Fic: The Prize 14/16
Jan. 25th, 2012 08:33 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
trillsabellsTitle:The Prize
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
trillsabells
Beta:jupiter_ash
Rating: This chapter R, NC17 overall
Length: This Chapter 5100, overall nearly 100k
Spoilers: None
Summary: On 29 January 2010 an unknown Event wiped out 98% of the population. This is the story of the survivors, four months on. Based on this prompt here
Warnings (for entire fic): Starts with the death of over 6 billion people and goes downhill from there. Death, destruction, disease, violence, fire, plane crashes, slavery, graphic sex and serious consent issues
Author's Note: Hope to get the next chapter up Tuesday.
Chapter 1 : Chapter 2 : Chapter 3 : Chapter 4 : Chapter 5 : Chapter 6 : Chapter 7 : Chapter 8 : Chapter 9 : Chapter 10 : Chapter 11 : Chapter 12 : Chapter 13
“The signature was forged,” Mycroft said.
Sherlock unfolded from his perch on the lab stool – a twinge in his side reminding him he hadn’t taken any painkillers since he had woken up – and glared at his brother for expressing what was surely the most pointless statement of the century.
“Of course,” he said, deciding to fight obvious with obvious. “If you had let me look at it I could have told you that immediately.”
It had only been a moment but that second of doubt, of lack of faith in John, haunted him. He had retreated to his lab to think, sitting at the counter with his hands pressed together under his chin for over an hour until he had been annoyingly interrupted.
“And yet the video footage clearly shows Doctor Watson leaving of his own accord.”
“Just because the video shows him walking out unrestrained doesn’t mean he wanted to leave,” Sherlock said, resisting the urge to jump to his feet and pace the length of his lab.
He would not show Mycroft how much this was affecting him. He would not hand that weakness over to his brother.
“He could have been coerced or threatened,” he said. “’Seb’ could have been manipulating him for months through their budding ‘friendship’. That man was overheard mentioning four oh seven seven; John’s codename. He could have been plotting this since the first time they met, since he saw how effective a doctor John was.”
Coerced was more likely given their use of Sherlock’s techniques for leaving the Enclave which Colonel Moran could only have learnt from John. He had warned John to stay away from the colonel. Why hadn’t he listened to him? Why hadn’t John told him what he was doing?
Mycroft’s face remained irritatingly impassive. “Are you sure you can think of no other reason why he might want to defect?”
Sherlock glared again. “Apart from wanting to get away from you? No.”
Mycroft gave the ‘I’m disappointed in you’ sigh which always infuriated him.
“Sherlock-“
“Perhaps it was a perfectly reasonable course of action to get away from the man who would have taken him away somewhere more secure and pumped him full of drugs.”
“He was emotionally unstable enough to attack you, the least he needed was medication to calm him down. He wouldn’t have been harmed-“
“Except he didn’t need the medication, I proved that.”
“By sleeping with him?”
That ground him to a halt, if only because of the fact that Mycroft knew about him and John. Of course he knew, it would have been obvious to anyone who truly observed – which pretty much boiled down to Mycroft and himself – but still the thought of his brother knowing about his sex life rankled with him. Also that wasn’t the point, of course it wasn’t. Mycroft was just trying to get to him.
“I did warn you he was not in a fit state to return your attachment,” Mycroft said, his tone mockingly pitying.
He frowned. “What are you talking about?”
“I wish you had listened to me instead of simply diving in regardless.”
He couldn’t resist anymore. Ignoring the stiffness in his muscles – it was decided, as soon as John was back they were definitely getting a sofa - he leapt to his feet and stared his brother in the face.
“We were together.”
Mycroft was unfazed, returning his gaze with cold haughtiness. “Are you certain about that? He did just run away, that does rather suggest his feelings towards you are not the same as yours towards him.”
Which goes to show that he knew. “Of course I’m sure,” he said, triumphing in for once having more of the facts than perfect Mycroft. “He loves me.”
“Ah.” Mycroft broke eye contact as if a great revelation was dawning. “That explains the running away.”
Oh for- this was just jealousy. “If you’re just going to be irritating you can leave. I need to work out where he’s gone.”
Mycroft didn’t move. “Tell me, Sherlock, did you say anything to him? Discuss your feelings at all or did you just climb into his bed?”
“I am done with this conversation,” he said turning back to the computer.
It was time to be more active. He would start with what he knew about the collectors and compare his data to the UK Report-
“Yes, I feared as much. Did it not occur to you that he might take this badly? You forcing yourself upon him.”
He froze then turned slowly. If looks could kill Mycroft would have been splattered against the wall. And not even a very close wall. As it was it took all his self-control not to make that fact with more than just his eyes.
“I didn’t force myself upon him,” he said, plainly. “He could have kicked me out at any time.”
He had expected to be kicked out at any time. He had been thrilled that John had let him stay, had wanted him back. How dare Mycroft question it, attempt to undermine their relationship like this, especially when John needed him most.
“Was he aware of that?”
Oh now Mycroft was being ridiculous. “Of course he was.”
“Are you absolutely certain of that?” Mycroft took a step forward, unusually threatening. “Are you absolutely sure that a man who had been thrown out of the army, his home, denied permission to continue his calling, been made to feel useless by his own psychosomatic idiosyncrasies, suffered through the most terrible times anyone can imagine, starved, beaten, destroyed, ill and scared of both everything out there that could and would harm him and of the terrors inside his own head, would feel able to say no to the one man who had given him food, shelter, health, purpose and friendship and could, as far as he was aware, take it all away from him again? Are you one hundred percent positive that that man would think he was allowed to say no?”
It felt as if all of his blood had drained out of his body and was pooling around his feet. He felt like his chest had cracked open and his heart was lying on the table top. He felt remarkably like that time he hadn’t eaten for a week and then a suspect had taken a two by four to his head. He couldn’t move a muscle, certain in the knowledge that if he did he would surely stumble and never wake up again.
