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willow_41zTitle: Birthdays
X. All is Intermittently Very Bright
Rating: PG
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock, John, Anthea, Mycroft
Disclaimer: I do not own any of the BBC's characters or plots.
Word Count: 4,159
Warnings: Mild violence.
A/N:
1.) Not beta'd or Britpicked
2.) PLEASE CHECK the ratings, warnings and pairings on each individual chapter, as they will be subject to change.
3.) More extensive author's notes will follow at the end of the last chapter.
January 3rd
8:33 am
Where are you? SH
8:33 am
Status of Jared Wilkins? SH
8:34 am
Busy. Mycroft Holmes
8:34 am
Today is 10th day of Christmas. SH
8:40 am
gaol. suicide watch. l.
It was a day off for John, but he had woke early anyway. He was toasting bread in the kitchen, vaguely aware that Sherlock was texting frantically. “Are you eating?” he called.
No answer, which meant no.
John poured himself a mug of tea, added an apple to the plate of toast, and carried it all to the living room. Sherlock was sitting in his armchair, frowning at his mobile. John wondered if it was a new case. That would be good; by the third day after a case's conclusion, Sherlock usually started to get bored. “Lestrade?” he asked.
No answer. John continued to eat, just listening to the sounds of the morning: traffic, car horns, a sharp wind blowing, sirens.
“Sleep well?” Sherlock asked.
John blinked. “Yes... you?”
“Good.”
The sirens continued to wail; John wondered where they were going. Too many for a traffic accident; a fire? He finished his toast and carried his plate to the kitchen, still drinking his tea. “I'm going to ring Bill and see if he can meet for lunch,” he said.
“We have a case,” Sherlock replied, not looking up.
“What is it?”
“Someone set off explosions in Westminster.”
John's tea went down the wrong way and he coughed vigorously for about half a minute. When he could speak, he said, “The palace, you're talking about the palace?”
“Yes.”
“How many--” Oh, sh-- the sirens. “How bad was it?”
“Not very.”
John thought for a moment. “Domestic terrorism seems like more your brother's line than yours. He asked for your help?”
“Not quite.” Sherlock looked up. “It's the tenth day of Christmas, John.”
John blinked. “Ten... ten lords of leaping.”
“Precisely.”
“But... it was empty.”
“The charges were planted in the Lords Chamber, and in the Central Lobby under the statues.”
“Oh.” And then, because there were some experiences that became burned into one's mind-- “What kind of explosives?”
“Flash powder.”
“Flash... powder.” John frowned. “But that's...”
“Relatively weak, yes.”
John settled into the other armchair, plans for the day forgotten. “So...”
“So?” Sherlock looked up from his mobile, clearly waiting for John to figure out the answer.
“Why bother sneaking into Westminster just to set off a weak bomb... someone's... someone's showing off?”
Sherlock smiled quickly. “Yes. Consider also that flash powder is so unstable it has to be mixed on the site.”
“So... there's a serious hole in SO17's security.”
“Among other things.”
“What has this got to do with-- did he escape?”
“No.” Sherlock stood quickly, put his phone in his pocket, and reached for his coat. “We're going out.”
“Where?” John was automatically fumbling for his own coat.
“Burglary.” Sherlock tossed something across the room, and John caught it out of reflex: it was his gun, holstered and safetied.
“Sherlock.” But the other man was already running down the stairs, pulling on gloves and scarf as he went. John shook his head, added it to the list of things a bit not good about Sherlock's gun safety skills, and followed him.
The sleek black car that was waiting for them was a surprise. What was also a surprise was that Anthea was in the driver's seat. She twisted round and handed Sherlock a manila folder, then started the engine and pulled into traffic.
“What developments?” Sherlock said.
“They've identified the source of the flash powder, and the guard on whose watch it was planted.”
“He's got twenty-four hours at most.”
Anthea glanced over her shoulder as they came to a roundabout. “Any other day, I'd say you were wrong,” she said, and it occurred to John that she looked tired, less than her usual impossibly polished self. She looked, in fact, human. It was a disconcerting realization.
“Where is he?” Sherlock asked, putting the folder down.
“At one of his... satellite locations. Sorting through data.”
“Hmm.”
“He says thank you, by the way.”
Sherlock didn't respond.
Anthea stopped the car in the middle of a bland residential suburb. “First on the list is two blocks west.”
“Yes.” Sherlock climbed out. “Update me.”
“Of course.”
