Stripped
part threeIt was a glorious black car that needed to be scratched. The leather interior needed knife marks and cigarette burns. The carpet needed stains. Sherlock didn't like shiny, new. It was like virginity and ignorance, not the presence of something but the absence. New just meant not yet ruined, waiting to be tarnished, temporarily unbroken. It was an illusion of perfection. It needed to be dented at the very least and wrapped around a pole ideally.
Mycroft fit in far too well in the illusion. Mycroft's entire life revolved around creating false realities, though, which were cookie-cutter and safe and catered to those who truthfully would rather not know. He'd always been quite the magician with the world watching for the secrets within his right hand while the left cranked the gears that made it turn. But not with Sherlock. Behind the black tinted car windows, while the rest of London saw only power and prestige riding elegantly down its streets, Sherlock was treated to the fullness of Mycroft's slouch, the weariness with which he rubbed his brow, the complete exhaustion pulling on his expression of married reluctance and worry--Worry never far from its mistress Determination. Sherlock folded his arms over his chest, eyes bored with the obvious tells that comprised his brother's state and finding more compelling the flashes of faces through the limited view. City employee, Banker, Salesman, Crook; bad news, having an affair, transvestite, needs a hit. Pointless. Unable to turn it off--neither the ability nor the want to see and know. Worried about money, going to visit his mother, sick sibling in the hospital, had a full English breakfast that morning. Ignorant. Stupid. Dull.
But some could help. Mycroft wasn't the only Holmes with eyes around the city.
"You are not working this case," his brother spoke with barely a lift of his chin as he continued to stare down at his knees with brows knit and fingers massaging away the strain.
Sherlock felt no reservations in stealing him with a glare. "You can't stop me," he said, legs crossing at the knee. "I'm the only one who can discover the motive and therefore lead us to the gunman. I refuse to leave this to Lestrade and his men. I hardly trust them with even the simplest of cases, you think I'm about to allow them to investigate a crime that has John in hospital without my involvement?"
"You must."
Sherlock tried the door--child-locked. Trapped until released.
Mycroft shook his head. "This is not a point to argue, Sherlock."
"Oh, but we will argue it."
"If you think I will not break your spirit to ensure your safety then you are gravely mistaken." Mycroft sat up, his cold eyes burning. "I made that gamble years ago and it proved to be in detriment. I will confine you for however long I must until Lestrade has made his conviction. I don't imagine you will thank me for this but you will be well enough to hate me. A brother scorned is infinitely better than a brother buried." Powerful and able, too smart to make the same mistake twice, too sensible to trust. Love was a powerful motivator and Sherlock hated when it stood to stop him. Love was far more often against him than on his side.
Sherlock sat forward in his seat, glaring. "This is kidnapping."
"Is it? Well, how lucky for me I have all sorts of immunities where the law is concerned."
"I'll escape. And if I need help, I will not come to you," he promised, unfolding himself to add to the intimidation. "Try that one on your conscience and let me know if it fits."
"You underestimate me. Sherlock, I can hide you away from even the light."
"You wouldn't dare."
"What do I have to fear?"
Nothing.
Sherlock's mind gave a heave as it stopped, the track ahead not heading for his desired destination, a new tactic required. Threats hardly ever worked with Mycroft and reason bent too easily to his might. All of Sherlock's enemies eventually made a mistake, however, and Mycroft was not so perfect as to not betray his own weaknesses. Sherlock let his anger subside slightly, letting his eyes fill with the concern it masked.
"It's John, Mycroft," he said, stressing the name, letting his voice lilt slightly as though emotions were compromising his calm.
Mycroft nodded. "I know," he said, and after a short pause, "Pretty child, don't you think?"
Impossible to manipulate a manipulator. Still worth the try. Sherlock scowled at his dismissal and sat forward on his seat, nearly coming to one knee against the pristine carpeting. "I need to be on this case," he stressed, forcing his brother to meet his eye but finding the other's stare wandering.