If what Mycroft had said was true then maybe that wouldn’t be a bad idea.
“He loves me,” he said, falling back on the one irrevocable fact. “He said so.”
“I think I love him,” John had said earlier that very day just before they had fallen asleep in each other’s arms. The first time they had slept, truly slept, together. He didn’t think John had been aware he had said it out loud. That was what assured him all the more that it was true.
Mycroft placed a hand on his arm and he hated himself for being glad of the support.
“Exactly. Can’t you see why that would frighten him?”
John always fought to stay in control of himself. Never relaxed, not completely, for fear of losing that control. For fear of incidents like the attack in the lab. To fall in love with the kind of monster Mycroft had painted Sherlock as in that speech would be to be powerless.
But to hand himself over to collectors instead? Was that really a better alternative than… Sherlock?
He steeled himself, straightening himself up and let the shutters fall over his face.
“I need to find out where they’ve taken him.”
Mycroft raised an eyebrow. “You won’t be welcome.”
“I don’t care. I won’t leave him to the wolves. If he wants to leave, fine, I’ll let him go.”
A slight tweak of Mycroft’s mouth showed just how much his brother believed that.
“But I will destroy any collector who thinks they can lay their hands on him, and if that involves taking down the biggest, most organised of them all then I don’t think there will be many complaints.”
~
A kick to the back of his legs dropped him to his knees onto the rich red carpet. Raising his head, his gaze found a pair of well-polished, designer and no doubt originally very expensive black leather shoes standing just a few feet away. Further up it met a dark navy, equally well made, suit, a white shirt, a perfectly pressed tie, then finally a humourless smirk under eyes lit up with glee, all wrapped up in a man that would be unassuming if it wasn’t for the waves of sinister that wafted off him.
“Doctor Watson, I presume,” said the man in a lilting Irish accent.
He straightened up, leaning back on his haunches. “And who are you supposed to be?”
A look of mock surprise crossed the man’s face. “Me? I’m the King.” His majesty suddenly smiled widely. “Jim Moriarty. Hi!”
King Moriarty? It sent a quiver of fear all the way down to his patriotic core. He gritted his teeth to stop from saying something that might anger the man who was clearly in charge of the guns pointed at his back and keeping his sister.
Moriarty walked towards him, a slow swinging stride as if he was deliberately taking his time in order to admire the landscape when all the time his eyes were locked on him. There was an intensity there that could rival the Holmes brothers.
“In this brand new world,” Moriarty said, “I’m the one in charge. Mycroft Holmes,” he snorted, “in his little tin can thinks he can hide away for a few years and when he walks out it will all be the same. He can stay in there and rot for all I care. He’s of no interest to me when I have the whole world.”
Moriarty finally reached him and, quick as a flash, dropped down to crouch in front of him and seized his chin. Instinctively he flinched away but the other man held firm.
“But we’re not here to talk about me,” Moriarty said in a low tone. “I’ve won my game.” Moriarty shrugged. “It was fun for a while, which was the most important thing. Even if the ending was a little too easy, you just walking in here like that. Still, I got what I wanted and the Holmes brothers get to learn that I always get what I want. No, let’s talk about you.”
Moriarty’s hand stroked down his cheek and he had to fight not to cringe away from the touch. A wild thought ran through his head that only Sherlock should touch him like that but that was a whole kettle of fish he shouldn’t open when faced with a psychopath in front of him. Instead he straightened his chin and put everything he had learned from facing down Holmes stares into use to return Moriarty’s scrutiny. Somehow that only served to make his majesty’s grin wider.
“Do you know what you are, Johnny boy?” Moriarty said. “You’re life. Wrapped up in one neat little hoodie.”
Moriarty flicked at his hood then leapt to his feet and, turning, threw out his arms to encompass the entire room.
“People here keep dying and that’s just not what I want from them.” Moriarty spun back to face him, hands in his pockets. “I want them to work, to farm, to mine, to cook, to sew, to do all those boring little ordinary things most people don’t realise they rely on so much. Even the people who do don’t think, don’t plan ahead, just let people die. Am I the only one left alive who thinks?!”
The last sentence was shouted so it echoed through the room. He made sure no fear of the unhinged man in front of him showed on his face but he couldn’t stop himself swallowing nervously.
“They had doctors working on farms. Can you believe that?” Moriarty said, rubbing a hand across his face. “No idea how valuable or how rare they were. Especially ones like you, Johnny boy. I was ready to give you up for lost when Sherlock got you before I could, but then Seb told me how good you were and how you caught Sherlock’s attention. I just had to play after that.”
Moriarty gave a wide handed shrug as if it was out of his control.
“I got other doctors of course, but they just kept dying or making me kill them. You’re supposed to be life!”
Another shout then once again Moriarty was crouched in front of him, whispering in his ear.
“But you won’t do that, will you, John? You’ll be the prize of my collection, won’t you? All I want to do is keep people alive. What’s wrong with that?”
“And if I refuse?”
Moriarty leaned back to look at him, an enquiring expression on his face as if trying to decide whether he would really do that.
“Then I’ll skin you,” Moriarty said eventually, “and turn you into shoes.”
He swallowed again, trying not to be sick, and smiling Moriarty patted him on the cheek and stood up once more.
“I think we understand each other,” he said. “Seb, be a dear and take him to the hospital. I’m sure our new doctor will want to get to work right away.”
John stood when Seb yanked on his arm and let himself be led away and out the room, glad to put some distance between him and King Moriarty.
He stayed silent as he was marched along the corridors but kept an eye out to take it all in. If he was going to get out of here he needed to know as much about the layout of this place as possible and he had to find out where the ‘slaves’ were kept.
