Chapter Text
With some effort, I manage to follow their convoluted route through the city. I almost lose them when they take a shortcut through the back stairs of an old building and across several rooftops, but I pick up the trail again as they clatter down a fire escape and into a narrow back alley. Even a dead end can’t thwart my brother’s pursuit, though, and the pair instead darts through a crowded theatre and out onto the opposite street.
Sherlock’s flare for the dramatic never ceases to amuse me. Nor does his talent for achieving his goals — there aren’t many even in MI6 who could have pursued that taxi on foot and caught it the way my brother and Dr. Watson just did.
I watch as Sherlock feigns a police stop — oh dear, it appears Detective Inspector Lestrade is going to need a replacement badge again — but then deflates almost imperceptibly when he takes in the cab’s passenger’s details.
Evidently, that wasn’t the murderer’s cab after all, but simply a tourist with unfortunate timing.
As the cab pulls away, Sherlock and John pause a moment to catch their breaths. Then they spot a genuine police officer approaching. At Sherlock’s quick question, John stands up straighter and the pair resumes their wild race — this time, toward home.
*****
I switch my feed to the listening device tucked under the umbrella stand. Hardly an original location, I admit, but Mrs. Hudson is less suspicious (or, I sometimes suspect, simply more indulgent) than my brother, so this one has gone undisturbed longer than most.
“That was ridiculous,” John puffs. “That was the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever done.”
“And you invaded Afghanistan.”
“Yeah, it wasn’t just me. Why aren’t we back at the restaurant?”
“Oh, they can keep an eye out. It’s a long shot anyway.”
“So what were we doing there?”
“Passing the time. Proving a point.”
Oh, I’m intrigued! Is it possible my brother isn’t just intuitively drawn to this man, but has now consciously recognized the same patterns I see?
“What point?”
“You,” my brother replies simply. Then opening Mrs. Hudson’s door, he calls, “Mrs. Hudson, Dr. Watson will be taking the upstairs room!”
“Says who?” John challenges.
The doorbell rings.
“Says the man at the door.”
I, of course, can see from the street view what the visitor is carrying, but I do wish I had a video feed inside the hall to see the doctor’s face when he realizes all that he’s just accomplished without the aid of his cane.
*****
Unfortunately an urgent diplomatic matter draws me away from my laptop for the next several minutes, so I miss the events that come next. When I tune back in, I find a notification that an unknown number has texted my brother — Come with me, it says — and that my brother has left his flat.
Without Dr. Watson.
Cursing, I immediately track the location of both men’s mobiles. Sherlock’s is inexplicably at the Roland Kerr Further Education College, and Dr. Watson’s is in an adjacent building. Blast that ambassador and his poorly-timed interruption tonight! I’ve clearly missed something critical while away from my laptop.
I rapidly reverse the CCTV footage to bring myself up to speed. The two are not together now because Sherlock had gone off by himself (I roll my eyes, because of course he had) and Dr. Watson had chosen to follow in a separate cab. Evidently the two had been separated enough in traffic that the doctor hadn’t seen my brother’s arrival, because he had run into the adjacent building instead.
On the surface, my brother being in a random location in the middle of the night isn’t unusual, and I have no rational reason to believe anything is wrong. I am long accustomed to my brother’s tendency to run off without warning. However, something about this situation feels inexplicably sinister, even to me. Might these serial suicides actually be nothing of the sort? Could Sherlock be in danger, even now? Despite my distaste for what he calls “leg work,” every instinct is screaming at me to get there, to protect my little brother from this unseen foe.
It would be logical, perhaps even prudent, to wait until I’ve reviewed all the footage and tapped into the school’s interior feeds to confirm the situation. However, as I told Sherlock once, “Intuitions are not to be ignored. They represent data processed too fast for the conscious mind to comprehend,” and my intuition says this situation is critical.
I don’t hesitate as I transfer the feeds from my laptop to my mobile and call for a car. I can look up more details en route.
*****
As the car proceeds entirely too slowly toward the college, I review the recent footage. My brother and an unknown man chat on the sidewalk. Before deciding to get into the man’s cab, Sherlock glances up directly into the camera. Is he actively inviting me (unlikely, but a brother can hope), or at least subconsciously reassuring himself that I’m watching — that he has backup if things go awry? Or is he simply glancing upward in a natural gesture? It would be unlike him to miss the detail of the camera’s location, but I also know my brother is capable of missing whole asteroids when he’s “in the zone,” so it’s difficult to say.