John slammed the door, and she drove off. Sherlock was sizing up one of the buildings. “So,” John said. “Care to explain?”
“Mycroft's spy, and our killer. They're connected somehow.” He began to walk.
“The burglary?” John prompted after a moment.
“Mycroft is smarter than I,” Sherlock said.
“Sorry... what?”
“But he can't be bothered to check his deductions. He has theories without evidence.”
“So you're helping him figure out who the spy is by breaking into peoples' flats?”
“There's a spy in his department. A very good spy, and you can only get so far from behind a desk.”
John thought of the folder. “Hang on, are we... going to burgle the flats of all of your brother's co-workers?”
“No, of course not.” Sherlock knelt at the back door and began to pick the lock. “Only most of them.”
The lock clicked; Sherlock opened the door, hesitated, and then went inside. John shook his head and followed. They went up the stairs, into a flat on the first floor; Sherlock picked that door as well, and John found himself standing in the middle of a spartan sitting room while Sherlock examined the bookcase, the bedroom, and the file drawer.
“Sherlock, I don't think this is a good idea,” he said, following his friend into the bedroom.
Sherlock was going through the contents of a drawer and didn't answer.
After a moment, John said, “What are we looking for, then?”
“Nothing.” Sherlock straightened up, closed the drawer, and walked out the room. “Done here.”
By noon, they had broken into five flats, somehow escaping notice each time-- John knew Sherlock was very good, of course, but this just seemed like tempting fate. Granted, that described about half of the things they did together. “How many more places on this list of your brother's?” John asked, as he stood in the doorway of a W. C. and watched Sherlock investigate the medicine cabinet.
“Thirteen.”
“Thirteen,” John repeated, licking his lips. “Sherlock--”
“We won't get through them by nightfall, obviously...” He opened an amber-colored bottle, sniffed, and frowned. “I've prioritized the list, the least likely ones can wait until tomorrow. I suspect we may find the answer before then.”
“What are you looking for, Sherlock?”
“Something that doesn't match...”
“What about Wilkins? Isn't there a link there?”
Sherlock closed the cabinet. “I went over his file already. We're dealing with someone who has access to any government records he wants. There's nothing to be found there that he doesn't want to be found. Next flat is in Victoria.”
In Victoria, they climbed in through the fire escape and searched the bookshelf. John entertained himself by wondering under what circumstances Sherlock had learned to pickpocket. He would ask, next time they had time. After they cracked this case.
“I should probably mention,” Sherlock said conversationally, which, combined with his words, immediately threw up warning flags in John's head, “there's a good chance we're going to be intercepted at some point.”
“I'm surprised we haven't all ready.”
“Not by the police.” Sherlock pressed a knot in the panelling, and a hidden compartment swung open above the fireplace.
John gaped. “How...?”
“It was shinier than the others. Ah!” He pulled out an envelope and a stack of papers, went through them quickly, and then put them back.
“When you say intercepted, then--”
“These people work with Mycroft, John, you think they don't have security on their flats?”
“So you're saying someone's seen us.”
“Of course someone's seen us. We've been breaking into flats all day and we haven't been particularly subtle about it.”
John thought that climbing in through the skylights was rather subtle, actually, but he let that pass. “So we're basically waiting for someone to come after us.”
“Yes.”
John sighed. “Bait again,” he said.
“Yes.”
At the next flat they encountered a small, yapping dog and a long-haired cat who was quite friendly to John's trousers, leaving them speckled with orange fur. Sherlock rooted through the papers on the desk while John had a look round the bedroom, taking in the orderliness of everything. When he returned to the study, Sherlock was snapping pictures with his mobile as, John was amused to see, the cat twined around his ankles, too.
Sherlock stopped on the way to the next flat and brushed the cat hair off of his trousers, disregarding John's amusement. “Eleven pipers piping,” he said, walking quickly again.
“Pipers... fancy cars?”
“Possibly.”
A little boy careened into John and scrambled away with a hasty apology. John frowned; he still had his wallet, he could feel the pressure in his pocket. “Or... I dunno... some sort of, plumber?”
“Mmm,” Sherlock said, tapping on his mobile. “An archaic sense of the word refers to a crack that spouts inflammable gas.”
“Some sort of fireball, then?”
“Possibly.”
The next flat belonged to a woman who kept a large collection of carnivorous plants. Sherlock picked them all up and looked under them, came to one, and frowned.
“What is it?”