When Seb pushed him through one final door then let go of his arm he guessed this was their destination. It was a long thin room much like many of the other galleries he had passed, with its luxurious red curtains, finely tiled floor, elegant chandelier and richly decorated ceiling. Except that, unlike the other rooms, this one appeared to have been gutted. There was nothing on the walls and no carpet, despite a difference in shading on the wallpaper and floor that showed where they had recently been. Instead there were mats lined up along the walls, about half of them holding a man or woman dressed in rags and with a collar around their necks attached to the wall by a chain. There were one or two beds, a hodge podge of medical equipment and bars across the boarded up windows. The remains of the chandelier that must have once lit up the room still hung from the ceiling, but unlike in the other rooms no one had bothered to replace the bulbs that had smashed during the Event and instead the room was lit with dozens of what looked like desk lamps bolted to the walls just above each chain attachment.
This was the hospital then, was it?
Seb unlocked his handcuffs and he rubbed at his sore wrists automatically. He resisted the urge to turn around and punch Seb in the face. It probably wouldn’t go down well.
“Okay,” he said, “I’ll do what you want if you just let me see Harry.”
Seb put a hand on his shoulder and said in his ear. “You better hope she gets injured then because you’re not seeing her and you are going to do what we want. Or you could just sit in the corner and sulk while people die around you. What kind of doctor are you?”
He resisted the urge to grab the hand on his shoulder and break Seb’s wrist.
“Molls will show you around,” Seb said, backing off. “Molls! New playmate for you.”
He watched the colonel give one final shark-like grin then leave through the door they had entered. There was a distinct click as the door locked behind him. When he turned back a mousy woman in a white coat, no collar, a black eye and with a frightened expression was standing nervously in front of him.
“Um,” she said. “Doctor Molly Hooper.”
She offered her hand. He took it to shake.
“Doctor John Watson,” he said.
Her eyes widened and she suddenly let out a breathy laugh which lasted only a moment before she clamped down on it with a hand to her mouth.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “It’s just I’ve been on my own here since they took Cathy away and I didn’t- I- I’m glad- well I’m not glad anyone-“
She shook her head as if that would help rearrange her words into something more coherent.
“I should show you-“ she said, indicating the room behind her with a wave of her hand over her shoulder. “The guards just brought in today’s group,” she finally found a firmer tone as if this was something she could deal with unlike a new doctor. “You could maybe help me? Then I could run you through… things.”
It should have felt like collaborating or giving in to Moriarty’s psychopathic demands. Instead it was a fellow doctor in a terrible situation calmly asking him, as a colleague, to help the poor souls surrounding her.
“Of course.”
There were ten patients on the ward which, according to Molly, had the spaces enough for twenty, but had a top capacity of as many as the guards squeezed in. Most of the current patients had cuts, bruises, sores, blisters and every other sign of hard, uncaring work. He administered tetanus jabs and painkillers while Molly saw to a teenage girl who had collapsed from exhaustion.
As they worked Molly explained that this was the usual lot. While there might be drips and drabs of house slaves dropping in during the day the main load came in from the farm at the end of the working day around nightfall. It turned out he had missed the main drop off while he had been having his interview with Moriarty. Apparently the guards always came with a group which Molly-
“Well, we now,” she said sounding relieved.
-had to triage as quickly as possible, identifying the ones that could be patched up quickly and sent back and the ones to be kept overnight. She- they then had the night to treat them although they were allowed to bargain for more time if necessary.
“We can usually get a day or two if we can guarantee a good recovery. Or if it’s possible for someone to work through their recovery there are a few positions in the house that we can request for them. Sometimes we even get as much time as they really need if a guard likes them.”
A meaningful look was shot to a pretty collectee in one of the beds at the back of the room with her leg in traction. Molly said she had ‘fallen down the stairs’ which was an excuse he knew well of old.
“So it’s not all bad,” said Molly, moving on to a man who couldn’t have been older then twenty with a blistered and bleeding foot. “There are worse places.”
“There are?”
She looked up and met his eyes with a haunted look.
“Yes,” she said without hesitation. “Most collecters just shoot their people where they fall. At least here we get a chance to patch them up. As long as they can work they’re safe.”
“Until they can’t work anymore.”
Molly dropped her gaze. “I- I stopped them from doing the shooting in here.” She gave a little smile. “It wasn’t hygienic.”
His stomach churned at the thought of this sweet woman driven to make a joke like that. As he watched Molly patted the young man on the ankle and said,
“You’re going to be fine. I’ll wrap it and get you an extra day off.”
The man didn’t react. None of the collection did despite their talk. They just stared soullessly at the ceiling above their mats, only talking when asked a question. Molly didn’t seem surprised by their silence and yet she still told each of her patients exactly what she was doing and gave reassurances no matter how much she was ignored.
“How long have you been here?” he asked her.
“Jim- Moriarty set up this place about a month and a half after the Event,” she said. “He- I was in London before that at a place J- Moriarty had there. He picked me up about a week after the Event.” She gave her sad little smile again. “He was nice. He said he worked at the hospital I did - just in IT - and that he knew this sanctuary place for survivors that needed doctors.” She rolled her eyes as if she knew how foolish that sounded now with hindsight. “It wasn’t just me,” she said. “There were three of us at the beginning but… well….”
She was interrupted by the main door opening and two guards armed with handguns walked in. He found himself the object of two wary looks before one of the men turned to Molly and said,
“X-ray?”
“Yes.” She stood. “PP first.”
That clearly made sense to the guards as they didn’t bat an eyelid as she abruptly turned and headed to the other end of the ward. He had assumed the ornate door at that end was locked just like the one he had first entered through, but she opened it without any bother and disappeared into the room beyond. Curious he followed her, closely pursued by the guards.