I phone DI Lestrade to alert him that his presence may be beneficial at the college tonight. To my surprise and great relief, I learn that Dr. Watson has already done so and the Yard is en route.
By the time we approach the campus, I’ve tapped into the college’s internal camera system and located my brother in some kind of study room. The lights are low, but he’s evidently there with a man who is almost certainly the cabbie with whom he was arguing on the sidewalk shortly before.
Unfortunately there’s no audio on these cameras (I make a mental note to arrange for some “technology infrastructure grant funding” or some such contrivance to help the school rectify that) and the lights are low enough that I’m seeing everything in the grainy grayscale infrared of night vision cameras. Still, it’s impossible to miss the shape in the cabbie’s hand as he points a gun directly at my brother’s face.
My heart stops.
It’s also clear that Sherlock can see some detail I cannot, because he’s entirely undisturbed by this development. In a moment, I see why — the gun is only a lighter.
I exhale.
My brother stands to leave, then pauses, apparently drawn back by something the cabbie said. Oh, come on Sherlock, don’t fall for it! I mentally plead. I can relate to the need to know, the difficulty in releasing a puzzle once it’s begun, but I’m also worried that my brother still considers himself immortal, or at least infallible.
In the adjacent building's equally grainy feed, I spot a blurry figure of Dr. Watson’s height and build dashing from room to room, apparently searching for my brother. He skitters to a halt in one room whose window has a clear line of sight into the study where Sherlock and his adversary are still squaring off.
I return to the feed from the study room, cursing my phone’s tiny screen and inability to watch both buildings’ feeds at once. With a jolt, I realize I’m still seeing my brother, still facing the cabbie, but each of them is now very slowly raising a pill toward their own mouth. In a heart-dropping moment, I see the solution my brother no doubt already understands to these supposed serial suicides.
In an instant, the window behind him shatters and the cabbie is thrown backward by the force of the bullet. The sound bounces eerily between the two buildings in the real world, ever so slightly out of sync with the silent drama still playing out on my screen.
Sherlock looks immediately to the window for the source of the shot, but of course Dr. Watson — and yes, I know who fired that shot, even if my brother evidently does not yet — is savvy enough to have already ducked out of sight.
My brother leans over the injured cabbie’s body, then suddenly stands up, his rage obvious even in the grainy footage. I’m shocked to see him place his foot onto the man’s prone body. Why would he do such a thing? What could this man possibly have told him?!
Sherlock freezes for a moment, then steps back, returning to his normal level of control. What on earth just happened?
*****
My brother is sitting on the rear bumper of an ambulance, draped in a hideous orange blanket. Among so many dark vehicles and uniforms milling about the scene at night, it’s easy enough for me to blend into the shadows. I’m out of earshot, unfortunately, but from my car I can see their faces clearly enough in the ambient lighting to read the gist of his exchange with DI Lestrade.
Sherlock is seeking information, most likely about the shooter who may have just saved his life. Lestrade looks resigned — apparently Dr. Watson is as good at hiding his tracks as he is at long-distance marksmanship — but Sherlock is still intrigued. I can see from the tilt of his head that he’s thinking aloud as he mentally catalogs all the details the Yarders have overlooked.
Uh-oh… I tense, hoping fervently that he puts the pieces together before he inadvertently seals his new flatmate’s fate. I could quietly arrange for the matter to be taken care of if it came to that, of course, but I’d rather not waste all our time if it can be prevented.
I see the exact moment my brother spots Dr. Watson’s unassuming form standing quietly across the scene and realizes his mistake — apparently just in time. He shakes his head, waves his hands argumentatively, flaps his ghastly orange blanket, and generally makes a show of having the DI disregard whatever Sherlock has just deduced.
Lestrade just watches fondly as my brother wanders away without finishing their conversation. I wonder if my brother realizes that John Watson is not his first protector — nor even his second, if I allow myself to top the list. There are more people who care about Sherlock Holmes than my brother yet realizes. I wonder if he ever will?
He casually tosses the shock blanket through the open window of a police cruiser and ducks under the yellow tape as he makes his way over to where Dr. Watson is standing. Sherlock Holmes, at a crime scene, in the middle of the biggest case in London right now, and his only focus is on reaching this flatmate he’s known for only a couple of days. Nevermind the list of people who care about Sherlock — I wonder if he even realizes that he has his own list of people about whom he cares, and that it’s now expanded by one for the first time in years.
