the edge of the bed to lay one crutch haphazardly on the carpet, to make it appear to have slid down of its own accord—that would hopefully explain any noise his turfing of Archie and the phone would have made. Then he slid back down the bed and arrayed himself artfully on the pillows, striving for an appearance of drugged, oblivious sleep. He flinched internally as Archie moved quietly under the bed, but resisted the urge to hiss a further command for silence. And then he waited.It was either a very short time, or an eternity—differing senses gave wildly disparate reports. In the end, though, a soft wisp of sound let him know that the time for waiting was over. Whoever came was very, very good, but not good enough, or light enough, to move soundlessly through a building this old, despite its recent “tarting up”.*Some atavistic sense let Sherlock know that someone was in the doorway—no sound, but rather a visceral awareness of another human being in proximity to the bed. And then a mild voice spoke, almost directly above his head.“You’re still a pretty thing, aren’t you? Even though you’re not quite so delicate anymore,” it said, and Sherlock’s eyes popped open in shock to see Claus Graham leaning over him, one finger extended to shift Sherlock’s chin gently to and fro. Sherlock had always found it odd how quickly his thought processes could overwhelm the actual physical progression of time. It often worked to his advantage—he could sometimes reach definitive, damning conclusions before police investigators had finished relating all of the available evidence, simply because he could connect the relevant points faster than the police could speak the words. But sometimes it could lead to uncomfortable, even painful, consequences, when his thoughts reached a devastating conclusion that others (John; sometimes Lestrade; sometimes anguished parents of abducted children) could see on his features before he had a chance to curate his expression.Now his thoughts blasted along at speed, observing everything about the man in front of him: what had changed, what hadn’t, what kind of person this now was. But, overriding all of that, Sherlock was swamped by a wave of pure black hatred, a wave that shook his hands and stole his breath momentarily.He had hated few people in his life; disliked, yes, or felt contempt for—those were quite common. He had hated Moriarty, but that had always been secondary to terror (though Sherlock would never admit that to another living soul). This, though—this threatened to overcome rational thought, and that was supremely dangerous in this situation. He shoved it violently away—stamped on his reaction, hard, and shoved it into an unmarked cell in his Mind Palace. When he next looked at Claus, it was with cold indifference.The man looked much older than the age Sherlock knew him to be. Hard living, relentless debauchery, too much time in sunny climates—regardless of the source, he looked well Sherlock’s senior. He was also much bigger than the boy Sherlock remembered—not taller, but impressively bulky. Steroids, no doubt—yet another reason for his atypical aging.These musings were abruptly interrupted when Claus backhanded Sherlock, hard enough that several teeth carved into the soft inner tissues of his cheek. “Pay attention, schatzi,” the redhead sneered. “I think we’ve both waited a very long time for this, and I’d hate for you to miss anything.”Sherlock swallowed blood and sneered back. “On the contrary,” he said coolly. “I could have cheerfully gone the rest of my life without seeing your repellent face again.”Claus laid one hand theatrically on his chest and smirked. “You wound me, William. Oh, forgive me, you go by ‘Sherlock’ now. So much more properly ‘English high society’, isn’t it? Though only your brother—yes, I did find out exactly who Mycroft Holmes is, no thanks to you—actually moves in those circles, from what I hear. You’re just the disreputable black sheep of the family.” He paused thoughtfully. “Rather like me, now that I think of it.” His face moved into a delighted smile that held nothing of mirth.“Ah, both of us from prominent families—you understand the burden we’re under,” Sherlock said serenely. “By the way—how is your uncle, these days?”Faster than the eye could track, Claus’ hand shot out and impacted Sherlock’s face again, deepening the internal gashes and making him momentarily close his eyes from dizziness. When he opened them, the German was holding a very large, very sharp knife, tip pointed directly at Sherlock’s face. “Don’t,” Claus snarled. “I am not known for my rational, calm demeanor. And, while my intent is for you to survive this encounter so you can prove your usefulness elsewhere, I can always change those plans if you push me.” He reached out and shoved the knifepoint every-so-gently into the point of Sherlock’s chin. “You wouldn’t have to push very far.”Sherlock had to shove the hatred back into its cell again before he responded. The impulse to flay Claus with his tongue was almost overwhelming, but there was Archie to consider. He had to play for time, keep this monster talking.“How did you get in?” Sherlock asked, edging carefully away from the knifepoint. “My brother’s security people are generally more careful than this.” He honestly wanted to know the answer to that, so it served two purposes.Claus beamed. “Oh, that is good, actually,” he said, moving the knifepoint down to Sherlock’s chest, moving it slowly back and forth across his silk t-shirt. “And sheer chance, too. There I was, walking through an airport in Amsterdam, when I pass a news vendor’s magazine display, and see your face on one of those artsy architectural rags. Gave me quite a shock, you know? Bought the mag and read it on the plane—lovely pictures, happy family, nice little human-interest story about “sensitively renovating historic properties”. Included all sorts of little tidbits—including the attic door to the property next door than some moron just plastered over! So I did a little reconnoitering yesterday, messed things up a bit to make it look like kids breaking in, and made me a nice little nest in the attic overnight. Wanted to wait until things got a little less crowded over here to conduct our business—my people kept track of all the comings and goings. Had a quiet little battery handsaw that cut through things like butter, and I was in your attic in ten minutes.” He looked around, suddenly struck by a thought. “Where’s the boy? No one reported him leaving.”“He went down the fire escape an hour ago,” Sherlock said. “He like to think he’s James Bond.”“Ah, just like me at that age,” Claus smirked. “Although I was probably rather closer to it than some spotty British schoolboy. My uncle got me started young.”“And you’ve continued his work,” Sherlock said. “Though I suspect the murdered boys were on your own initiative.” Again, both a wish to delay and a desire to know played into that question.The knife briefly stopped moving before picking up its slow track again. “Ah,” Claus said. “You made the connection. I wondered if you might, once I found out you were involved in pursuing our business interests. Although I suspect you were especially interested in one particular boy.”The grin was back. If Sherlock had had a weapon to hand, he would have used it, and damned the consequences. He covered that thought with a cold nod. “It made the connection more obvious,” he said coldly. “Did you track him? Have the family investigated? I’m sure your uncle’s people knew all our names, by the end of Peeps.”Claus shook his head. “Sheer serendipity, I assure you,” he said, now pushing the knife a bit more forcefully across Sherlock’s chest. “I went to a club with an old school mate and saw him dancing across the room—thought I was seeing a ghost, at first. Gave me quite a turn. His resemblance to your little friend was startling, wasn’t it? Knew he had to be a relative of some kind. Which just added to the enjoyment, y’know?” He dropped his chin and looked coyly up through his lashes. “He made such lovely noises,” he cooed.Sherlock, without realizing quite how it happened, launched himself off the bed at Claus, intending to do as much damage as possible before the knife stopped him. It didn’t work as planned—Claus stepped nimbly out of the way, and Sherlock crashed to the floor at his feet, impacting the floor with his chin and slamming his casted leg onto the wooden floor hard enough to wring an agonized grunt from his winded lungs.It took a moment or two for Sherlock to realize the knife had carved a long, deep gouge across his torso in passing. Blood spread rapidly through the fabric of his shirt and began migrating towards his waist while he watched, momentarily stunned into stasis.The German made an exasperated noise. “Well, shit,” he said, wiping the knife blade on the tumbled sheets. “Didn’t plan that—I don’t want to reduce your sales price, even though your appearance isn’t the only selling point anymore. We’ll have to get a plastics guy to stitch that up.” He paused. “But that’s not to say I don’t enjoy seeing you bleed.”