“There's something hidden in the soil in this one,” Sherlock said.
“How can you tell?”
“There are four plants here in a row, same species, same light conditions, and yet this is the only one turning yellow.” He put on a pair of nitrile gloves and began to poke through the soil. “Ahh!” Sherlock pulled out a small piece of metal.
“What is it?”
“One of Mycroft's missing toys, I suspect.”
“Mycroft's bugging this place?”
“No, the damp soil would ruin it quickly. She stole it and wrapped it in plastic.” Sherlock took out a little plastic bag and dropped the item inside.
“Hang on-- missing toys?” John asked as they ran down the stairs, having searched the desk and closets of that flat.
“It was what first tipped him off to the presence of the spy. Disappearing equipment.”
“So that woman...”
“Possibly. I need more data. There's no guarantee there's only one of them.”
The next flat on the list-- number nine-- was only a ten minute walk away. Sherlock knelt on the floor, examining the carpet with his hand lens, as John investigated the secret compartment at the back of the silverware drawer. “He's been taking regular trips to Aberdeen,” Sherlock called.
“He's also got an impressive collection of... are these cyanide pills?”
“Probably,” Sherlock replied from the other room.
A soft footstep was the only warning John had; he pivoted, going for his gun, but the newcomer was so close that he could only get in a kick to the shins-- strong hands closed around his throat, and he was shoved up against the counter, arms pinned away from the small of his back. He twisted furiously and bit hard into his attacker's arm, but the pressure did not relent, and he gasped for air. White light sparkled briefly across his vision, and then everything was black.
It was damp.
Cold, too, he realized.
And his head hurt.
John risked opening his eyes. It was dim, but not dark. He listened: the sound of dripping water, and, distantly, the roar of traffic. After a moment, he made out someone's even breathing.
He suddenly remembered the struggle in the kitchen, and forced himself not to stiffen. It was either a captor, or Sherlock. From the speed, the person was unconscious or sleeping, which meant-- Sherlock.
John sat up cautiously, and his temples throbbed. He looked around. Concrete pillars, a concrete ceiling, and a view of the afternoon sky through open-air portals: they were on an empty level of a multi-level car park. At least, it was empty of cars; he scanned the shadows, and satisfied himself that it was empty of people, too.
Sherlock groaned, and John spotted him a few meters off, lying on his back. “Sherlock.” He knelt by his friend's side, checked his pulse and breathing-- both fine, he should be coming round soon-- found no visible blood, and began gently probing for injuries. The large lump on his left temple was obvious, and Sherlock's intake of breath told John that he was awake.
“Where else does it hurt?” John asked.
“Ankle. Left.” Sherlock sounded a little dazed. John changed position-- his leg was starting to ache-- and felt the joint. It was a little swollen, but probably not sprained. “What did they take from you?” Sherlock asked.
John felt for his phone, his wallet, and his gun. “Nothing.”
Sherlock took out his mobile, tried to sit up, and swayed. John grabbed him round the shoulders and lowered him back down to the concrete before he could fall.
“Easy,” John said.
Sherlock tapped at his mobile and made a call. “We're in one of the satellite car parks at Heathrow,” he said, and hesitated. “Yes.” He hung up.
Yes, John realized, those were jets, not cars.
“Someone's coming to get us,” Sherlock said.
“Should we... move? In case whoever left us here comes back?”
“They left you with a loaded weapon. They're not coming back.”
“How--”
“You felt for the safety.” Sherlock maneuvered himself so he could lean against one of the pillars. “That was illuminating.”
John was exploring the painful ring around his throat. “I'm glad you think so.”
“The people who attacked us-- I barely heard a struggle from the kitchen, so they were able to defeat you easily-- one opponent, going by the space constraints. My attacker was extremely knowledgeable in hand-to-hand combat. Neither of us heard them coming.”
“Secret agents,” John said.
“Yes. That list was not complete; we skipped several of Mycroft's colleagues that were right in our way. Therefore, either we'd already broken into the flat of whoever sent them, or they were confident that we were going to break into their flat despite not knowing who we were interested in.”
“You think it's a warning to Mycroft, then?”
“Kidnapping us? Obviously.” He felt for the lump on his head with delicate fingers.
“That's not going to help,” John said. “Why not kill us?”
“Mycroft has some very peculiar notions,” Sherlock said contemplatively. “If he thought it was his duty, he would go to extreme lengths to avenge my death.”
“I think you'll find that's normal, Sherlock.”
