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Ten days. It took ten days to find his brother, despite the combined efforts of MI5, the Met, and, finally, Mycroft Holmes himself.
It was inexcusable. Heads would (probably) not literally roll, but some of those involved might ultimately find they would have preferred that option.
Mycroft heard his brother before he saw him—heard a soft, droning keen that drifted down the damp stone hallway, part of an impromptu prison thrown together in the ancient basement level of a disused church on the outskirts of Dover. He left his aides to round up the remaining combatants, then hurried down the corridor to the cells, the last of which was fitted with a sturdy, modern metal door bolted into the old stonework.
Opening the door was the work of seconds—given his lack of escort, he felt no need to pretend a need for assistance. The door swung open to reveal a stone cube, roughly 10 feet square, equipped with a metal chair (complete with heavy steel bracelet-style restraints welded to the arms—one more mental note to be made on that point) and what appeared to be a pile of bedding in the furthest, darkest corner.
On inspection, the pile proved to be Sherlock.
He was wrapped in a filthy green blanket, but, underneath, was still dressed in the remnants of the suit he had been wearing when he failed to return from what was supposed to be an uneventful visit to a crime scene in Ipswich—ostensibly a simple review and comparison to photos taken at the time of the murder, roughly a month before.
His jacket was missing, as were his shoes and socks. His shirt was open and untucked, exposing greyish skin, covered with an array of diffuse blue-black bruising, but no blood or obvious other injuries. But his eyes remained closed, even after Mycroft knelt and put a cautious hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, and that noise, that desperate droning whine, never stopped. He smelt of dirt, and sweat, and vomit.
Calling him accomplished nothing—no reaction, no break in that heartrending sound. Mycroft finally reached over and pulled Sherlock close to his side, then unbuttoned his own shirt cuff and pushed his bared wrist firmly to his brother’s nose. It took one minute, two—then the noise stopped, bony limbs moved slightly, and Sherlock’s head came up. He looked dazedly around, eyes all pupil, black and round. Under other circumstances Mycroft would have presumed this was a drug overdose—now, though, he knew it for what it truly was. And that—that required quick and decisive action.
The bureaucrat tapped quickly at his earpiece—two quick taps, that opened a direct line to Anthea. “I have him,” he said. “Worse than we feared. We require immediate transfer to Surrey—please let my mother know we are on our way, and that Sherlock will require care for at least the next three days. Tell her to use the contact numbers I left in the kitchen if anything is required.” He rose, then bent and picked his brother up in his arms, while Sherlock began once again to keen softly. “I’m coming out now. Clear the hallways, and have Andrew bring the car directly to the rear door.”
By the time Mycroft reached the back door with his shivering burden, Anthea was already there, as was one of the black agency vehicles, with Mycroft’s long-time driver at the wheel. Andrew shared a concerned look with his employer; the driver had known Sherlock since the detective started uni.
“He’ll be fine,” Mycroft said. “Time and care, that’s all.” Then he placed Sherlock on the seat, climbed in after him, and wrapped him in the clean blankets Anthea had draped over the seatback. As the car pulled away, Mycroft reached for the large insulated flask his aide had placed on the floorboards, poured a small cupful and gently held it to his brother’s mouth. After an unsettlingly long time, Sherlock’s tongue licked once across his lips, and then he began, very slowly, to drink. Mycroft, for the first time in ten days, let himself relax, and settled back in the smooth leather seat for the long trip home.
Sherlock improved rapidly; by the end of the predicted three days, he was making a complete nuisance of himself, and Mellie Holmes sent a series of stroppy texts to her elder son, ordering him to come collect his brother immediately. Given that Sherlock was not yet well enough to drive himself, and also given that Mummy would not appreciate Mycroft’s consigning his convalescent brother to a hired car, that meant a personal appearance and, sadly, an hour’s trip back in a car with an irritable Sherlock. The only saving grace was that his brother could safely be handed off to the long-suffering Mrs. Hudson, and perhaps John Watson, at the other end.
Much of the trip was spent in sulky silence (at least on Sherlock’s part). Mycroft made one attempt, one important attempt, at conversation, since it related to an issue that had now reached critical importance.