“My sales price?” Sherlock asked, to give himself time to get his thoughts—and temper—under control. Even to him, his voice sounded woozy. “I would think I’m rather past my sell-by date as a catamite.”Claus gave a snort of amusement. “Well, maybe,” he said. “Though you would be in demand in certain circles nonetheless; I bet you bruise like a peach. But these days, your higher value is likely in two things: first, I’m told you have the best pattern recognition mind in Europe. And before you point out that you wouldn’t work for my clients, I’ll counter with your lurid and well-documented affinity for recreational substances. I can guarantee that, once we pump you full of my own patented mix for a week or two, you’ll do anything I ask to keep it coming. May take a forced withdrawal or two before you see things my way, but it’ll come. And then there’s your value on the diplomatic front—I’m really looking forward to the bidding process, since I’m very curious as to which group will want you more—the ones who want your brain, or the ones who want possession of Mycroft Holmes’ biggest liability. Because you’re right—I know exactly who your brother is, and what he does. And let’s face it—I have several grudges to work off here. I think I’m entitled.” He paused, looking thoughtful. “I did consider just killing you, and leaving what’s left of you here—I mean, he did kill my uncle. Sort of. But I’m much more pragmatic these days that I was at Peeps; I think the best revenge is letting you or your brother make me very, very wealthy. And then, who knows? Maybe I’ll come back and kill you after I collect my money. It does have a certain poignancy, doesn’t it?”“He won’t let that happen,” Sherlock said, with an amount of certainty that surprised even himself. “He, too, is the best at what he does.” Though Sherlock would never, ever, admit that in his brother’s hearing. “Whereas you lot, based on recent hard evidence, are not. I mean, your uncle—essentially killed by an incompetent electrician. How déclassé.”And it was only after that earned him yet another smashing backhand that he realized that antagonizing Claus at this juncture was not wise.“You know what, William?” the redhead snarled. “I think I’m going to roll the dice. I’m going to turf you down the stairs, to make up for you running your mouth. If you live, I can still sell you. If you die—ah well, at least I’ll have had a good time. So come on, you little shit!” And he reached over, grabbed a full handful of Sherlock’s hair, and started hauling him bodily towards the stairs.Sherlock fought, as best he could—which amounted to next to nothing, since he was already very dizzy and Claus likely outweighed him by 5 stone or more. The German simply batted his arms away, got a firmer grip on his hair and a handful of silk shirt, and pulled harder.Sherlock managed to hook his cast around the leg of John’s chair, but that led only to his body pulling the weight of the chair along with him. His scalp was on fire, and he half-waited for Claus’ handful of hair to pull loose from the skin.Despite Sherlock’s desperate reach for anything in his path, they moved inexorably across the carpet to the open doorway and the landing at the top of the stairs. Claus had just raised both arms to lift Sherlock enough to hurl him bodily down the steps when two remarkable things happened at once, which Sherlock could never quite put in an assured order thereafter:A Thing: As Sherlock’s hand was yanked free of the newel post at the top of the stairs and he lost the last two feet of the landing, a barefoot, disheveled Mycroft Holmes hurtled into the lounge from the kitchen, a large gun in his extended hand, and shot Claus square in the chest; andA Second, Simultaneous Thing: Archie exploded out of the other kitchen door, one metal crutch held in front of him like a jousting sword, which he shoved between Claus’ legs and twisted with furious strength. And, as the grip on Sherlock’s hair suddenly relaxed, he flopped gracelessly onto his back and watched as the redhead’s body listed violently to one side, teetered momentarily, then crashed thunderously down the steps.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Manes—the venerated or appeased spirit of a dead person
The echoes of Claus’ crashing fall had hardly stopped ringing when Mycroft abruptly slid down the wall behind him and sat with a thump, as if the stick that Sherlock was certain was permanently up his brother’s arse had suddenly given up the ghost. Behind him, Archie darted over and starting roughly patting Sherlock all over, in a manic display of caregiving. “Are you all right?” he gasped, continuing to randomly pat body parts. “Are you still bleeding?”Sherlock, who suspected he was but hadn’t yet checked to be sure, was saved from answering by the front door below suddenly shattering open, followed by an enraged Andrew galloping up the stairs, shotgun pointing firmly in front of him. He was followed, apparently, by an agitated John Watson, who barked “This one’s dead” from below before skittering up the stairs himself.The two stood, startled, while their audience blinked at them. Then, with unspoken consent, Andrew launched himself at Mycroft and John dropped to his knees beside Sherlock, gently nudging Archie out of the way.“I’m all right,” Mycroft said mildly over John’s shoulder. “Just a trifle…winded.” Andrew ignored him, checking eyes, chest, head, pulse points efficiently.John, though—John stuffed an unfamiliar pistol down the back of his trousers, then turned to Archie. “Go get my kit,” he barked at the boy. “Big green metal box, under the sink in the loo.” Archie, ecstatic to have been given something useful to do, dashed off at speed and was back in an instant. Or so it seemed to Sherlock, anyway, who was still struggling to get his sense of time under control.John was laser-focused on his work, but his mind was running on dual tracks, apparently. As he shone a tiny flashlight painfully into Sherlock’s eyes, he tossed out questions. “Who’s the dead guy?” was first.“Claus Graham,” Mycroft said simply, before Sherlock could organize his admittedly scrambled thoughts to form an answer. Andrew reached down a big hand and pulled his employer carefully to his feet before the bureaucrat continued. “You know his history; we suspected his survival but couldn’t be sure. He apparently decided to settle scores with Sherlock, and managed to find a way to evade our security to do so.”“So you settled him,” John said, with no small amount of satisfaction, as he started carefully placing large pressure bandages across the long gash on Sherlock’s chest. It hurt, but Sherlock didn’t especially want to say so, as he was hoping to avoid yet another trip to A&E. He was well past his quota for that this year.Mycroft gave a startled laugh. “I suppose I did,” he said. “Though I’m not concerned at this outcome, it wasn’t planned. I was on my way over to drop off a book that I thought Sherlock might enjoy when his panic alert went off. My security staff had seen nothing, which meant the intruder had found an unnoticed way inside. And they were currently one street over—apparently Graham had engineered a diversion, a house fire that drew all eyes. So I took off my shoes and came up the fire escape to the second floor, and made a stop in your room, John, to secure your gun. Then I rode the dumbwaiter down and waited for an opportunity.” He rolled his shoulders and grimaced. “It was a very tight fit.”Sherlock surprised himself by laughing, which surprised his brother in his turn, and led to one of Mycroft’s rare, true smiles.John frowned. “I have a fingerprint lock on the gun drawer,” he said.“Yes,” Mycroft said simply, and left it at that.
