Chapter Text
Sherlock slammed into the wall and collapsed on an iron bed. He remained prone for several minutes, trying to even out his shuddering breaths. It was only when he was certain that he would make the trip across the tiny room to the door, that he ventured to stand.
Not trusting himself to remain upright unaided, he sidled against the wall until he reached the exposed entrance to this “safe” house. After creeping around the perimeter like he was on a cliff edge, he finally reached the door to pull it closed. Mycroft would be disappointed- it was basic espionage technique to ensure all entrances to a hideout were secured. His brother would certainly not have crashed onto the bed in a quivering wreck with the door wide open, completely visible to any passers by- civilian or spy.
The door handle at least was providing more support than the wall, however the bed would be far better. The temptation to simply crawl there was strong, but that would cause agony to his raw knees, torn and soiled from his being sent sprawling across the tarmac by a Slavic thug. At the start of this assignment, he would have sprung back up to land another hit but today he had fled. Because it was too much. It was too hard.
A sudden buckling from his knees informed him that the doorknob wasn’t going to suffice for much longer. Back along the wall then.
The detective inched along the edge of the retreat, sliding down the wall a couple of times but just managing to brace himself before he hit the floor, knowing he wouldn’t be able to get back up again.
He could feel the tremors begin in his arms as his body toppled onto the mattress. Mycroft would sit up immediately and begin scouring all of his grazes and cuts with strong, stinging antiseptic, and he wouldn’t wince, and he definitely wouldn’t curl up in a ball instead because he can’t face anymore pain.
And Mycroft doesn’t have a heart, so he surely would not have had tears rolling down his face.
Rest is just delaying the inevitable. The inevitable fist, or whip or gun that will finish it all. But oh how he wants to survive. That will, that desperation, burns inside him, stronger than it ever has before. The fire consumes him, and he lets it, wondering if sheer longing could enable him to finish this impossible task. Because that is what this is. He’s known since Slovakia, when 18 burly men waiting for him on the border had promptly beat him into unconsciousness before dumping his body under a canal bridge. Recovery had taken three days, and it had been a further week before any sort of confrontation could be considered anything less than suicidal. The further he delves, the harder it gets.
Mycroft was first described as “the ice man” by one of his recently sacked employees, who was having a jolly good time doing some substance abuse with, then teenage, Sherlock. Both of them were high as kites, and perhaps it was this psychosis that led the embittered young man to make his astute observation when, defenses well and truly down, Sherlock had revealed to him that the incorrect verdict for Carl Powers had been what motivated him to choose his career.
“Mycroft is the ice man. He blocks everything from the outside out, so nothing can penetrate his shell. Everything he thinks he needs is inside. But you are fire. You need fuel, incentive, to thrive, to survive. The stronger your conviction, the brighter you burn.”
The fire had always burned steadily, fed by the stable flow of cases and the gentle challenge they presented. But now…
Now the flame roared in his chest, blazing stronger than it ever had before. It was so powerful, but so small, having been doused in sand, starved of oxygen for more than a year now. But ohh, how it burned.
A plucky little spark that was fed by only one thought- home.
Home with his violin by the fireplace, and his experiments on the table. Home with Mrs Hudson in the doorway, and John in his chair.
He must survive.
There’s a small tray in an alcove just under where a window’s pretending to be. It has been within eyeshot ever since he’d huddled on the bed. Sherlock is too tired to know whether it was his eyes that were closed or his brain. If it is the latter, then it would appear that debilitating exhaustion is the only thing that can dull the cacophony in his head. Well, one of the only things.
He blinks to check his eyes are definitely working, and notices distantly that the floor is now sloping. He can’t recall it doing that earlier, so he deduces that it would not be wise to stand. Thankfully, the minuscule nature of the room prevents this from being an issue; he can simply reach over to the little niche with one arm, hooking his feet on the edge of the bed as an anchor, just in case.
Sherlock is pleased that his hand does not shake as he performs this little task. It will be less than 6 hours until the knock on the door, the order to get up and keep on going.
The tray contains just two items- a toothbrush and a small knife.
Without water or toothpaste, the former is not notably useful, but he tries even so. And, while the dry bristles are unlikely to have enhanced his dental hygiene, the action has a comforting sense of domesticity.
The knife is about the length of his hand, handle included. It’s certainly nice to have a weapon after the detective lost his gun in Albania, but its lethality is questionable. It is not wholly unlikely that a blade of the same make is being used unironically as a letter opener in some friendlier clime.
A stray lock of hair falls in his eye, as a lot of them have been taken to doing recently. Maybe…
Mycroft would’ve taken a knife to it long ago, but he always was about practicality. “Long hair,” he had always told Sherlock, “is easier to grab.”
“Not if you’re too fast to catch.”
Mycroft would then tut, and look dejectedly down at his ever protruding stomach.
The iron bed frame is digging into his thigh, and he carefully shifts position, flinching as the metal creaks. The small movement tears one of his trouser legs away from his leg, bringing with it some of the skin from the knee.
He is not too fast to catch now.
Perhaps the little blade could be a viable weapon. Lestrade’s often banging on about the dangers of even the smallest of knives, and he knows from experience how much damage Molly Hooper can deal when she’s got her car keys between her knuckles.
Although that day, when the blood was still staining the pavement, he wasn’t exactly feeling 100%. More like 5.
Eventually, he sticks it in his pocket; anything’s better than nothing.
Some water, he decides, would have been a more useful amenity. As it is, he has to wipe his sticky face on his bare arm, which isn’t really sufficient. This being so prone to water works is a recent development. Although actually, it’s not recent now, it’s been about a year. He knows exactly when the floodgates opened, when John was so far, far below him. And then he wasn’t.
Since that moment, the moisture has never quite left his eyes. It constantly waits, ready for its chance to burst forth yet again.
The room has been growing gradually dimmer, although the sodium glare of a street lamp prevents true night from fully descending. The orange glow permeates the diminutive fortress through a concealed grate at the foot of the far wall, presumably installed to prevent its denizens from suffocating. If his minimal art lessons were to be believed, the warm tones that now bathe the previously grey space should be calming and friendly. Yet more proof that primary school was obsolete.
In some slightly warped fashion, the sepia colour that the walls have now taken on reminded him of his east-facing Musgrave bedroom, which was invariably illuminated by the sunrise every morning. The orientation of his bedroom was the reason he has always been an early riser, but he’d always found the steady brightening of the day, and the accompanying dawn chorus, tediously constant.
Not that a single one of his friends or acquaintances would agree, but Sherlock actually slept far better in London. There was something about the sirens and headlights piercing the gloom that gave comfort. They were a confirmation that he could sleep and the world he woke up in would not have fallen into monotony. The countryside woke up so slowly, it made him fear that nothing exciting would ever happen again.
The ignition of the street lights is a reminder of the inexorable passage of time. His transport is yet again demanding sleep, but sleep is so unproductive, and he’s already done far too much of it. Sherlock has no intention of misusing this stay of execution. The fire is burning too low, he needs impetus if he’s to survive tomorrow, and the many long days to follow.
He does not dare to close his eyes. This night is too important to waste on dreaming, at least of the unconscious kind, where nightmares lurk. No, he must maintain control and so simply “day-dream”, as his mother used to say.
He delves into his memory, and picks out the fuzzy image that refuses to leave. It’s sort of a beige square, although the shape and hue is never constant. He could get a far more focused picture out of the dedicated wing of his mind palace, but that clarity makes the longing too acute to bear. It was a mistake he made in Tibet that he has no intention of repeating. If the desperation becomes too strong, he becomes reckless, and that is when the mistakes are made.