“You need to discuss your…requirements…with John,” he said, while trying to ignore Sherlock’s determined efforts to hack into his phone (a phone which, did Sherlock but know, was a decoy left in the car for exactly that purpose. Mycroft knew his brother all too well). “You will require aid for several more days, and I cannot always be available. It’s time.”
Sherlock drew himself up, the picture of offended innocence. “You were the one who insisted that John shouldn’t be made aware,” he huffed. “You went so far as to suggest you would have him ‘disappeared’ if I disobeyed you, though we both know that was nonsense. So, what has changed? Why is John suddenly trustworthy, if he wasn’t before?”
“I have come to the conclusion that there is nothing you could do which would convince John Watson to permanently abandon you,” Mycroft said. “And certainly nothing that is completely out of your control. He has also proven himself to be surprisingly…discreet, when necessary.”
Sherlock brightened. “Then you talk to him,” he chirped happily. “You should always let people know when you have misjudged them. You’ve told me that often,” he added virtuously, and returned to fiddling with the phone.
And, of course, in the end Mycroft did, while cursing his parents’ decision to have more than one child. It went…reasonably well, considering John’s typical reaction to startlement was anger. In this case, because it went beyond “startlement” and straight on down the road to “flabbergasted”, John simply blinked, blinked again, looked from one brother to the other, and then went to make tea. All in all, a successful effort.
Four days thereafter, when John let Mycroft know that Sherlock was largely back to what passed for normal at Baker Street, Mycroft returned for a formal debriefing in relation to his brother’s kidnapping. He already had the basics, of course—his own people had given him that, and placed those responsible into a very, very secure, and very secret, holding facility. But what he needed from Sherlock were the details—who did what, and why.
Mycroft had already largely ascertained the “why”—this was an effort aimed at Mycroft, with Sherlock serving as bait and, very nearly, collateral damage. The “who”, though—
“They were very much minions, Mycroft. Always referred to their sponsor as ‘Mr. M.’, like something out of one of those ludicrous movies John likes so much,” Sherlock sneered.
“Oi!” John said. “I’ve noticed you watch those ‘ludicrous movies’ as well, mate.”
“Under duress,” Sherlock sniffed.
“I will accept their ‘minion’ status—we both know very well who their sponsor is,” Mycroft said, attempting to drag the conversation back on track.
John, in the background, shook his head and raised one hand. “Share with the class, please?”
“Moriarty, of course,” Sherlock said. “Well, his remaining organization, anyway. The fact that their leader is dead, and the vast majority of their reach is decimated, apparently hasn’t stopped the few ‘true believers’ from attempting a comeback.”
John was shaken by that news, apparently. “You’re…I thought you said the organization was destroyed. Two years, and all that. And Moriarty’s dead, so who’s ‘Mr. M’?”
Sherlock frowned. “Focus, John. We have already established that these people, for the most part, are as organized and capable as a children’s cartoon gang. This sponsor could be anyone, of any name, who has taken on the mantle of leadership over the group, in the absence of…” He suddenly trailed off, seeing his brother’s expression.
“We will deal with the question of the sponsor at a later time,” Mycroft said repressively. “For this current inquiry, I simply need Sherlock to detail the actions of the, well, minions.” He looked hopefully towards the kitchen. “This may take a bit of time; perhaps tea?”
John sighed, but accepted what even he recognized as a dismissal. An hour later, Mycroft strode out of Baker Street a satisfied man, a man on a mission.
Mycroft had set the stage very carefully indeed. The basement prison had been restored to the condition it was in when the raid occurred, including replacing the lock on the steel door. The chair, originally tossed aside while the crime scene investigators worked, had been replaced in the center. And now, his selected subject had been placed in that chair, head lolling, eyes closed, and the metal restraints clamped around his wrists. The mild sedative would wear off shortly; Mycroft was looking forward to it.
When the man’s head briefly rose before slumping back again, Mycroft moved the chair he’d found for himself to a position directly in front of his captive, and waited. Two minutes later, the head lifted again, and this time it stayed up. Brown eyes, confused and wary, slid open, flaring in alarm at the sight of the man staring back.
“Fuck!” the prisoner shouted, trying to jerk backwards before coming to an abrupt stop, held in place by the heavy metal restraints. A few moments’ struggle let some of the panic bleed off, and the man settled, eyeing his captor with trepidation.