"You never did learn the difference between need and want."
"Fine then: I want revenge."
Mycroft sighed, looking even older though youth had long since passed him. "I know you do," He said in a harsh, hushed voice. "Regardless of the cost, I imagine."
"John's in hospital. How much more is there to pay?"
"Your own life, you infinite idiot!" It was almost a shout, the sudden raise in his vocal intensity sending Sherlock's spine stiff. "Something John felt needed to be protected as well. You do not get to decide if his actions were justified based on your own self-worth. He wanted you to be safe, could very well have died for such assurance, and by god you will be made to honor that."
Sherlock felt his hackles rise, the long-stated argument making his tongue sharper than even his mind. There was no ill greater than consigning a man to live past the years he desired, nothing more selfish than placing value in a life ran parallel not in search of beginnings but of ends. A man content to die should be allowed to do as he pleased and those who would rather he did not could consider, perhaps, their own lives and how truly unnecessary their opinions were in someone else's. It was an argument they'd had in college over wasted potential and cocaine. It was the same argument they'd had in many dark times when Mycroft felt his concern was grounds to overstep filial boundaries. Hospitals, rehabilitation centers, nights spent in lockdown all to teach him lessons he didn't need to learn, already knew, simply chose to ignore for his own delights. They were smart enough not to get into it but Mycroft never truly dropped it, assured as he was that he was right and his little brother a fool. Even Plato was thought a fool in his time. Sherlock pinned him with a glare, old sentiments never forgotten. "I will escape, Mycroft."
"Perhaps," the British Government relented at last, not with a sigh but a firm jaw and knowing eyes. "But you will also remember this conversation. And you will not let either John or me down with your decisions thereafter. You are loved, Sherlock. By a great many people. Do not make them mourn you unduly."
Sherlock sat back in his seat, eyes avoiding the change in Mycroft's as he sank into the comfortable leather, fingernail scratching at the upholstery to leave at least one small imperfection.
He spent the night on a bed of newspaper under the flickering light of a barrel fire, miles away from Mycroft's home and its state-of-the-art security system. It hadn't been easy. It hadn't been hard enough all the same. London's mechanical sight was his extended cell and with that in mind he kept to his dark alleys mostly out of spite. He did not relish in the smells of urine, bile and alcohol which permeated the echoing, abandoned halls of spray-painted tags but it was not something he hadn't grown accustomed to in years past when required. There was no better place to hide than in plain sight and ducked down in a hooded jumper, denim pants worn thin at the knees, there was hardly anything worth noticing about one more nameless face among the destitute and desperate.
Sherlock stretched out his legs, his borrowed trainers a bit snug even with the laces pulled out and tongue left to wag. He was rather certain the man who'd gotten to walk away with a new suit--black though still bloodied--had thought himself the more fortunate of them both. If the unwashed linens of an unbathed man gave Sherlock the head of his enemy, though, there wasn't a luckier man on the planet than he.
John never had been all that impressed with his disguises. John wasn't a man who took to deception with a smile or a shrug but more a grimace and a groan. John was a writer, not an actor and even as an extra he failed to impress. John was the light to everything that Sherlock held in shadows. He was an idiot, a moron, an absolute dimwit. A good man with a future had no right to stand in place of an actor merely pretending. When next he saw John he'd have to punch him for it. That ought to teach the lesson well. After he familiarized himself with his medical records and was assured of his full recovery. He mused to himself on a rather morbid tirade that he should perhaps first make sure John wasn't in need of any fluids or organs--the gunner would make a fine harvest if he attacked him just right.
John wouldn't find that amusing. John would think it macabre of him and tut or simply raise a brow to test his level of surety. John was very good at ignoring darkness, diagnosing it as a side effect or a passing fantasy. He probably wouldn't forgive him if Sherlock succeeded and John were to guess. John always saw him as better than he was, potential over reality. Sherlock had spent some years trying not to disappoint him too greatly. He'd rather given up on caring this time. Selfishly he could care about little else but his own anger and satiating it to the full extent of his bloodlust. There was no devil on his right or angel to his left, there was only blood on the pavement and soaking through his clothes. Liter by liter it would be matched and repaid.