Their faces are carefully controlled as they greet one another, evidently mindful of this very public setting. They start out serious, then someone cracks a joke and they both stifle a giggle. A giggle! My brother! With a final smile, they walk off together.
I take it as my cue.
I step silently out of my car. When Dr. Watson sees me, his instinctive reflex is not to freeze, but to immediately alert Sherlock to the perceived threat. Very good.
“Sherlock,” he says in clipped tones, “that’s him. That’s the man I was talking about.”
“I know exactly who that is.”
As I greet my brother, I see Dr. Watson take a centering breath. His shoulders are set, hands perfectly still. He’s half a head shorter and half a step behind my brother, but somehow still positively radiating the message that I will not be permitted to hurt his friend.
I keep my voice as casual as possible. “So,” I say, “another case cracked, how very public-spirited… Though that’s never really your motivation, is it?”
“What are you doing here?” Sherlock accuses.
“As ever, I’m concerned about you.” My words are sincere, but I doubt if he’ll hear them that way.
“Yes,” Sherlock glances at John, “I’ve been hearing about your ‘concern’.”
“Always so aggressive. Did it never occur to you that you and I belong on the same side?”
“Oddly enough, no.” Ouch.
“We have more in common than you like to believe. This petty feud between us is simply childish. People will suffer. And you know how it always upset Mummy.”
“I upset her? Me? It wasn’t me that upset her, Mycroft.”
John intervenes the moment he hears my brother’s tone shift from casual annoyance to genuine upset. “No, no wait. Mummy? Who’s Mummy?”
“Mother. Our mother. This is my brother, Mycroft.” When he says the word brother, it’s not quite an epitaph, but clearly something distasteful for him to admit. It never gets easier to hear that distain in his voice.
“Putting on weight again?” A predictable taunt.
“Losing it, in fact.”
“He’s your brother,” Dr. Watson repeats. It’s a statement, not a question, but he’s obviously still trying to catch up. I wonder, whom did he think I was until now?
“Of course he’s my brother.”
“So he’s not…”
“Not what?”
“I don’t know. Criminal mastermind?”
“Close enough.”
Well that’s going too far. “For goodness’ sake. I occupy a minor position in the British government.”
“He is the British government. When he’s not too busy being the British Secret Service or the CIA on a freelance basis. Good evening Mycroft. Try not to start a war before I get home. You know what it does for the traffic.”
With that, my brother walks away, obviously expecting his flatmate to follow. Dr. Watson does so, but still looks concerned and pauses to turn back toward me.
“So, when — when you say you’re concerned about him, you actually are concerned?”
“Yes, of course.” How is the good doctor so bewildered by this? He clearly hasn’t considered the possibility that I had been truthful in our earlier meeting.
“It actually is a childish feud?”
“He’s always been so resentful. You can imagine the Christmas dinners.” I don’t even have to feign the wince that follows.
“Yes. No, God no.” His eyes dart between my feet and Sherlock’s back, still bewildered by this unexpected turn of events. “I — I’d better, um…”
Suddenly he notices Anthea beside me and nods with polite interest. “Hello again.”
Anthea nods back. “Hello.”
“Yes, we — we met earlier on this evening.”
Anthea obviously already knows this, and Dr. Watson isn’t generally one to state the obvious. Apparently her charms are still befuddling his brain.
My assistant gives him a polite smile and conspicuously fakes her sudden recognition for his benefit. “Oh,” she replies with half a smile.
At least he sees the dismissal for what it is. “Okay, good night.”
“Good night, Dr. Watson,” I tell him.
I watch him join my brother as they walk away. I wonder if they notice that their strides are already in perfect sync despite their height difference. They’re too far for me to hear their words but their body language is casual and relaxed, genuinely companionable — something I haven’t seen in Sherlock since he was six years old. My heart lightens a little.
Anthea looks up from her mobile. “Sir, shall we go?”
Squinting thoughtfully at the pair, I observe, “Interesting, that soldier fellow. He could be the making of my brother… or make him worse than ever. Either way, we’d better upgrade their surveillance status. Grade three active.”
“Sorry, sir. Whose status?”
“Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson.”