“Who…where is this place? Whyn’t I in my cell? And who the fuck are you?” he blustered, while sweat popped out on his brow.
“James Edward Campion,” Mycroft said, glancing at his phone, though he didn’t really need to check any of this information. “Commonly known as ‘Jimbo’,” he added with a patronizing sneer.
“’S not what I asked,” Jimbo replied, with a belligerent glare. “And where’s my solicitor? I got my rights, you know. I don’t have to tell you shit.”
“No, you don’t,” Mycroft said calmly. “I already know virtually everything about you. And you needn’t be concerned about your rights; you have already forfeited all of them. All we are concerned about now is to what degree.”
Jimbo was taken aback by Mycroft’s calm demeanor. “That’s…what do you mean, ‘forfeited’? I didn’t sign nothing.”
“By your actions,” Mycroft said. “When you kidnapped my younger brother, and locked him in this place for ten days. Ten days in which he very nearly died, of starvation and neglect. And, ironically, of an excess of nobility on his part.”
“Your…he’s your brother?” Jimbo said, uncertainty now seeping into his voice. “You don’t look alike, not at all.”
“Ah, well, I am a number of years his senior,” Mycroft said, standing up and moving a bit away, towards the almost-shut door behind him. “And he favours our mother’s side of the family.” He reached over and flicked off the lights, so that the only illumination came from the hall outside, then looked back at his prisoner and opened his eyes just so…
The results were quite pleasing. Jimbo gasped and jerked himself backwards, pulling against the restraints before reining himself back in. “You’ve…your eyes are like his,” he stuttered. “Those weird eyes. In the dark.”
“Do you think so?” Mycroft asked, flipping the light back on. “I’ve always thought I had eyes more like our father.”
He moved back and sat in the chair again, leaning forward. “Now that you are presumably assured of my familial ties, I’d like to move on to the business at hand. What were your sponsor’s instructions?”
Jimbo apparently realized that cooperation was wiser than resistance, at the moment. “Take him; hold him until you showed up, or someone like you. Four, maybe five days.”
“And you were to accomplish these things how, exactly? My brother is both strong and quite clever; he would recognize most traps instantly,” Mycroft said.
“Mr. M gave us a, a serum, he called it,” Jimbo said. “We used a homeless kid—set her up on a side street, smacked her around a bit, then set her crying. He came around the corner, crouched down by her, and she shoved the needle in his neck. Worked a treat, that did—he was out in thirty seconds,” he said proudly, before realizing that his audience would likely not be impressed by this information.
“And you continued to use this ‘serum’ throughout his captivity?” Mycroft said, raising his eyebrows as if surprised.
“Well, yeah, we had to,” Jimbo replied. “At least we thought so. Mr. M was supposed to come collect him, but he never showed up. Mr. M had said we needed to make sure it never wore off completely, and we were afraid if we did let it wear off, he’d recognize us if we had to let him go. I mean, we were about at that point, letting him go, I mean, before he got really sick, and then we didn’t know what the fuck to do with him. I mean, Mr. M said as we weren’t supposed to really hurt him, and we didn’t—we let him wake up enough in between doses to take him to the loo, and we gave him food and water regular, I swear.” He tried, unsuccessfully, to look sincere and honest.
“Mmm,” Mycroft hummed. “But if you gave him food and water, why was he starving when I arrived? To the point where he was near-comatose?”
“I don’t know,” Jimbo whined. “He was fine the first few days—ate some of everything, drank OK. But after about three days, he started puking. Every time he ate anything, it came right back up. Made a hell of a mess. We tried all kinds of stuff—thought maybe he was allergic or summat. And he got really, really weak, and then he started making that noise…” He shuddered at the memory.
“There’s no real reason you would know,” Mycroft said, almost soothingly. “He requires a supplement on a regular basis to enable him to digest solid food. Given that you did not supply that supplement, he became increasingly ill. Very unfortunate.”
Jimbo bobbed his head in agreement. “Yeah. Yeah, it was. I mean, we even tried to call Mr. M, to see if we could stop the serum, since he always got worse after he had it. We didn’t want him to die, mate.” He tried the earnest, sincere look again, before asking a question of his own. “What was that sound he was making, then?”