Beyond the door was a round, warmly decorated room with eight hospital beds, five of which were being used and all of which were surrounded with what he recognised as top of the range medical equipment. Heart beats danced across computer screens and a respirator pulsed rhythmically along. Molly was talking to one man who seemed to be in the middle of a card game with two uniformed and heavily armed men who were sat by his bed. Another man seemed content to read his book, undisturbed by their appearance. The other three patients were sleeping with far more comfort and ease than any of the people in the other room.
“I want to have another look at his hand,” Molly said to the two guards who had followed him in.
Molly and the card players got out of the way so the guards could start to move the bed.
“What does PP stand for?” he asked when the other doctor came closer.
“I could never decide between ‘possible pain’ and ‘punishment promised’,” she said with a smile.
When he failed to laugh her smile faded and she said, “Priority patient. They are first priority for time, resources and attention no matter how minor their wounds may be compared to any other patient. Usually it’s guards or collectors in here but a few of these came in from London today. Do you know how to work an X-ray machine? I had to learn but the one in the next room is quite simple-”
He walked away from her mid sentence as his eyes had suddenly been drawn to one of the unconscious patients, a familiar looking woman with a heavily bandaged shoulder.
“Lucy.”
The group had arrived from London. These were the survivors from their escape from the embassy, shipped here so they could be looked after by a proper doctor, Molly. These were the men and women he had shot.
There was a folder of X-rays next to the bed which he seized and examined by holding up to the light. Then he ripped back the dressing on Lucy’s shoulder and examined the other doctor’s handiwork up close. The bullet had been removed and she had been stitched up well enough but shoulder wounds were tricky, especially when the bone had been shattered as in this case. As had been the case for his own shoulder injury. Lucky for Lucy then that being in hospital after being shot in the shoulder left a doctor with plenty of time to learn the best way to fix that kind of injury.
He turned back to the rest of the room and found himself with the attention of Molly, both awake patients and all four guards – two of whom had pulled their weapons on him. Cautiously he stepped away and raised his hands to show he meant no harm.
“I know a bit about shoulder injuries,” he said, slowly and cautiously. “No offence to Doctor Hooper’s work but I can make her better, give her more movement to her arm than if you just leave her be. Do you have an operating theatre?”
“There’s a room I use,” Molly said quickly, “with equipment from the hospital. If you need anything a bit more complex-“
“I’ll make do,” he said. “Can you get it ready?”
The guards regarded him uncertainly until Molly turned around and snapped,
“Now!”
They jumped into action, leaving the bed and the bemused looking patient where it was halfway to the door.
“I still want to do X-rays now you’ve got the machine turned on so I’ll need another escort.”
When she turned back towards him with a shy smile he couldn’t help feel she had enjoyed that.
~
Why was everyone else on the planet so utterly useless? Honestly, he would think that the Event had wiped out everyone who could rub two brain cells together if it wasn’t for the fact that his wide experience of the human race pre-Event had resulted in no one who could really think either.
Unhelpfully, Fisher, who had spoken many times on the phone to someone actually at Moriarty’s base, had no idea where the damn place actually was. This meant having to rely on the small clues he had gleamed from the interrogation, adding them to the UK Report along with everything else he had discovered in the hope of being able to deduce where exactly this place was.
Except that that was another thing. The UK Report. Now he knew why he had restricted himself to London. Even taking into consideration that the geographical distance and range made mapping such an area more difficult than the much closer city, his own London Report was a masterpiece compared to this worthless piece of rubbish. It was hardly worth the megabytes it was taking up on the Enclave’s servers for all the help it was. Had Mycroft ever even looked at it in all this time? Logic said that he must have done, but one glimpse at the report said that if Mycroft had then whoever had been assigned it would have been reassigned to permanent toilet cleaning duties.
If he was going to find Moriarty’s base he needed complete accuracy, so he ended up having to pull in all the excursion reports from the last four months just to correct the map. Then, of course, he hit on the difficulty that so many of the excursions had been led by Colonel Moran, so their conclusions couldn’t be trusted which, he admitted to himself, might go some way to explain the disgrace to the name of logic that was the UK Report. They had known Moran was the traitor for months now, hadn’t anyone thought of making sure someone else wrote a report as well? Hadn’t anyone considered that having information about the outside world that was even mildly trustworthy would be something worth having?
He would just have to interview all the soldiers himself, sort this whole mess out.
He didn’t have time for all this. He needed the information urgently. Why hadn’t anyone just thought for once in their pathetic little lives?
“Sherlock, you should rest.”
And why couldn’t his brother just leave him alone? It was his fault John had run away and his fault he didn’t have the information he needed to get John back, so what, honestly, did the infuriating man think he was going to achieve when he was working so hard to fix his mistakes.
“You’ve been at this for hours, you haven’t eaten.”
He was aware of that. Must Mycroft be so obvious to tell him things he already knew? Why didn’t he do them both a favour and help him find out something he didn’t know? Or, even better, bugger off and let him get on with the work in peace.
“You were shot, Sherlock, or don’t you remember that? You need to take care of yourself. Or do you wish to undo all of Doctor Watson’s good-“
“Don’t talk about him,” he said in what was supposed to be a calm yet threatening manner but which somehow came out as a snarl. “You don’t get to say his name.”
“Killing yourself won’t find him faster,” Mycroft appeared unshaken by his outburst. “You need to give yourself a chance to heal. Stop rushing around-“
“Mycroft, I understand you’re undertaking what you view as your all supreme brotherly duties, but why don’t you do us both the supreme favour and piss off? Consider your duties spent. I’m not stopping.”
“I was afraid you would say that.”