“Yes, and Mycroft isn't. Therefore: peculiar. Also, Mycroft's extreme tends to be a bit... hard to match.”
“Mmm.”
Sherlock steepled his fingers in front of his chin. “So who was it?”
He was still deep in thought when a very familiar black car pulled up half an hour later. Anthea got out. “I was in the middle of something,” she said, sounding put out.
“Sorry,” John said. Sherlock just climbed into the back seat and continued to think. “What... happened to the other driver, the regular...?”
“He's needed, elsewhere.”
The ride back to London was silent. There was a first aid kit in the back seat, and John dry-swallowed two paracetamol before passing the bottle to Sherlock. Anthea dropped them not at Baker Street but at an unassuming building John had never seen before. Sherlock seemed to recognize it, though, for he ran up the stairs and entered a code at the unobtrusive keypad; the door clicked open, and he led John through a maze of hallways to a windowless room.
Mycroft Holmes was sitting at a desk in the middle of it, working on a laptop. Unlike his aide, he was still impeccably dressed and turned out. His smile, however, was strained. “Hello, Sherlock. John, I'm sorry you had to play a part in this unfortunate exercise.”
“I've had worse.”
Sherlock took out the little evidence bag from the room with the plants. “I found this in Regina Winston's flat, buried under a pitcher plant.”
Mycroft's eyebrows rose nearly into his hairline as he examined the little bag from all angles, turning it over carefully. “That,” he said softly, “is very interesting.”
The door opened; Anthea came in, and took a seat in the corner of the room. “We need the data off of this,” Mycroft told her.
She was already on her mobile; she took the bag from him and went into another room. Through the open door, John could see what looked like a well-appointed, though small, lab.
“So.” Mycroft folded his hands on his desk and managed a better approximation of his usual disconcerting smile. “Tell me about your day, Sherlock.”
Sherlock related what they'd found in the various flats, including things John had no idea how he'd noticed, and ended with a description of their attackers that was much more detailed than anything John could have managed. By the end of it, Mycroft was no longer smiling, and Sherlock was pacing the room.
“That narrows things down considerably,” Mycroft said. “That list was simply a randomized subset of the most likely suspects. Your attackers have conveniently reduced that set to nine.”
“Hang on,” John said, speaking for the first time. “Eighteen people was a randomized subset? What sort of leak are you dealing with here, anyway?”
“An extremely subtle one,” Mycroft said.
Sherlock snorted. “Yes, explosives are always so subtle.”
Anthea returned, handed Mycroft the bag, and filled the kettle in the little kitchenette at the side of the room. Mycroft took another laptop from a drawer, along with something comprising very delicate-looking wires, and hooked it all together.
“This is what I found when I dried it out,” Anthea said, texting with one hand and placing a sheet of paper on the desk with the other.
“Traces of a previous location.”
“Yes.”
“Where?” Sherlock was leaning over his brother's shoulder. The subsequent conversation turned on the relative rarities of different types of potassium salts, and John didn't follow it. Anthea brought him tea.
Sherlock and Mycroft began to argue, first about potassium salts, then about Internet data protocols, then about the fact that Mycroft apparently wasn't letting them leave, at least not yet. “Six hours,” Mycroft said, looking aggravated. “You have gathered all the data you need from the flats.”
“Fine.” Sherlock gave in without grace. Anthea made them all tea.
With Mycroft there, Sherlock didn't need John as a sounding board, and he tried to follow the rapid-fire conversation, but the pain in his head was back. Anthea brought him more paracetamol, shone a pocket torch in his eyes, informed him that he didn't have a concussion, and cut off his pointing out that he was a doctor by showing him the cot in the next room, the other door besides the lab. John sat down and obeyed rule two.
He only managed a short catnap before he woke again, rubbed his eyes, and sat up. The conversation in the next room was heated; John heard the phrases “father said, “Easter lilies,” and “impossibly tedious” and decided that he didn't really want to go back out there after all.
“Three,” Sherlock announced when John reappeared some time later, after the raised voices had stopped.
“You've narrowed it that much?”
“Yes.”
Someone had eaten something-- not Sherlock, he didn't see Anthea, so it must have been Mycroft-- and, smelling the faint aroma left in the room, John realized how hungry he was. Mycroft waved towards one of the cupboards. “Help yourself, John. If you can convince my brother to eat, so much the better.”
“I know my limits,” John said, and rummaged in the cupboard for biscuits and microwaveable rice.
