Sleepless
part oneWhen storage container zero-five-seven stopped showing life signs, the system automatically, without preamble or empathy, alerted Mycroft Holmes via a text message to his private mobile that his younger brother was dead. It wasn't a message he'd expected but neither was it entirely unexpected either. For nearly three years he'd had moments of phantom alerts, checking his phone to find nothing there even as his ears protested to the existence of the sound. He wasn't a scientist; he didn't spend vast amounts of time invested in the workings of the Ark labs. He had duties to perform, governing to influence, projects that required his full attention in which reports listing the studies and findings regarding zero-five-seven were simply figures to be discussed at cabinet meetings in consideration of the human race's options and chances for survival. He didn't visit--what would be the point? He didn't ask for additional metrics which might give insight to his overall well-being. He'd accepted his brother as dead the moment he tested positive and every point he'd proven him wrong since then had offered as much dread as it did solace. It was easier to stay focused when details only mentioned zero-five-seven's progress rather than the well-being of Sherlock Holmes. His death was just one more line item in the next report to address life expectancy and survival limitations for those infected or otherwise affected by the disease.
At least now he wouldn't have to explain to him about John.
Mycroft deleted the message and set his mobile back down. His tea was getting cold. The Americans weren't going to come to a reasonable decision on their own. Life went on, same as it had before, save for the tiniest spark of hope that had rekindled and died like a novelty candle more times than he cared to admit. He sat up straighter in his black leather chair and clicked through his e-mails even as the words seemed to blur together with the pressure of an oncoming headache building behinds his eyes. He'd known from the start he wouldn't be able to get much more done today but it was necessary to try. What else was he going to do? Sit and mourn? Such luxuries didn't exist. The world as they knew it was gone and now even humanity as they knew it was a subject of debate. Things never stopped, the world was always in motion with testaments to futility and ingenuity being totted by prophets of all realms. He had a job to do and it did not involve self pity or reflective grief.
But he'd carried him home with scabbed knees, bargained with him to at least try a bite of sprouts, and put him to sleep with Bach on vinyl. He'd watched him struggle with shoelaces and joined in their parents' lack of surprise when the first word he uttered, aged two, was 'mine'. The sequence of years were less important than the milestones; from his first case, his first steps, his first day of school. Now, once again, there were lasts. There'd be no rites--neither of them had the time for religion nor the stomach for fantastical piety. There'd be ash and dust, both of which would be doubly destroyed till nothing was left in evidence save for the reports that labeled zero-five-seven, subject prime, as deceased. The one thing Mycroft had chosen to keep safe in a world gone to hell and it was lying in a box like a forgotten doll ready to be dissected and prepped for the fire. His filial heart had been broken long before but he could still feel the pieces as they settled once again.
It was both an irritant and a blessing that he did not need to read his messages to understand what they said. The Americans never changed their tune, and the glaring "Genesis 1:27" in the signature box of his most vocal contact was a vapid reminder of what was at stake. They were both white, christian, god fearing countries that would of course make the "right" decision about the new world they would have to create. Mycroft never did find much cause to trust anyone who believed their actions in life mattered less than their expectations of the one after. What they wanted was genocide pure and simple. And the World Council had the gall to label this cabinet of politicians both theological and scientific who entered into discourse on the future of the human race the Ethics Committee. No one was proud of the way they had slaughtered billions of world citizens in the hopes of eradicating the disease, but it was a shame by the tone of the committee's talks that the call to murder wasn't at its end.
He was supposed to keep John safe. It was the one thing Sherlock bartered for at every step of the way. When he'd promised him in their Baker Street flat that he and John would share their fate, he never dreampt it would come to mean this.
The phone on his desk rang to life, a light against the black shell blinking just in case he'd had the forethought to mute the loud intruder of his thoughts. Mycroft took a deep breath as he considered for a moment, processing easily the likelihood of callers and his willingness to entertain them. Perhaps he'd just be "busy" today and give himself a mild reprieve from anything more than what was already on his plate. Busy sounded good. It sounded much better than indisposed, which he feared he would be if the call was from labs as he suspected. He already knew; he didn't need to hear it. Not having to have it spoken out loud was all he was asking for.
He pushed the speaker button, leaning forward so as not to have to raise his voice. "Yes?" he asked.
Her voice came back with the brassy rustle of projected waves. "Sir, I have Dr. West from the labs on the phone."
"Take a message, would you?" He cleared his throat as something seemed to settle in against the back of his tongue. "In fact, hold all my calls for today."
"Dr. West is priority code alpha, sir... Do you still want me to take a message?"
Mycroft closed his eyes, running his palms down his face before sliding them together to his pursed lips. One couldn't just go and ignore priority levels because they wanted to. Protocol existed to be adhered to and no infringement was just when necessity dictated its existence in the first place. "Go ahead and put him through." He steeled himself in the pause between the click of the call and the empty air. Life goes on. Duty beckons. It was a nice thought to think he might have an afternoon's solace to himself but even at its best it was nothing more than a baseless hope. "How may I help you, Dr. West?" he asked, elbows on the table as he gave his chin something to rest against in the perch of his open palm.
"It's about zero-five-seven, sir. He's awake."
Those weren't the words he'd expected to hear. It took a moment's repetition to even make them make sense. "I wasn't informed he was on the schedule."
"He's not. He woke himself up."
Mycroft let his hand fall to the dark wood of his desk, not needing the anchor anymore as it seemed his disbelief was more than enough to fuel him. "He was in a medically induced and carefully sustained coma. How is that possible?"