There was a sharp jabbing pain in the back of his neck and he spun around, clutching reflectively at the spot that had been hurt. Mycroft was standing behind him holding an empty syringe and he had never wanted to kill his brother more than at that moment. Determined not to let the slowly lowering fog disrupt those excellent sounding plans he swung a fist at Mycroft, aiming for a certain place in the side of his brother’s neck that would disable him instantly leaving him free to dissect the older man’s body at will. Except his arm was heavier than he remembered and he ended up overbalancing, tumbling off the laboratory stool he had been sitting on while he worked. He would have hit the ground painfully if it wasn’t for Mycroft’s arms catching him and gently lowering him to the floor. He tried to talk, to call Mycroft any number of names and insults, none of which would have been the slightest bit harsh enough for what the other man was doing but he couldn’t make his mouth move enough to form anything other than an indistinct mumble.
He distinctly heard Mycroft say, “I’m sorry, brother, but I couldn’t let you destroy yourself over one doctor,” before he slipped into a dreamless unconsciousness.
Chapter 15
Author:
trillsabellsBeta:
jupiter_ashRating: This chapter R, NC17 overall
Length: This Chapter 5100, overall nearly 100k
Spoilers: None
Summary: On 29 January 2010 an unknown Event wiped out 98% of the population. This is the story of the survivors, four months on. Based on this prompt here
Warnings (for entire fic): Starts with the death of over 6 billion people and goes downhill from there. Death, destruction, disease, violence, fire, plane crashes, slavery, graphic sex and serious consent issues
Author's Note: Hope to get the next chapter up Tuesday.
Chapter 1 : Chapter 2 : Chapter 3 : Chapter 4 : Chapter 5 : Chapter 6 : Chapter 7 : Chapter 8 : Chapter 9 : Chapter 10 : Chapter 11 : Chapter 12 : Chapter 13
“The signature was forged,” Mycroft said.
Sherlock unfolded from his perch on the lab stool – a twinge in his side reminding him he hadn’t taken any painkillers since he had woken up – and glared at his brother for expressing what was surely the most pointless statement of the century.
“Of course,” he said, deciding to fight obvious with obvious. “If you had let me look at it I could have told you that immediately.”
It had only been a moment but that second of doubt, of lack of faith in John, haunted him. He had retreated to his lab to think, sitting at the counter with his hands pressed together under his chin for over an hour until he had been annoyingly interrupted.
“And yet the video footage clearly shows Doctor Watson leaving of his own accord.”
“Just because the video shows him walking out unrestrained doesn’t mean he wanted to leave,” Sherlock said, resisting the urge to jump to his feet and pace the length of his lab.
He would not show Mycroft how much this was affecting him. He would not hand that weakness over to his brother.
“He could have been coerced or threatened,” he said. “’Seb’ could have been manipulating him for months through their budding ‘friendship’. That man was overheard mentioning four oh seven seven; John’s codename. He could have been plotting this since the first time they met, since he saw how effective a doctor John was.”
Coerced was more likely given their use of Sherlock’s techniques for leaving the Enclave which Colonel Moran could only have learnt from John. He had warned John to stay away from the colonel. Why hadn’t he listened to him? Why hadn’t John told him what he was doing?
Mycroft’s face remained irritatingly impassive. “Are you sure you can think of no other reason why he might want to defect?”
Sherlock glared again. “Apart from wanting to get away from you? No.”
Mycroft gave the ‘I’m disappointed in you’ sigh which always infuriated him.
“Sherlock-“
“Perhaps it was a perfectly reasonable course of action to get away from the man who would have taken him away somewhere more secure and pumped him full of drugs.”
“He was emotionally unstable enough to attack you, the least he needed was medication to calm him down. He wouldn’t have been harmed-“
“Except he didn’t need the medication, I proved that.”
“By sleeping with him?”
That ground him to a halt, if only because of the fact that Mycroft knew about him and John. Of course he knew, it would have been obvious to anyone who truly observed – which pretty much boiled down to Mycroft and himself – but still the thought of his brother knowing about his sex life rankled with him. Also that wasn’t the point, of course it wasn’t. Mycroft was just trying to get to him.
“I did warn you he was not in a fit state to return your attachment,” Mycroft said, his tone mockingly pitying.
He frowned. “What are you talking about?”
“I wish you had listened to me instead of simply diving in regardless.”
He couldn’t resist anymore. Ignoring the stiffness in his muscles – it was decided, as soon as John was back they were definitely getting a sofa - he leapt to his feet and stared his brother in the face.
“We were together.”
Mycroft was unfazed, returning his gaze with cold haughtiness. “Are you certain about that? He did just run away, that does rather suggest his feelings towards you are not the same as yours towards him.”
Which goes to show that he knew. “Of course I’m sure,” he said, triumphing in for once having more of the facts than perfect Mycroft. “He loves me.”
“Ah.” Mycroft broke eye contact as if a great revelation was dawning. “That explains the running away.”
Oh for- this was just jealousy. “If you’re just going to be irritating you can leave. I need to work out where he’s gone.”
Mycroft didn’t move. “Tell me, Sherlock, did you say anything to him? Discuss your feelings at all or did you just climb into his bed?”
“I am done with this conversation,” he said turning back to the computer.
It was time to be more active. He would start with what he knew about the collectors and compare his data to the UK Report-
“Yes, I feared as much. Did it not occur to you that he might take this badly? You forcing yourself upon him.”
He froze then turned slowly. If looks could kill Mycroft would have been splattered against the wall. And not even a very close wall. As it was it took all his self-control not to make that fact with more than just his eyes.
“I didn’t force myself upon him,” he said, plainly. “He could have kicked me out at any time.”
He had expected to be kicked out at any time. He had been thrilled that John had let him stay, had wanted him back. How dare Mycroft question it, attempt to undermine their relationship like this, especially when John needed him most.
“Was he aware of that?”
Oh now Mycroft was being ridiculous. “Of course he was.”