“It’s a distress call,” Mycroft said absently, looking at his phone again. “Usually heard only in ill or frightened children, but sometimes from adults in the final stages of collapse.” He looked up once more, and looked at his prisoner intently. “But, once he was so weak, you continued the serum.” It was not really a question.
“I…yeah. Because Mr. M…,” Jimbo began.
“Do you know why Mr. M told you to use the serum?” Mycroft asked. Jimbo shook his head, then pulled sharply back as Mycroft leaned forward, wrapped his large hand around the steel manacle holding Jimbo’s left arm to the chair, and yanked the entire thing loose from the metal arm as if it were tissue paper. Jimbo goggled at the manacle still laced around his now-free arm like some sort of Steampunk adornment.
“Because otherwise, he could have done that,” Mycroft answered with a snarl. “With ease, even when very ill and weak. Well, weak by our standards, anyway.”
He stood, now, striding around the room as Jimbo watched warily. “I do have some issues with the story you just told me, Jimbo,” he began, moving to place one white hand on his prisoner’s twitching shoulder. “You see, despite his incapacitation, Sherlock was able to retain his memories of what happened, and who said what, and who did what, for quite some time. And one of the things he was quite clear on was that your fellow felons argued with you about continuing to use the serum, and urged you quite strongly to release my brother when your patron did not come to collect him. He also said that you ceased offering him food after five days, and water after six, because his vomiting offended you. You apparently also tried to ‘train’ him not to vomit, using the tried-and-true method of kicking him until he stopped.”
Jimbo was now frantically shaking his head, opening his mouth to argue, before Mycroft casually reached over and slapped him, hard enough that the criminal’s bottom lip split against his teeth.
“No,” said Mycroft, “I think you’re done speaking.” He walked back over to stand directly in front of the criminal, and held out his long, elegant right hand. They both watched as a black, shiny claw, just under an inch long, slid silently out from under the fingernail of his pointer finger. Mycroft lifted the hand and stared at the newly-released claw reflectively, before reaching out and dragging it slowly, slowly down Jimbo’s shackled arm. The skin spread open like butter, blood beading along the red line as Jimbo swore in pain and tried to jerk away, tried to hit Mycroft with his loose arm.
Mycroft easily held the free arm in place, ran the obsidian claw through the line of blood, then licked it fastidiously clean, while Jimbo watched, paralyzed with fear. He reached out with the claw again, this time opening a bloody trough along the side of the criminal’s face, before speaking softly.
“I had mentioned that one of the things that nearly killed my brother, in addition to your cruelty and stupidity, was an excess of nobility.” He licked the claw once more, before opening another slit through Jimbo’s left trouser leg, this one deeper than the previous ones. Jimbo shrieked and flailed, to no avail.
“You surely realize, now, that we are neither of us quite what we seem,” Mycroft continued calmly, while reaching out to make yet another deep red trench along Jimbo’s left side. “When I found him, he was completely unsecured—no bindings of any kind. Believe me when I say that, even in extremis, he could easily have secured the…supplement that he needed from any one of you, with no trouble at all. He simply refused to do so—preferred to die, if need be.”
“He has sworn to never again harm another human being in that manner. An unfortunate accident in his youth led him to that rather draconian decision,” he continued, then paused at the look in his prisoner’s eyes. “Oh, of course we’re not supernatural, you utter cretin. We are a subspecies, no more, no less. Think of dogs and wolves.” He leaned in closely again, as Jimbo panted and sweated. “Though you must understand, you are not the wolf in that scenario.” He smiled, broadly, feeling his eyes glint green momentarily, and let his secondary teeth slide into place. Jimbo bleated in terror and scrabbled against the bindings again. The room abruptly reeked of urine.
Mycroft stood away, briefly, and removed his waistcoat and shirt, folding them carefully in the far corner of the room, before returning to his hyperventilating captive. He placed both hands on the chair arms, leaning in closely before speaking.
“There’s one last thing I should tell you, I suppose,” he said, in a confiding tone of voice. “I don’t share my brother’s concerns about harming others, when such harm is clearly justified. And I must confess, I do have an unfortunate habit that my superiors sometimes chastened me for, after certain incidents in the field.”
He leaned closer yet, until his secondary teeth just brushed the top of his captive’s ear.
“I very much like to play with my food,” he purred.