John
They ended up, in unspoken accord, relocating to Mycroft’s. No one wanted to spend the night at 221B—even without the presence of the corpse on the lower landing, the gaping hole in the attic made the place seem entirely too vulnerable. John thought it telling that Sherlock made no protest to the move whatsoever (though that may have been because he was so relieved that John wasn’t going to cart him off to A&E).To be fair, John had thought about it. But realistically, most of the equipment secured for Sherlock’s earlier stay—the hospital cot, the supplies, even Denny, if necessary--was still available at Mycroft’s. And John’s take on his friend’s injuries was relatively reassuring: mild concussion (Again. The man lost entirely too many brain cells to that), soft tissue injuries to his face and mouth that required little beyond ice and time, and the long, deep knife slash that John would take his time stitching. Sherlock insisted his bad leg was fine—jarred, but no severe pain, and no swelling.While they loaded up Sherlock’s things for the trip, Anthea showed up, furious and frightened. She stood over Claus’ body briefly before heading quickly up the stairs. “I’m glad he’s dead,” she said flatly, as if daring anyone to contradict her. “I wish it had been me that shot him.”“No, you don’t,” Mycroft said quietly, and draped one arm briefly around her shoulders. “But I appreciate the sentiment.”She volunteered to take Archie home. Sherlock was rather morose about that—he was sure the child’s mother would never let him come back. “I wouldn’t,” he sighed, and Archie flinched but stayed silent.“I’ll take care of it,” Anthea said. “Just need to explain it the right way.” She turned to the wilting boy, sitting exhausted on the top step. “Hey, Arch, how’d you like to ride in my Maserati?” That got an excited Archie off the step and, shortly, out the front door, with a shy wave to Sherlock and John on the way out.When they arrived at the Kensington house, John, Andrew and Sherlock headed slowly to the former sickroom, while Mycroft went to see what his housekeeper had left available for a quick, early dinner. John was surprised to find, when he headed into the kitchen for water to give Sherlock medication with, that the Great Man would be cooking that dinner himself.Mycroft, as usual, read his mind. “I enjoy cooking, though I rarely have the opportunity,” he said, stirring something briskly in a large skillet. “I find it relaxing.” Unspoken was the fact that Mycroft likely needed some relaxation at the moment. John made a mental note to call Dr. A this evening and see if the therapist would consider speaking with the older man—the two were friends, after a fashion.By the time Sherlock’s chest wound was stitched up and the detective was installed on the cot with ice packs and a heavy dose of injectable paracetamol, dinner was ready, a simple meal of stewed chicken and rice, fresh fruit and crusty sesame-topped bread rolls. “My housekeeper keeps the unbaked rolls in the freezer,” Mycroft said at John’s raised brow. “They simply needed defrosting and baking.”They ate at the round table in Sherlock’s room, while Sherlock chewed carefully—his jaw and mouth were clearly very sore, with a couple of teeth distressingly loose—with small bites taken from the plate on his tray table. “Is this Grandmère’s recipe?” he asked. “I can taste the wine.” Mycroft nodded magisterially, and rose to put a bit more in his brother’s bowl. Late evening found John, Mycroft and Andrew settled in comfortable leather chairs in Mycroft’s study; the bureaucrat offered up whiskey or excellent wine, though John abstained. That got easier as time went by*. John was drowsily content—Harry had cheerfully volunteered earlier to pick up Rosie from her creche and keep her for “however long you need, Johnny—honestly!”, so he was essentially a free man at present.“So. Where do we go from here?” John asked, looking into the warm fireplace. “What happens next?”Mycroft wriggled, slouching further into his chair and extended his bare toes towards the flames. “A clean-up crew is working on Baker Street as we speak,” he said. “Mrs. Hudson has been dispatched to her sister’s home for the duration. She thankfully missed Mr. Graham’s arrival—she picked an opportune time to step out to do the shopping. Sherlock’s bed and linens will be replaced—I suspect he would prefer that. As will the carpets. I will have Anthea consult with Mr. Haver** as to the most authentic approach to close the attic portal between the houses; my own vote would be to replace the entire wall with brick, which has the added benefit of being a superior firebreak, but I am willing to be convinced if a better alternative exists.”“So, we’ll be here a while, then,” John said. It wasn’t quite a question—he didn’t see an issue either way.“Perhaps a week,” Mycroft said into his wine. “You need only mention the noise entailed in the attic repairs if Sherlock decides to be difficult.”“I don’t think he will, actually,” John said slowly. “He’s…I think he found the idea of someone just appearing in 221B, while he’s pretty much helpless, really unsettling. Might take him a while to work through that.” He paused, then continued. “Can’t say I’m wild about it myself.”Andrew made an uncertain noise behind him. “Maybe wire the windows? And add motion sensors for the roof and top floor? We already have them for the front and rear entrances.”Mycroft nodded. “Both good ideas,” he said. “I will mention it to Anthea.”And that likely would help, John thought—but he didn’t think security measures would be enough on their own. That concern was still on John’s mind the next morning. He’d taken the extra cot in Sherlock’s room for the night, so he was still there when Denny arrived, bright and early, to begin Sherlock’s PT session. One look at the detective’s swollen, purple cheeks changed her mind, though. “I think we’ll just do some range of motion and resistance things today,” she said, moving to pull tools out of the built-in cabinets. She looked over her shoulder at John. “Give us, oh, 90 minutes or so, once you’ve both had your breakfast. We’ll have a light day today.” Sherlock made a scoffing noise behind her, but dutifully rose, slowly and carefully, to hobble off to the loo to get ready. The moans he made were, ironically, reassuring; if he’d been truly in dire straits, he’d never make a sound until he could no longer bear it.John took the opportunity to nip into Mycroft’s study, while the housekeeper put breakfast plates together, and place a call to Dr. A. He had several purposes: first, to give the therapist a summary of what had happened; second, to set up an appointment for himself—he’d been backsliding on that, what with everything that was going on, and felt like he needed it; and, finally, to see if Dr. A felt comfortable reaching out not just to Sherlock, but also Mycroft. Even if it was just as a concerned friend.He was pleased to see that the psychiatrist picked up himself, rather than calls routing to the receptionist—it wasn’t always the case. “John,” that warm voice said, “everything OK?”“Well…” John began, and found himself running through an extended summary of the previous day’s action. “So, um, everyone’s mostly OK,” he wrapped up. “But I thought, well, it’s been a while since the last time I was in, so a visit probably wouldn’t be a bad idea. And, um, I thought you might want to, well, I thought they’d both benefit from—”Dr. A saved him from his own rambling thoughts. “Mycroft already called me,” he said dryly. “Because of the use of his firearm he has a mandated session with his MI6 therapist this afternoon. And I will be calling Sherlock at 1; I already sent him a text.” He paused briefly before continuing. “For what it’s worth, I commend the fact that you recognize that, if you’re having qualms about what happened, it’s reasonable that the others involved would, also. Not a conclusion you would have come to a year ago, I suspect.” There was mild amusement in his tone.John gave a rueful laugh. “You’re not wrong,” he said. “Come to that, I hadn’t thought about it, but Archie—I hope Mycroft thought about that as well. Poor lad.”