"Honestly, sir... we don't know," he said, with no small amount of fascination in his voice. "It was a nightmare to get him sedated once we got our hands on him. From reports it looks like he pulled his probes off and assaulted the orderly who checked on the flatline warning. He's resting now. Kept asking about someone named John. I'd, uh... I'd like to run some more tests on him while he's awake if possible. I know we don't have authorization to wake him but, given the circumstance, would it be--"
"You have other specimens at your disposal," Mycroft reminded him, his teeth itching with agitation. From here on out he was simply going to have to assume his brother was always alive regardless of the impossibility. He was done grieving the living. Sherlock had an annoying habit of winning against the odds and much as he enjoyed the relief of still being an older brother, he did not relish in the anxiety before the reveal.
At least the lab staff were professional enough not to refer to him as anything but his code number. It kept things from getting personal when it was down to a thing of business. "Yes, sir, we do, but none of the other survivors from the camps have a full medical history on file. Zero-five-seven was conscripted as an Ark citizen before contracting the disease and as such he is the only comprehensive before-and-after specimen we have." It was not the first time the doctor had made the case and Mycroft expected it would not be the last.
He rubbed at his face, pen callouses scratching against his nose. It wasn't his decision to make. Sometimes there was a great deal of relief in those words; sometimes it was a mark of defeat. Sometimes he wasn't sure which it was and was simply too tied in bureaucracy to care. It felt like it might be one of the latter times. Numb was a valid response to impotence and with raised voices making clear the announcement of another interruption, numb was just fine by Mycroft.
He'd been expecting this ever since he'd received the text. Someone would surely tell him. It was only the message that had changed but the response had always been assured. Without welcome or announcement, John Watson threw his weight into the door and stormed past the secretary outside as she tried desperately to reel him back. He wasn't having any of it. He walked like a man on a mission and in every way that was exactly what he was. The secretary looked to Mycroft with fear on her face but Mycroft waved her aside, forgiveness in his gentle nod as she bowed and quietly closed the door in John Watson's overconfident wake.
"I expect a full report to be submitted within the next twelve hours," Mycroft continued, wrapping up his phone conversation in full expectation of John not waiting any longer than it took him to approach his desk. "You may make your case at that time for his being retained in a conscious state."
"Thank you, sir. Should we make accommodations for your visit?"
John gave a strong nod but Mycroft pretended not to notice. "No, I don't think so. Carry on."
"Yes, sir."
He hung up before John's correction could make matters inconvenient.
John wasn't the least bit deterred at having lost one audience while he still maintained his target. He stood at the front of Mycroft's desk, fists clenching at his sides, looking every bit the soldier as he kept his back straight and chin raised. The thick metal choker around his neck was almost entirely obscured by the pitch of his checkered collar. "So when do I get to see him?" he asked, no more time for formalities than Mycroft had the stomach for.
Mycroft looked down at his laptop screen, pretending to be very busy if only to remove the tension of awkwardness. This was very much still his place of work even if John felt he had the right to enter as he pleased when circumstances made excuses for him. Mycroft clasped his hands together in an arch over his keyboard, not needing much more than feigned disinterest to keep hold of the power in the room. "He isn't supposed to be awake, John. Chances are, as soon as they hear word, they'll demand he be put to bed again."
"Even if he's only awake for five minutes before they give an order, that's five minutes we didn't have before. Those minutes count; they matter. Maybe you don't want them, but I do." John paced nervously, licking his lips as he surveyed the room like a predator more so than frightened prey. "Just tell them I have clearance. You don't have to come. But I want to see him."
Mycroft hid his taut lips behind his woven fingers. "You imagine I have far more power in this situation than I do."
"You may not be in control, but you can bloody-well influence the people who are." The classic Watson rage was never far out of sight when matters intimately involved Sherlock. His nostrils flared slightly though his eyes betrayed a different emotion. "I haven't seen him in three years. Please."
"Don't exaggerate," Mycroft warned. "You've only been awake for five months."
"Dreams don't count. Those were wasted years."
"You can hardly place that blame on anyone but yourselves." Mycroft sat back in his chair with a tired squeak of leather as he watched the performance play out across John's features like a film in the cinema. He'd always been a very expressive individual. Time had made ridges where emotions laid all their best lines though the months had washed some of their depth away.
John scowled at him, his blue eyes fierce. "If you won't let me in, I'll still find a way. I'm just giving you the opportunity to choose the easy way before this all has to go in a report," he mocked.
Mycroft grimaced with displeasure, pain sparking at the base of his spine from a ridged posture his own years had learned to protest to. "It's not just yourselves you'd be damning," he reminded him, never one to be overly impressed by the impulsiveness of idiots.
John shrugged his shoulders with a nonchalance unsuited to the tone of discussion. "Yeah, well we did the whole 'greater good' thing already. This is where that got us. Sorry, but we were doing a hell of a lot better when we were only interested in ourselves. At least then when people wanted to kill us we had the option to run." He put his fingertips to the metal band around his neck where the engravings zero-five-eight branded him inescapably.
He was being played and he knew it. Mycroft was never one to be manipulated against his will--no master manipulator worth his salt ever would be--and a heart of ice was an absolute protection against all forms of guilt or incentive. But he loved his brother, and his brother loved the brash man before him who never once gave Mycroft reason to doubt that he was a good and necessary accompaniment to their lives. Sherlock was asking for him. Sherlock wanted to see John.
The only thing he'd asked of him was to keep John safe. He supposed it was only right for him to apologize in person.