“Are you absolutely certain of that?” Mycroft took a step forward, unusually threatening. “Are you absolutely sure that a man who had been thrown out of the army, his home, denied permission to continue his calling, been made to feel useless by his own psychosomatic idiosyncrasies, suffered through the most terrible times anyone can imagine, starved, beaten, destroyed, ill and scared of both everything out there that could and would harm him and of the terrors inside his own head, would feel able to say no to the one man who had given him food, shelter, health, purpose and friendship and could, as far as he was aware, take it all away from him again? Are you one hundred percent positive that that man would think he was allowed to say no?”
It felt as if all of his blood had drained out of his body and was pooling around his feet. He felt like his chest had cracked open and his heart was lying on the table top. He felt remarkably like that time he hadn’t eaten for a week and then a suspect had taken a two by four to his head. He couldn’t move a muscle, certain in the knowledge that if he did he would surely stumble and never wake up again.
If what Mycroft had said was true then maybe that wouldn’t be a bad idea.
“He loves me,” he said, falling back on the one irrevocable fact. “He said so.”
“I think I love him,” John had said earlier that very day just before they had fallen asleep in each other’s arms. The first time they had slept, truly slept, together. He didn’t think John had been aware he had said it out loud. That was what assured him all the more that it was true.
Mycroft placed a hand on his arm and he hated himself for being glad of the support.
“Exactly. Can’t you see why that would frighten him?”
John always fought to stay in control of himself. Never relaxed, not completely, for fear of losing that control. For fear of incidents like the attack in the lab. To fall in love with the kind of monster Mycroft had painted Sherlock as in that speech would be to be powerless.
But to hand himself over to collectors instead? Was that really a better alternative than… Sherlock?
He steeled himself, straightening himself up and let the shutters fall over his face.
“I need to find out where they’ve taken him.”
Mycroft raised an eyebrow. “You won’t be welcome.”
“I don’t care. I won’t leave him to the wolves. If he wants to leave, fine, I’ll let him go.”
A slight tweak of Mycroft’s mouth showed just how much his brother believed that.
“But I will destroy any collector who thinks they can lay their hands on him, and if that involves taking down the biggest, most organised of them all then I don’t think there will be many complaints.”
~
A kick to the back of his legs dropped him to his knees onto the rich red carpet. Raising his head, his gaze found a pair of well-polished, designer and no doubt originally very expensive black leather shoes standing just a few feet away. Further up it met a dark navy, equally well made, suit, a white shirt, a perfectly pressed tie, then finally a humourless smirk under eyes lit up with glee, all wrapped up in a man that would be unassuming if it wasn’t for the waves of sinister that wafted off him.
“Doctor Watson, I presume,” said the man in a lilting Irish accent.
He straightened up, leaning back on his haunches. “And who are you supposed to be?”
A look of mock surprise crossed the man’s face. “Me? I’m the King.” His majesty suddenly smiled widely. “Jim Moriarty. Hi!”
King Moriarty? It sent a quiver of fear all the way down to his patriotic core. He gritted his teeth to stop from saying something that might anger the man who was clearly in charge of the guns pointed at his back and keeping his sister.
Moriarty walked towards him, a slow swinging stride as if he was deliberately taking his time in order to admire the landscape when all the time his eyes were locked on him. There was an intensity there that could rival the Holmes brothers.
“In this brand new world,” Moriarty said, “I’m the one in charge. Mycroft Holmes,” he snorted, “in his little tin can thinks he can hide away for a few years and when he walks out it will all be the same. He can stay in there and rot for all I care. He’s of no interest to me when I have the whole world.”
Moriarty finally reached him and, quick as a flash, dropped down to crouch in front of him and seized his chin. Instinctively he flinched away but the other man held firm.
“But we’re not here to talk about me,” Moriarty said in a low tone. “I’ve won my game.” Moriarty shrugged. “It was fun for a while, which was the most important thing. Even if the ending was a little too easy, you just walking in here like that. Still, I got what I wanted and the Holmes brothers get to learn that I always get what I want. No, let’s talk about you.”
Moriarty’s hand stroked down his cheek and he had to fight not to cringe away from the touch. A wild thought ran through his head that only Sherlock should touch him like that but that was a whole kettle of fish he shouldn’t open when faced with a psychopath in front of him. Instead he straightened his chin and put everything he had learned from facing down Holmes stares into use to return Moriarty’s scrutiny. Somehow that only served to make his majesty’s grin wider.
“Do you know what you are, Johnny boy?” Moriarty said. “You’re life. Wrapped up in one neat little hoodie.”
Moriarty flicked at his hood then leapt to his feet and, turning, threw out his arms to encompass the entire room.
“People here keep dying and that’s just not what I want from them.” Moriarty spun back to face him, hands in his pockets. “I want them to work, to farm, to mine, to cook, to sew, to do all those boring little ordinary things most people don’t realise they rely on so much. Even the people who do don’t think, don’t plan ahead, just let people die. Am I the only one left alive who thinks?!”
The last sentence was shouted so it echoed through the room. He made sure no fear of the unhinged man in front of him showed on his face but he couldn’t stop himself swallowing nervously.
“They had doctors working on farms. Can you believe that?” Moriarty said, rubbing a hand across his face. “No idea how valuable or how rare they were. Especially ones like you, Johnny boy. I was ready to give you up for lost when Sherlock got you before I could, but then Seb told me how good you were and how you caught Sherlock’s attention. I just had to play after that.”
Moriarty gave a wide handed shrug as if it was out of his control.
“I got other doctors of course, but they just kept dying or making me kill them. You’re supposed to be life!”
Another shout then once again Moriarty was crouched in front of him, whispering in his ear.
“But you won’t do that, will you, John? You’ll be the prize of my collection, won’t you? All I want to do is keep people alive. What’s wrong with that?”
“And if I refuse?”
Moriarty leaned back to look at him, an enquiring expression on his face as if trying to decide whether he would really do that.