“Mycroft gave the mother a referral,” Dr. A said. “Well. Anthea did, since she spoke with her directly. I believe the two of them rather hit it off; Archie’s mum, as it turns out, is a former MI5 analyst. It’s a small world, it seems.”John blinked. “Um. Yeah.” He wondered if Mary had known that--he’d never heard how the two of them met, actually. In the end, though, he had no inclination to go down that particular rabbit hole. Sherlock liked Archie, and Archie seemed to want, or perhaps need, something from him that his mum couldn’t supply. They stayed in Kensington for 5 days, all told. John went and picked up Rosie after 2; the baby, while very glad to see John, was in absolute raptures to be reunited with “Sock” and “Myco”. Mycroft, interestingly, turned a ruddy pink as she wrapped her pudgy little arms around his expensive trouser legs, but made no move to remove her. She cheerfully shared John’s room, leaving the extra cot in Sherlock’s open for the cats, who were pleased at the return of their erstwhile bedmate.They moved back into Baker Street with some relief, but also reservation. John, for one, made it a point to go up to the attic first thing, to view the newly replaced connecting wall. The destroyed drywall had been replaced, as Mycroft had suggested, with brick, which was whitewashed and looked like it had been there since the house was built. John, after thinking about it for a moment, took pictures and showed them to Sherlock when he went back downstairs. The brick went a long way towards making John, at least, feel secure in their home again.Life crept its way back towards normal. Sherlock continued his rehab, moving ever closer to the day he was free of the cast and crutches. John returned to work at Kings, but he also started a new program he’d put a lot of thought into over the past year: a recertification path that would allow him to return to surgery.It all started, oddly, from a comment Mycroft had made, all those years ago—pointing out that John’s “nerve damage” ceased being an issue under stress. Now, after months of real mental health treatment and a hated-but-necessary round of PT (that he told no one about, not even Sherlock), he felt ready. His hand hadn’t shaken in six months, and a stint in the operating theatre, helping with those injured in a Tube crash when no one else was available, had confirmed his feeling that this was something he could do. Something he really, really wanted to do. It would take time—perhaps as much as a year. Mycroft had pulled strings, back in the day, to speed up his recertification to work as a GP, but that wasn’t an option for surgery—there were techniques, tools, a host of practice standards that weren’t the same as those he learned originally, and he had to be current in them all.He was, weirdly, both anticipating and dreading it.They were also returning to their normal daily routines outside of doctor visits and therapy. John went back to walking Rosie to creche—it was safe to leave Sherlock alone these days, as long as it wasn’t for too long. And they also (after a somewhat hesitant request from Mycroft) reinstated their weekly dinners for the brothers, something Rosie was also very glad to see. She adored sitting in her highchair between the two of them, even if she was carted off to bed shortly thereafter.And so it came to pass, one windy Wednesday evening, that they taxied to Mycroft’s townhouse for their scheduled dinner. Sherlock was rather cranky, resentfully shoving his crutches in the back and slouching in the corner en route; Rosie ignored him, pointing out the sights and referring to every child she saw as “Boy”, regardless of actual gender or attire.When they arrived, Mycroft’s housekeeper opened the door with a warm smile. “They’re in the study,” she said, waving surreptitiously at Rosie. “Dinner will be twenty minutes or so.” She bustled back towards the kitchen and left them to find their own way.Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “They?” he asked. “Is he pregnant?”“I doubt it,” John said. “But I wouldn’t put money on it, either way.” Which earned him a snort of undignified laughter from Sherlock—exactly the reaction he was hoping for.The door to the study was open; John put Rosie down to allow her to toddle her way in, and heard her delighted squeal as she saw her idol. What he didn’t expect, though, was the clearly feminine voice that floated out immediately thereafter. “Ah, che bella bambina!” was followed by the baby’s delighted gurgle.Sherlock’s eyebrows crept up into his fringe. John mirrored him, and they moved as one to the doorway. Across the room, a fascinated Rosie in her arms, stood a tall, dignified woman—dark hair, pale hazel eyes. She strode forward with a smile. “Carmella D’Ambrosio,” she said simply, holding out her free hand and speaking in a warm, slightly accented voice. “Mycroft and I are very old friends.”They were called in to dinner shortly thereafter; Sherlock had spent most of the intervening time staring at Carmella with a furrowed brow, as if trying to work something out. John finally took pity on him and asked.“How do you two know each other?” he said, reaching out and passing a roll to his daughter play with.Carmella gave a deep, throaty chuckle. “Ah well,” she said, “we have known one another for many years, partly through diplomatic circles, partly through our chess club. After my divorce last year, Mycroft reached out and invited me to dinner. And, well, things…progressed from there.”Sherlock’s brows shot back up, and his mouth dropped open. He had just prepared himself to speak when John forestalled him by giving his arm a vicious pinch. The detective gave him a wounded look, but his mouth snapped shut, nonetheless.He behaved himself for the remainder of dinner—well, mostly, anyway, aside from the veiled reference to Mycroft, historically, having relationships that lasted, at most, two weeks. Mycroft, from the head of the table, gave him a look that would strip paint. “Carmella has been to meet our mother,” he said in arctic tones, which shocked Sherlock into near muteness for the remainder of the evening.They left relatively early; Rosie was tired and cranky, and John thought she’d do better in her own bed. Mycroft had Andrew drive them home; while John and the driver chatted, Sherlock sat in broody silence in the back with the drowsy baby. When they reached Baker Street, though, he had reached a decision. He nodded his head firmly. “It’s a plot,” he announced.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Phantasm-- the soul of a dead person thought of especially as appearing to living people It wasn’t a plot. John told him; Mellie Holmes (when John let Sherlock’s obsession slip during a phone call) told him, loudly; Mrs. Hudson sat him down and told him again, while patting his hand soothingly.None of that made a whit of difference. Sherlock still insisted (not, thankfully, to Mycroft’s face, or Carmella’s), to anyone who would listen, that Mycroft’s romance was a Byzantine long game that would shortly be revealed. The fact that Sherlock seemed to genuinely like Carmella made no difference either.After almost three weeks, the detective broke. At their weekly dinner, this one at Baker Street, Sherlock looked up over the pudding and caught his brother’s eye. “It’s a charade, isn’t it?” he said, in an almost equal mix of uncertainty and smugness all his own.Mycroft looked down his long Vernet nose. “No,” he said repressively, and spooned more custard into his brother’s bowl. Time moved on, a little quicker than it had during the seemingly endless time of Sherlock’s convalescence. The day of his removal from the cast loomed ever closer, and the detective did anything and everything Denny prescribed for him (thankfully, without overdoing it this time) to ensure that happened. He also returned, on a very limited basis, to the Work, once again using John (and the tablet) as his eyes in some cases where the terrain wasn’t amenable to a man in a walking cast. But this period wasn’t without one last, startling hitch.It started out, ironically, as a quiet Saturday morning. Beautiful, warm early autumn day—John got up early and walked Rosie to Molly’s flat for her weekly “playdate”, then ambled back, stopping at Sherlock’s favourite bakery for chocolate croissants while picking up an overpriced coffee for himself. By the time he reached Baker Street Mrs. Hudson was out, sweeping the front steps briskly. “Someone dropped something, apparently--washing powder or talc,” she