The shadows along the stained ground grew longer as bodies flirted near the fire. Sherlock looked over, seeing the smiling face of an approaching urchin whose name and reputation he had known for years. "Well?" he asked, trying to maintain an expression of bored indifference.
Toby crouched down beside him, hands in his hood pockets as he perched like a hawk on his toes. "Jill said she saw some plain-clothes head inside the block of flats opposite. Looks like they have it under surveillance. No way of breaking in without a lot of antsy cozzers making a bit of noise."
Sherlock held back a sigh. He very much wanted his laptop but not enough to risk showing up on Lestrade's radar. His phone would have to do, much as linking to any mobile network made him wary. "Not entirely unexpected.," he admitted with a small nod to Lestrade's growing competence. "Anyone other than Scotland Yard?"
"Nah, not a one. Jill's gonna keep the area covered, let you know if anyone loiters a bit too long."
"Good. And the rest?"
Toby shrugged, his lips drawing flat in a tight non-expression "Nothing. Sorry, that street's not really prime real-estate. Lucky to pull a couple pieces an hour. Pauly spends a bit of time there now and then but he was in Piccadilly Circus this afternoon. Got a few people out asking about seeing anyone suspicious or finding any handguns' been ditched but it's only been a few hours. Better luck in the morning when they're back to their usuals."
Sherlock hadn't expected much more--hoped, yes, but not expected. "Of course. Thank you, Mr. Wiggins."
"Not a problem." He rocked back on his heels, smile broad with amusement. "Almost makes me feel respectable helping you out like this," he said, a bit of ash hidden in the shadow of his chin.
"Find me something pertaining to the shooter and I guarantee you I will make it more than just a feeling."
"I know you're good for it, Mr. Holmes, but thanks all the same. I'm not out here because I've got nothing better. This is my ideal society. I'm living the dream," he preached with no small amount of pride.
Sherlock let his head rest on the brick wall at his back. "Not every dream includes defecating into plastic bags but I take your meaning."
Far from insulted, Toby chuckled. He was a good kid. Sherlock liked him. He'd never let him down in the past and a favorable reputation could excuse most anything in Sherlock's ledger. The urchin side-eyed him for a moment, licking his lips before rocking forward again. "You, ah... you need anything? I don't deal but I know a guy if--"
"No," Sherlock cut him off, hand raised for emphasis. "That won't be necessary," he said. The cigarette pack adding bulk to his shirt pocket would be quite enough.
"Well, you change your mind, you let me know. They don't call me The Bloodhound for nothing. You need something found, I'm your man."
"The gunner will do."
"Then the gunner you shall have." Toby gave him a slight bow with extra flourish in his waving hand as he tilted his smiling head and rose. "You don't have to stick around; I've got your number if I find anything."
"Just the same, I'll stay here for now. I need to think. This is just as good a place as any."
Toby nodded, scuffing his worn shoes on the concrete. "I'll leave you to it then," he said, and walked off with a final tip of his imaginary hat towards the lit barrel and the homeless gawkers whom, with any luck, would want in on a cut of the prize. The more the merrier--Sherlock didn't care how far-spread news of his endeavor became. Let the guilty party know he was coming for him. It made little difference.
Sherlock reached through his jumper and took out a single cigarette, wise enough to never show a pack in a crowd with some to spare. He lit it with a cheap pub matchbook and let the light of the cherry glow under the cover of his hood. A few breaths of smoke weren't enough to settle him but the habit felt good and right and necessary. It filled his head with a pleasant buzz that pushed back the ache that carried no wound.
John had almost died for him today. And amidst the shock and horror of the reality that could have been a world without John Watson was a small, happy spark of joy that burned guilty like a cherry in the dark.