Some time later, when Sherlock and Mycroft were sniping at each other again, the door from the hallway opened and Anthea came in, escorting a bedraggled man in a prison uniform. “Hello,” she said brightly. “Look what I found.”
The corners of Mycroft's mouth curved up. “Remind me to give you a raise,” he said.
The newcomer looked... intimidated, an expression that was at odds with Anthea's nonthreatening appearance. A chair was produced and placed in the middle of the room, and the man was sat down in it. Anthea leaned, casually, against the door to the hallway. Mycroft came out from behind his desk and perched on the edge of it. Sherlock was pacing, slowly, behind the man who was clearly a prisoner, and who was also beginning to sweat. John leaned forward in his seat at the end of the room.
Mycroft smiled. It was not a pleasant smile. “Mr Daniels,” he said. “No doubt you were expecting to be dead by now.”
A stray memory from the day triggered an association in John's mind, and he studied the man more carefully, using what he'd learned from a year of watching Sherlock work. Yes: the man gave off multiple signs of being with the Diplomatic Protection Group.
“And no doubt,” Mycroft continued, “you are attempting to determine whether this unexpected turn of events represents an improvement... or not.”
“I'm not telling you anything,” the man said.
Mycroft stood and came forward as if the man had not spoken, stopping about three feet in front of him. “Allow me to enlighten you,” he said, and leaned right over into the guard's personal space. “Not,” he whispered, and backed up again.
Daniels was clearly-- disconcerted, was a mild word for it.
“I suggest that you tell me who hired you to let three individuals into the Palace of Westminster last night,” Mycroft said. “And when they hired you, and how much they paid you, and anything else you think my satisfy my... curiosity.” His voice dropped on the last word.
“Not telling you anything,” Daniels repeated desperately.
“Ah, but you already have,” Sherlock drawled from behind him, and from the way the man jumped at the statement, he'd forgotten Sherlock was there. Sherlock listed half a dozen casual deductions from the man's appearance, and then paused. “Should I go on, or would you prefer to fill in the details yourself?”
Daniels was clearly terrified. The room was silent for a moment, and then he started babbling, words tripping over each other in an attempt to get out. Mycroft teased apart the shaken confessions, collecting them into sense, prompting more when the chatter slowed. Every so often, Sherlock would lean over the man's shoulder and make a casual and frightening observation.
It was more chilling than anything John had ever seen on the telly, the two Holmes brothers working over their captive like so, and no one had even displayed a weapon.
Finally Daniels had babbled himself into incoherent exhaustion. Anthea, who had slipped away from her post at the door, came up behind him silently, and stuck a syringe in his neck. He slumped sideways; she caught him, and lowered him to the floor.
“It's been six hours, Mycroft,” Sherlock said.
“I'm afraid I may have to detain you longer.”
“I don't think so.”
“I'm sure John would agree that getting kidnapped as a hostage against me would be rather tiresome,” Mycroft pointed out in a deceptively subtle voice. John knew it would work, too-- because there were some experiences that became burned into one's mind.
Sherlock looked like he'd had an extremely unpleasant revelation. “And proximity to you doesn't carry its own risks?” he bit back.
“Not an equivalent risk, at the moment. There is still plenty to do here, Sherlock. I suspect Daniels's confession will prove even more illuminating upon review.”
“Fine.” Sherlock sat down. “I will stay here as long as there is something to interest me.”
Someone knocked on the door. Anthea opened it, and a pair of burly, black-clad men entered, picked up the unconscious Daniels, and left without a word. Mycroft, looking pleased, began to play back the recording of the interrogation.
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Date: 2011-01-04 02:54 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-01-04 06:28 am (UTC)I also enjoyed seeing Mycroft being tense and sinister and a little bit tired. He seemed very human in this chapter, which made his inhuman little interrogation double-act with Sherlock all the spookier. And I loved the look on Sherlock's face when he realized that - after the pool - he now knew from experience how his brother would feel if he were held hostage against him. I bet he HATES empathizing with Mycroft.
I also completely loved the closing, quintessentially Holmesian ultimatum: "I will stay here as long as there is something to interest me." Hee!
I'm loving this story, I look forward to each new chapter. Thank you.
~ Rachel
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Date: 2011-01-04 07:23 am (UTC)Chugging away at the next chapter. I look forward to rediscovering sleep when this is over. Thanks for reading!
Topic1
Date: 2013-03-03 06:50 pm (UTC)