said, “and then just left it.” She gave one last irritated swipe and asked John to come carry the clean laundry back up the stairs. “Sherlock’s up,” she said with a grimace, “but he’s going through the post, and you know how he gets about that.”And John did—Sherlock got the oddest things in the mail, from the oddest people. Reviewing his post was typically a “most of the morning” affair, and he did not appreciate being interrupted in the middle of the process. John sighed, picked up the laundry basket and tucked the bag of croissants on top, and started up the stairs.He had just reached the middle landing when there was a loud, sharp bang from upstairs, following by a startled, pained yelp from Sherlock. John dropped his basket and thundered up the remaining stairs, aware of Mrs. Hudson bringing up the rear.As John reached the top, he turned to the kitchen door—then stopped short. The kitchen was covered in a dense layer of white, like flour. It drifted through the air as well, settling gently on the stainless-steel table in the center. In the far corner, backed as far away from the table as he could get, stood Sherlock, also covered with white and holding one hand clutched to his chest. His mouth opened and closed as he blinked and shook. “It got in my mouth. And my eyes. And my nose,” he said suddenly, in a thin, high voice.John had planned to ask any number of questions. But that statement got him moving—there were much higher priorities right now. He stepped carefully into the kitchen, holding his breath, and grasped Sherlock’s biceps to urge him down the hall to the bath. “Let’s go get this rinsed off, yeah?” he said gently, once out of the cloud of floating powder. While they were moving, Sherlock doing very little to help, John called over his shoulder to Mrs. Hudson, hovering anxiously behind. “Call Mycroft.” By the time John had gotten Sherlock showered well, bundled into warm sweatpants and a soft shirt and tucked into the corner of Mrs. Hudson’s couch with his not-your-housekeeper close at hand, Mycroft had arrived with Anthea in tow. John reached into his pocket and pulled out the vial of blood he’d collected. “We need to get this tested. Pretty sure we know what that shit is—Sherlock told me it was cocaine, very pure, very strong—but I’d like to be sure how much he absorbed, and if there’s anything else in the mix.”Anthea took it and sent a quick text. “Is he hurt?” she asked, while focusing on her phone.“Not much,” John said. “Some burns on his hand, probably from an accelerant of some kind. They hurt, but they aren’t serious. I’m more worried about the cocaine exposure, honestly.”Mycroft, who had been looking with darting eyes over the mess in the kitchen, turned his head at that. “Was it that much?” he asked, sounding alarmed. As he spoke, Andrew came up from below and took the vial before heading back out the door.“I don’t believe so,” John said. “He doesn’t seem high, especially, but his pupils are really blown. I’m hoping that’s just shock. But if there’s something else in that mix, all bets are off, and I’d rather know immediately.” He paused briefly before continuing. “I texted Dr. A—he said he’ll be here in about an hour. I thought it. Well. Safer.”The bureaucrat nodded. “I have a forensics team on the way as well. Once they complete their investigation, a cleaning team will follow up to deal with the mess and discard things that may be contaminated. Might I suggest, though, that you all, including Mrs. Hudson, relocate to mine for today and tonight?”“Well, Rosie’s at Molly’s until tomorrow anyway, so that should be fine,” John said. “I really don’t think Sherlock should stay here tonight, so that’s good too. We’ll head over after he finishes with Dr. A.” He looked over at Anthea, frowning in the kitchen doorway. “Your lot are going to find who did this, yeah?”Mycroft raised one dark ginger brow. “Oh, yes,” he said simply. Though still very shaken, Sherlock improved rapidly, thank God. He did up his sessions with Dr. A to twice a week for the coming month, and also had a phone consult with the MI6 addiction counselor the therapist recommended, but seemed to weather it as well as could be expected. John was unspeakably glad.Five days later, it was another of those times when Mycroft simply materialized in the lounge, late in the morning while Sherlock was upstairs doing PT and Rosie was at creche. While John was still recovering from his startlement from walking in on an unexpected visitor, “It’s solved,” Mycroft announced.“Oh. So soon?” John said, looking over his shoulder. “Let’s wait a minute, then—Sherlock should be finished in about—”“Five minutes,” Mycroft said, and dropped onto the sofa with a grateful sigh. John, knowing his place in the grand scheme of things, sighed as well and went to make three cups of tea.Right on schedule, Sherlock came looping down the stairs, hoisting himself along by the rails until he reached the bottom and the crutches propped against the newel post. “You figured it out,” he said, and crutched his way over to his chair, where his tea, three biscuits and a bottle of water were waiting.“I did,” Mycroft said. “Though it was not as I originally assumed.”“You thought it was Rudy,” Sherlock observed, taking a deep swig from the water bottle. “Something changed your mind, then.”“Wait a minute,” John said, head swiveling between the two. “Rudy? Your uncle, Rudy?”“Indeed,” Mycroft said. “He had threatened to try to enlist Sherlock’s services, after all. In his mind, this would have been the easiest approach, though perhaps an attached invitation would have been better than a small explosion. And he is currently here in London.”“So…” Sherlock prompted.“I sent him a note,” Mycroft said.John saw how this was played, now. “And what did the note say?”Mycroft gave a serene smile. “'Goodbye, uncle’."John dropped his biscuit.Sherlock sat up straight and put the tea he’d just picked up back down. “And what was his response?”Mycroft settled himself a bit more comfortably on the sofa. “It was gratifyingly quick,” he said, nibbling at the edge of a biscuit. “He showed up at my office in less than fifteen minutes. And he said, in no uncertain terms, that he had no idea what I was upset about. Interestingly enough, he was telling the truth, which put things in an entirely different perspective.”“Why…what, exactly, did your message mean?” John said. “I mean, for him to react that way.”Sherlock took that one. “Mycroft told Rudy that if he tried to contact me, tried to enlist me in Rudy’s service again, that he would likely have him killed. And Rudy believed him.”John looked at Mycroft. He’d winnowed most of this story from a hungover, distressed Sherlock soon after the disastrous Holmes “family dinner” in the aftermath of Sherrinford.* But not all of the story, evidently. “And that was wise of him, wasn’t it?” he said slowly. Because this—this Mycroft was Sherlock’s “most dangerous man you will ever meet”.“It was,” Mycroft said simply. “And Rudy knew it. But interestingly, someone else also knew it, and chose to try and take advantage of that knowledge.”John looked at Sherlock, who clearly was dying to ask, but wasn’t about to do so. “All right, since someone has to ask. Who?” John asked, with a rude hand gesture in Sherlock’s direction.“It wasn’t immediately clear,” Mycroft said. “But I knew the originator had to fit within several quite tight parameters. Someone with access to this house, which is much less simple these days than it used to be; someone who knew of Sherlock’s history with controlled substances as well as his history with Rudy; and, most importantly, someone who knew that Rudy wanted Sherlock under his control. Whether or not this person knew of my threat against Rudy wasn’t necessarily a prerequisite, and, so far as I knew, only he and I were aware of that. The others were less damning, but that 'control' issue—that was also a very small set. Myself; Rudy; you and Sherlock; Lady Smallwood; Anthea; and—”“Caxton,” Sherlock breathed, looking momentarily thunderstruck.“Who?” John said, looking back and forth between the brothers again.