“Then I’ll skin you,” Moriarty said eventually, “and turn you into shoes.”
He swallowed again, trying not to be sick, and smiling Moriarty patted him on the cheek and stood up once more.
“I think we understand each other,” he said. “Seb, be a dear and take him to the hospital. I’m sure our new doctor will want to get to work right away.”
John stood when Seb yanked on his arm and let himself be led away and out the room, glad to put some distance between him and King Moriarty.
He stayed silent as he was marched along the corridors but kept an eye out to take it all in. If he was going to get out of here he needed to know as much about the layout of this place as possible and he had to find out where the ‘slaves’ were kept.
When Seb pushed him through one final door then let go of his arm he guessed this was their destination. It was a long thin room much like many of the other galleries he had passed, with its luxurious red curtains, finely tiled floor, elegant chandelier and richly decorated ceiling. Except that, unlike the other rooms, this one appeared to have been gutted. There was nothing on the walls and no carpet, despite a difference in shading on the wallpaper and floor that showed where they had recently been. Instead there were mats lined up along the walls, about half of them holding a man or woman dressed in rags and with a collar around their necks attached to the wall by a chain. There were one or two beds, a hodge podge of medical equipment and bars across the boarded up windows. The remains of the chandelier that must have once lit up the room still hung from the ceiling, but unlike in the other rooms no one had bothered to replace the bulbs that had smashed during the Event and instead the room was lit with dozens of what looked like desk lamps bolted to the walls just above each chain attachment.
This was the hospital then, was it?
Seb unlocked his handcuffs and he rubbed at his sore wrists automatically. He resisted the urge to turn around and punch Seb in the face. It probably wouldn’t go down well.
“Okay,” he said, “I’ll do what you want if you just let me see Harry.”
Seb put a hand on his shoulder and said in his ear. “You better hope she gets injured then because you’re not seeing her and you are going to do what we want. Or you could just sit in the corner and sulk while people die around you. What kind of doctor are you?”
He resisted the urge to grab the hand on his shoulder and break Seb’s wrist.
“Molls will show you around,” Seb said, backing off. “Molls! New playmate for you.”
He watched the colonel give one final shark-like grin then leave through the door they had entered. There was a distinct click as the door locked behind him. When he turned back a mousy woman in a white coat, no collar, a black eye and with a frightened expression was standing nervously in front of him.
“Um,” she said. “Doctor Molly Hooper.”
She offered her hand. He took it to shake.
“Doctor John Watson,” he said.
Her eyes widened and she suddenly let out a breathy laugh which lasted only a moment before she clamped down on it with a hand to her mouth.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “It’s just I’ve been on my own here since they took Cathy away and I didn’t- I- I’m glad- well I’m not glad anyone-“
She shook her head as if that would help rearrange her words into something more coherent.
“I should show you-“ she said, indicating the room behind her with a wave of her hand over her shoulder. “The guards just brought in today’s group,” she finally found a firmer tone as if this was something she could deal with unlike a new doctor. “You could maybe help me? Then I could run you through… things.”
It should have felt like collaborating or giving in to Moriarty’s psychopathic demands. Instead it was a fellow doctor in a terrible situation calmly asking him, as a colleague, to help the poor souls surrounding her.
“Of course.”
There were ten patients on the ward which, according to Molly, had the spaces enough for twenty, but had a top capacity of as many as the guards squeezed in. Most of the current patients had cuts, bruises, sores, blisters and every other sign of hard, uncaring work. He administered tetanus jabs and painkillers while Molly saw to a teenage girl who had collapsed from exhaustion.
As they worked Molly explained that this was the usual lot. While there might be drips and drabs of house slaves dropping in during the day the main load came in from the farm at the end of the working day around nightfall. It turned out he had missed the main drop off while he had been having his interview with Moriarty. Apparently the guards always came with a group which Molly-
“Well, we now,” she said sounding relieved.
-had to triage as quickly as possible, identifying the ones that could be patched up quickly and sent back and the ones to be kept overnight. She- they then had the night to treat them although they were allowed to bargain for more time if necessary.
“We can usually get a day or two if we can guarantee a good recovery. Or if it’s possible for someone to work through their recovery there are a few positions in the house that we can request for them. Sometimes we even get as much time as they really need if a guard likes them.”
A meaningful look was shot to a pretty collectee in one of the beds at the back of the room with her leg in traction. Molly said she had ‘fallen down the stairs’ which was an excuse he knew well of old.
“So it’s not all bad,” said Molly, moving on to a man who couldn’t have been older then twenty with a blistered and bleeding foot. “There are worse places.”
“There are?”
She looked up and met his eyes with a haunted look.
“Yes,” she said without hesitation. “Most collecters just shoot their people where they fall. At least here we get a chance to patch them up. As long as they can work they’re safe.”
“Until they can’t work anymore.”
Molly dropped her gaze. “I- I stopped them from doing the shooting in here.” She gave a little smile. “It wasn’t hygienic.”
His stomach churned at the thought of this sweet woman driven to make a joke like that. As he watched Molly patted the young man on the ankle and said,
“You’re going to be fine. I’ll wrap it and get you an extra day off.”
The man didn’t react. None of the collection did despite their talk. They just stared soullessly at the ceiling above their mats, only talking when asked a question. Molly didn’t seem surprised by their silence and yet she still told each of her patients exactly what she was doing and gave reassurances no matter how much she was ignored.
“How long have you been here?” he asked her.
“Jim- Moriarty set up this place about a month and a half after the Event,” she said. “He- I was in London before that at a place J- Moriarty had there. He picked me up about a week after the Event.” She gave her sad little smile again. “He was nice. He said he worked at the hospital I did - just in IT - and that he knew this sanctuary place for survivors that needed doctors.” She rolled her eyes as if she knew how foolish that sounded now with hindsight. “It wasn’t just me,” she said. “There were three of us at the beginning but… well….”