“Rudy’s…aide, I suppose you would say,” Mycroft said. “I have never been clear on what, exactly, the relationship between the two was, but they were together in some fashion for more than 30 years. I think it’s fair to say that Caxton knew everything that Rudy knew, everything that Rudy did—though it honestly didn’t occur to me that Rudy would share this particular fact. He is hardly someone who would publicize anything that makes him look vulnerable, after all.”Sherlock put his hands together under his chin. “I would suspect that Caxton had installed listening devices in Rudy’s office and other areas,” he said slowly. “As insurance, if nothing else. He and Rudy are both ruthless men, after all. If Caxton crossed Rudy in some way, or became a liability, I suspect he would have no illusions as to what Rudy’s response would be. He would want a way to protect himself.”Likely so,” Mycroft agreed. “Rudy himself raised the possibility in our discussion, though he did not specifically utter Caxton’s name at that juncture. He surely knew I would presume it was he, of course.”“And did you allow that?” Sherlock asked, very carefully. Because, thought John, he knew exactly how Rudy—and Caxton—felt about him, and remembered the many years that Mycroft had overlooked it.Mycroft, to his credit, heard the subtext. “No, of course not,” he said firmly, cheeks slightly pink. John saw Sherlock’s shoulders drop slightly. “I pushed the issue. Told him that I would deal with Caxton myself, and that I would require some sort of bona fides to prove that Rudy wasn’t involved.” He sipped his tea thoughtfully before continuing. “To be honest, I wasn’t sure what such ‘proof’ would look like, but I wanted to see what Rudy would say.”“But, I mean…I don’t understand,” John said. “Why did this Caxton guy go after Sherlock, if Rudy wasn’t behind it?”“Indeed,” Sherlock rumbled. “What did he hope to gain?”“That’s where things proved interesting, and gradually became clear,” Mycroft said. “In the process of ‘proving’ his innocence, Rudy blithely said that he had ‘let Caxton go’—that he found, in his reduced working capacity, he could no longer justify a full-time assistant. And, as it happened, Caxton had been pushing, quite hard and rather floridly, for Rudy to reassert his authority over me. Rudy, of course, knew better than to push that particular issue, and told Caxton so in no uncertain terms, which led Rudy to speed up Caxton’s departure from his service.”John thought about that, while Sherlock was apparently rummaging about in his Mind Palace. “So Caxton sent the drugs to Sherlock to force Rudy’s hand? Or to get Rudy killed, in revenge for being turfed?”Sherlock suddenly resurfaced. “I suspect he didn’t care which came to pass,” he said. “Either way, he would score points against Rudy, while inconveniencing me and Mycroft at the same time. It does have a rather Byzantine perfection to it.”“Inconveniencing?” John sputtered, but was interrupted by Mycroft.“There is a certain vindictiveness, viciousness, in this that makes me suspect that Caxton was hoping I would kill Rudy, and that perhaps, as an added benefit, I would find that Sherlock had either fallen under the siren call of cocaine again, or would attempt to take ‘Rudy’ up on his offer, only to find it an illusion,” Mycroft said. “It’s quite sweeping in its malice, honestly.”“Do you need help in taking care of this bastard?” John asked, with murder in his heart.“No, but thank you for the thought,” Mycroft said, and John believed it honestly meant, for a change.“What, then, convinced you to leave Rudy alone, and let him handle Caxton?” Sherlock said, sounding more than a little agitated. “Why would you assume Rudy would keep his word?”“Because he offered to send me proof of Caxton’s disposition, which arrived on my encrypted phone roughly two hours ago,” Mycroft said calmly. “And no, it was not faked. You can see it, if you wish, but I would ask that you discuss that with your therapist first. Tell him I will be happy to provide copies to him.”Which, yeah. John struggled to visualize something that disturbing, and decided he was prepared to take Mycroft’s word for it.Sherlock looked torn, but in the end simply nodded before continuing. “But there’s more,” he said, peering closely at his brother.Mycroft smiled and nodded in his turn. “There is,” he said. “As part of his efforts to forestall any further action on my part, Rudy offered what I think is an eminently workable solution to our strained relationship within the security services. A permanent one.”“I know another permanent one,” John inserted darkly.Mycroft gave him a chastising look. “Not without new cause,” he said. “And I have no doubt that Rudy has set up any number of unpleasant and potentially lethal ‘dead man switches’ that would trigger in the event of his untimely demise. I would prefer something less confrontational, and this would seem to fit the bill. He has decided to cast in his lot with the French—taking over in a very similar role to that he had in the UK until very recently. This serves two purposes: first, he is removed from access to any of the British intelligence communications and databases, and all of his authorizations have been immediately revoked; and second, any remaining ‘sympathizers’ will think twice about setting up collaboration with him, now that he will be acting explicitly on behalf of a rival power.”John blinked at that. “But—I thought the French were an ally.”“And? ‘Rival’ and ‘enemy’ are not quite the same thing, but are often uncomfortably close in the security world,” Mycroft said.“But you would have had to give permission for that, surely,” Sherlock said. “The French don’t want an open breach between the services, and they would never openly poach a senior asset like that and not expect severe retaliation.”Mycroft nodded, now looking rather smug. “Absolutely correct,” he said. “Which is why I required Rudy to ‘sweeten the pot’, as it were, in exchange for my formal agreement. One concern I have had, since my break with him, lies in the disposition of the Vernet assets in France. Rudy has no heirs, now, and in such absence, everything would devolve either to our French cousins, who have extensive assets of their own, or to the state. Neither is acceptable to me. So we came to an agreement.” He pulled a thick packet out of his coat pocket. “This is Rudy’s revised will, created in my presence and notarized and initialed by one of my attorneys, who will file a copy with the French authorities today. A copy has also been provided to Rudy’s personal solicitor, who has acknowledged receipt and verified formally with Rudy that it replaces any prior versions. Rudy also provided a notarized instruction to said solicitor that no subsequent wills can be valid without my signature as well as executor.”Sherlock gave the packet a wary look. “I fail to see why this is of any relevance to me,” he said. “And you hardly need any further assets, family-based or otherwise.”Mycroft, to his visible surprise, simply nodded. “Quite right,” he said. “Which is why I am in the process of setting up a family trust, which will hold Grandmere’s flat in Paris for us collectively. We will be able to use it at will upon Rudy’s demise. I would like to see it return to its function as…it was once a happy place,” he finished, a little uncertainly. “The rest of Rudy’s assets will go to a variety of charitable organizations that Anthea has vetted—most are in France, which seems fitting.”Sherlock was mollified. “That is acceptable, I suppose. But hardly relevant today—Rudy may be 80, but he shows no signs of ill-health, after all.”“That’s not quite all,” Mycroft said, reaching into his other pocket for another smaller, brown envelope. “There was one additional property that I felt—it seemed unfair to either postpone disposition, or to assign it to a trust. So—” he opened the packet, poured the contents into his hand, then reached over, took his brother’s hand and pressed those contents into them, while Sherlock blinked and frowned. “The house in Mimizan**,” he said. “As of Rudy’s death, it’s yours. And you are the assigned custodian, as of today, with rights to decide who does, and who does not, have access.”And Sherlock clutched the keys, and blinked, and blinked, and blinked, while his brother beamed.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Ghosts-- spirits of dead persons that people believe they can see or feel, sometimes haunting the living
The Day finally came, as they all tend to do (though Sherlock would have argued the point at several junctures). Sherlock had been on tenterhooks for a week, bouncing anxiously around the flat and obsessively checking with Dr. Alvarez to try to induce her to make it sooner, to no avail.On that final morning, John despaired of getting any food into the twitchy detective in advance of their trip to hospital, and settled for shoving an assortment of granola bars, fruit leather, packaged crisps and juice into a small knapsack with other odds and ends to take along. Sherlock, for his part, obsessively checked the time on his phone and finally broke at not quite 8 a.m., texting his brother (with extreme reluctance) to send a car half an hour early since he simply couldn’t wait at Baker Street a moment longer. Rosie was already settled with Mrs. Hudson for the day—she was going to “help” their landlady with baking later on, though John suspected he’d end up “helping” clean up a substantial mess once they got home. The two were all smiles as John helped Sherlock tuck his crutches in the back of the car for the last time, and waved cheerily as they drove away.They were exceptionally lucky when they arrived: Sherlock was Dr. Alvarez’ first appointment of the day, and the surgeon was already in her office when they entered the waiting room more than half an hour early. She leaned over the empty receptionist’s desk, tea in hand, and smirked. “Little anxious, are we?”“No,” Sherlock barked.“Yes,” John said, simultaneously. Sherlock gave a furious glare over his shoulder; John ignored it. “Sooner we can get things in gear, the happier everyone will be. Promise.”“Oh, I know, believe me,” the doctor said. “And the good news is, if you want, we can head to Imaging right now. They don’t usually start until 9 on Saturdays, but I put in a good word with them yesterday evening and brought them breakfast to make up for it.” She dropped her chin and looked up through her lashes. “Though I wouldn’t say no if you offered to reimburse me.”“I don’t—” Sherlock began, huffily.“Done,” said John, reaching for his wallet. In short order Sherlock was tucked into a hospital johnnie, with a grippy sock over his one free foot and the extra tucked into John’s pocket. John was looking forward to seeing him put it on. And, to Sherlock’s visible satisfaction, the hated cast was snapped carefully off before the Imaging staff began their work.The first stop was to the x-ray table, for a lengthy series of images from every possible angle. The lower leg, obviously, was their primary focus, but they took the opportunity to scan Sherlock’s hip one more time, to view what John presumed, hoped, was a fully healed crack. Between each image they would wait, Sherlock lying impatiently in an uncomfortable, awkward position with wedges bracing him in place, to make sure the view was clear and captured what they needed to see.They were finally released after 90 minutes, Sherlock sitting up with a groan and scooting to the edge of the table, cast abandoned on the counter behind him. John looked over at the head tech and raised a questioning eyebrow at the turquoise form. “Can we head to the next scans without it, then?” he asked. “Or do we need to latch it back on?”The tech looked over at the silent Sherlock, who was trying to appear unconcerned and failing. “Yeah, I think you can leave it off, as long as you don’t use the leg. Use the crutches; no weight just yet, yeah? Till we’re sure.”“Obviously,” Sherlock muttered, but John noticed the tiny smile before it vanished.They had about a twenty-minute wait for the next step—a CT scan, to check for any soft-tissue problems still present. John took advantage of the break to settle in the waiting area and hand juice and a granola bar to Sherlock, while John himself nibbled on some fruit leather. They sat in companionable silence for a bit before Sherlock looked up. “So, what’s the verdict?” he asked, sounding anxious despite his efforts to hide it. “I know you saw at least some of the images.”“Not enough of them,” John said, handing over another bar that Sherlock took with a theatrical sigh. “But I think it’s looking positive, so far.” The tiny smile peeped out again.The CT scan took some time—some calibration done first, then a long scan of both Sherlock’s lower leg and hip. Roughly an hour later they were done, and had only to wait for their afternoon appointment with Dr. Alvarez to review the results (since, as in all things Holmes, John was quite sure Mycroft had already “eased the way” for his brother’s tests to go to the head of the line).When they were shown into the surgeon’s office, Sherlock still sullenly clomping along with the hated crutches, the room was empty. As they lowered themselves into the chairs in front of the desk, though, Dr. Alvarez came in from the staff door at the rear, a smile on her face and an orthopaedic cane tucked over her arm. “Ready to get rid of those crutches?” she asked, holding out the cane. Sherlock’s smile was its own answer. That smile didn’t last all that long, honestly. John reflected, afterward, that he really should have known better. Was Sherlock excited to be out of the cast? Absolutely. Was he happy to be through with the crutches? Ecstatic.Was he pleased to exchange those crutches for the ugly, utilitarian cane that screamed (according to Sherlock, five minutes after receiving it) “I am impaired”? Not so much.“I’ll just do without,” he announced firmly, on the theory that saying it loudly and decisively would be enough to swing the argument in his favour.“No,” John said, not even looking up from his phone.Silence from the other side of the car. Fraught silence. Plotting silence.The second foray came when they were nearly home. “I suppose I can use it outside the flat,” Sherlock mused, as if thinking it through as he spoke (though John knew he’d spent the last ten minutes coming up with this alternate approach). “But I certainly won’t need it indoors at all. And I expect I won’t need anything after a few days.” He settled back in his seat as if comfortable that this knotty issue was now satisfactorily resolved.“Still no,” John observed, as they pulled up outside 221. “You’re done when Denny says you’re done—more likely a month, at least. And if you tried to walk up those stairs right now without support, I’d have to field you halfway up, and my back’s not up to that. Deal with it. You’re off the crutches. Be happy.” He paused, and grinned. “I’m happy.” At base, Sherlock was happy. But John, at least, knew that the cane was a symbol that this marathon still, still, wasn’t over, and Sherlock had reached the limits of his ability to endure with patience. He wouldn’t do anything stupid (again)—he’d truly learned his lesson on that front—but he reserved the right to resent every second of it. Working with Denny helped—the therapist was able to call out the steady progression of improvement in their sessions, and reinforce the idea that the day of true release was coming. Evenings were hard, though—still some pain from waking up the atrophied muscles, still exhaustion from increasingly difficult exercise sessions, and still, always, the need for the detestable cane.Their little family gradually returned to what passed for normal in their household (though with a new addition—a rotation of three “regular” caregivers for Rosie when creche wasn’t an option, available on an on-call basis and, if necessary, bunking in the spare upstairs bedroom). John leapt back into his surgical recertification program; he had taken a leave of absence from his A&E position once he’d entered the practical—"hands-on”—portion of the training, which took up most of his days. Sherlock took more cases, and was able to physically visit most crime scenes, with or without John; he joined John, on good days, in walking Rosie to creche, hated cane and all; and, finally, their reliable routine of trading dinners with Mycroft (and now Carmella) resumed—though they’d done a number of them over the past couple of months, it couldn’t really be said they’d done them “every week”.It was at one of those dinners, a little more than two weeks after the cast came off, that Mycroft made a gesture that made all the difference. He was on his own this week, with Carmella spending time in Tuscany at her family home.They started an hour later than usual, Rosie already tucked into bed and their meal something that wouldn’t be harmed by extra time in the pot. Mycroft had asked for the delay—he had a “command performance” that would make him run late, but (remarkably, thought John) had apparently never considered cancelling.Sherlock had been antsy all day; wouldn’t tell John why, but John presumed he had something he wanted to speak to his brother about, something he found upsetting, or at least unsettling. John worked very hard at appearing calm and disinterested—it was likely none of his business, after all. He was already working on coming up with an inoffensive reason to leave the room, though he knew it would fool neither brother.Mycroft reached the top of the stairs with a huff, a large, wrapped package tucked under one arm. “Come take this,” he commanded his brother. “I need to run back down and give Andrew my other phone—I forgot it was still in my pocket.” He held out the package to Sherlock, who sat unmoving, a mulish look on his face.John sighed and took the package. “The two of you,” he said, shaking his head. The brothers gave him identical offended sneers before Mycroft turned and trotted back down the stairs.John walked over and dropped the package in Sherlock’s lap. “Your gift, your majesty,” he said, and headed back into the kitchen to take the stew off the hob and pull the salads from the fridge.By the time he returned to the lounge, Mycroft was back, and Sherlock was tearing the expensive gold wrapping from the long, narrow box. He opened the end and thrust an arm down inside. John glanced over at Mycroft and was surprised to see a brief flash of uncertainty cross those patrician features. “I found it in an antique shop in Paris,” the bureaucrat said, and then seemed to run dry.Across from him, Sherlock had finished out a long object enclosed in a ruby velvet drawstring bag. He opened the sash and carefully withdrew an ornate, beautiful cane—well, walking stick, in the parlance of its day, roughly 120 years before, when such beautiful things were a required part of a wealthy gentleman’s evening attire.The cane itself was an exotic wood of some kind, in a deep reddish-brown with darker red-black veins running through it. The handle was a pistol-grip style, at a right angle to the body of the stick, and shaped in a graceful curve that ended in a scroll very like a violin’s. It was silver, elaborately decorated and tinged with gilding that carried a patina of age.It was one of the prettiest objects John had ever seen.Sherlock was silent, rubbing his thin fingers up and down the smooth shaft of the stick. “I would have brought it sooner,” Mycroft said, “but I had to have it lengthened a bit. Because your usage will be functional rather than decorative, having the proper alignment is quite important. The workshop simply added an additional ring of silver to the existing ferule, with some strengthening on the interior. I thought it came out rather well,” he concluded, a little hesitantly—Sherlock’s continued silence was not encouraging. “But they also had to do some internal repairs.”Sherlock’s head came up, eyebrows rising. “Internal?” he said. “I would have thought that was steel. If that was damaged, wouldn’t the exterior be as well?”Mycroft smirked, pleased that his offering had caught his brother’s interest. “Push on the stone,” he said, referring to a large cabochon garnet embedded in the front end of the grip.Sherlock was suddenly intent, holding the stick carefully as he followed Mycroft’s direction. There was a sudden soft click, and a slithering kind of noise, metallic and sharp. And the red-black wood slid off to the floor, leaving behind three feet of gleaming, engraved steel blade. “Ohhhhhh,” Sherlock breathed, and raised a smiling face to John.Mycroft looked smugly pleased, but masked his pleasure in words. “You’ll need to care for it much like any sabre,” he said. “Clean, oil and polish at least once a month, ideally, and work the mechanism regularly. That may also benefit from the occasional drop of light oil.” He dropped his chin and raised one eyebrow. “And don’t try to take it on any planes.”Sherlock snorted in amusement, and slid the blade back into its casing. Then he carefully rose, leaning on the lovely stick, picked up the despised orthopaedic cane, and threw it down the stairwell. Dinner was, for Holmeses, quite the rollicking evening. A fair amount of laughter, Sherlock joining in, and Mycroft unleashing his desert-dry humour on various scurrilous tales of Politicians Behaving Badly. John simply giggled and wished he dared pick up his phone and film this for posterity. Or maybe blackmail, depending on his mood.After John served up the chocolate mousse, though, the mood changed. Sherlock grew gradually silent, though still spooning up bits of the rich confection. Mycroft, of course, picked up on his brother’s discomfort before John did. “Is something amiss?” he asked, very quietly.John moved to slide his chair back, but was interrupted by Sherlock’s soft “Stay”. He settled back and waited.Sherlock locked his gaze on his hands, and began speaking in a cool, detached tone—one John knew all too well, used when Sherlock was shoving his emotions under cover. “I have come to believe that I have done you an injustice. And that you may, in fact, be doing something similar to yourself,” he said.Across the table, Mycroft gave a sharp intake of breath but remained silent.“I hadn’t—until my attack, I had never discussed Switzerland with Dr. A, never mentioned anything about that final mission at all.” Sherlock paused, then gave a tiny, rueful chuckle. “He was quite cross with me about that, since I had long since promised that I would be honest. And, according to him, lies by omission are still lies. And omitting something that played a large part in shaping who I am today, who we both are, is a rather large omission.”He winced and writhed momentarily in his chair, struggling to find a comfortable position before abandoning the attempt with a sigh. “He and I have spent much of our time, these past months, working through those events and my reactions to them. But, over the last two weeks, we turned our attention to my interaction, or rather lack of interaction, with you about that time. He finally challenged me to define, in simple terms, what, exactly, I blamed you for—and what you clearly blamed yourself for. And when I said it out loud, I realized—it wasn’t—it made no sense,” he said, voice wobbling just a bit before he whipped it firmly back into line.“You were children, or near enough. I put you in danger. It killed Ollie, and nearly killed you,” Mycroft said bleakly. “It makes perfect sense to me.”“You’re thinking just as I did, before I was forced to pull it apart and look at the components, step by step,” Sherlock said, with surprising patience. “But there was more to it than that, and the choices you made were often dictated by the absence of complete information. I suspect, now, that I would have done much the same in your shoes, if not worse. You’ve always been more measured in your thinking than I.”There was a small silence, before Mycroft spoke again. “Where is this going, Sherlock?” He sounded wary.“Dr. A asked me, once, what Ollie would have thought about all of this, and I had never, ever asked myself that question before. Once I did, though, I realized that he would have hated it—hated being the spectre at the feast, remembered only for how he died. So I—Dr. A—we have a proposition, of sorts,” Sherlock said. “I believe we should exorcise this ghost between us. And I don’t believe we can do that on our own—our responses are too entrenched, enforced by too much time and resentment.”Mycroft sighed. “Likely true.”Sherlock continued, as if his brother hadn’t spoken. “Dr. A has suggested a series of joint sessions,” he said, glancing quickly up before dropping his gaze to his tightly clasped hands again. “You may set timing and parameters however you wish, though he strongly prefers no more than a week between sittings. The focus will be on one thing only: working through, together, what happened and why, and coming to a…he insists on calling it a ‘forgiving’ conclusion for both of us.” He paused briefly before continuing. “I think this is something we should do, something we owe each other. I want to put the dead to rest.”There was a long, long silence, as Mycroft stared at his brother, brow furrowed, mouth slightly ajar. But finally, just as John was beginning to give up hope, he spoke, in a rusty, strangled voice. “I would like that very much,” he said.