She was interrupted by the main door opening and two guards armed with handguns walked in. He found himself the object of two wary looks before one of the men turned to Molly and said,
“X-ray?”
“Yes.” She stood. “PP first.”
That clearly made sense to the guards as they didn’t bat an eyelid as she abruptly turned and headed to the other end of the ward. He had assumed the ornate door at that end was locked just like the one he had first entered through, but she opened it without any bother and disappeared into the room beyond. Curious he followed her, closely pursued by the guards.
Beyond the door was a round, warmly decorated room with eight hospital beds, five of which were being used and all of which were surrounded with what he recognised as top of the range medical equipment. Heart beats danced across computer screens and a respirator pulsed rhythmically along. Molly was talking to one man who seemed to be in the middle of a card game with two uniformed and heavily armed men who were sat by his bed. Another man seemed content to read his book, undisturbed by their appearance. The other three patients were sleeping with far more comfort and ease than any of the people in the other room.
“I want to have another look at his hand,” Molly said to the two guards who had followed him in.
Molly and the card players got out of the way so the guards could start to move the bed.
“What does PP stand for?” he asked when the other doctor came closer.
“I could never decide between ‘possible pain’ and ‘punishment promised’,” she said with a smile.
When he failed to laugh her smile faded and she said, “Priority patient. They are first priority for time, resources and attention no matter how minor their wounds may be compared to any other patient. Usually it’s guards or collectors in here but a few of these came in from London today. Do you know how to work an X-ray machine? I had to learn but the one in the next room is quite simple-”
He walked away from her mid sentence as his eyes had suddenly been drawn to one of the unconscious patients, a familiar looking woman with a heavily bandaged shoulder.
“Lucy.”
The group had arrived from London. These were the survivors from their escape from the embassy, shipped here so they could be looked after by a proper doctor, Molly. These were the men and women he had shot.
There was a folder of X-rays next to the bed which he seized and examined by holding up to the light. Then he ripped back the dressing on Lucy’s shoulder and examined the other doctor’s handiwork up close. The bullet had been removed and she had been stitched up well enough but shoulder wounds were tricky, especially when the bone had been shattered as in this case. As had been the case for his own shoulder injury. Lucky for Lucy then that being in hospital after being shot in the shoulder left a doctor with plenty of time to learn the best way to fix that kind of injury.
He turned back to the rest of the room and found himself with the attention of Molly, both awake patients and all four guards – two of whom had pulled their weapons on him. Cautiously he stepped away and raised his hands to show he meant no harm.
“I know a bit about shoulder injuries,” he said, slowly and cautiously. “No offence to Doctor Hooper’s work but I can make her better, give her more movement to her arm than if you just leave her be. Do you have an operating theatre?”
“There’s a room I use,” Molly said quickly, “with equipment from the hospital. If you need anything a bit more complex-“
“I’ll make do,” he said. “Can you get it ready?”
The guards regarded him uncertainly until Molly turned around and snapped,
“Now!”
They jumped into action, leaving the bed and the bemused looking patient where it was halfway to the door.
“I still want to do X-rays now you’ve got the machine turned on so I’ll need another escort.”
When she turned back towards him with a shy smile he couldn’t help feel she had enjoyed that.
~
Why was everyone else on the planet so utterly useless? Honestly, he would think that the Event had wiped out everyone who could rub two brain cells together if it wasn’t for the fact that his wide experience of the human race pre-Event had resulted in no one who could really think either.
Unhelpfully, Fisher, who had spoken many times on the phone to someone actually at Moriarty’s base, had no idea where the damn place actually was. This meant having to rely on the small clues he had gleamed from the interrogation, adding them to the UK Report along with everything else he had discovered in the hope of being able to deduce where exactly this place was.
Except that that was another thing. The UK Report. Now he knew why he had restricted himself to London. Even taking into consideration that the geographical distance and range made mapping such an area more difficult than the much closer city, his own London Report was a masterpiece compared to this worthless piece of rubbish. It was hardly worth the megabytes it was taking up on the Enclave’s servers for all the help it was. Had Mycroft ever even looked at it in all this time? Logic said that he must have done, but one glimpse at the report said that if Mycroft had then whoever had been assigned it would have been reassigned to permanent toilet cleaning duties.
If he was going to find Moriarty’s base he needed complete accuracy, so he ended up having to pull in all the excursion reports from the last four months just to correct the map. Then, of course, he hit on the difficulty that so many of the excursions had been led by Colonel Moran, so their conclusions couldn’t be trusted which, he admitted to himself, might go some way to explain the disgrace to the name of logic that was the UK Report. They had known Moran was the traitor for months now, hadn’t anyone thought of making sure someone else wrote a report as well? Hadn’t anyone considered that having information about the outside world that was even mildly trustworthy would be something worth having?
He would just have to interview all the soldiers himself, sort this whole mess out.
He didn’t have time for all this. He needed the information urgently. Why hadn’t anyone just thought for once in their pathetic little lives?
“Sherlock, you should rest.”
And why couldn’t his brother just leave him alone? It was his fault John had run away and his fault he didn’t have the information he needed to get John back, so what, honestly, did the infuriating man think he was going to achieve when he was working so hard to fix his mistakes.
“You’ve been at this for hours, you haven’t eaten.”
He was aware of that. Must Mycroft be so obvious to tell him things he already knew? Why didn’t he do them both a favour and help him find out something he didn’t know? Or, even better, bugger off and let him get on with the work in peace.
“You were shot, Sherlock, or don’t you remember that? You need to take care of yourself. Or do you wish to undo all of Doctor Watson’s good-“
“Don’t talk about him,” he said in what was supposed to be a calm yet threatening manner but which somehow came out as a snarl. “You don’t get to say his name.”
“Killing yourself won’t find him faster,” Mycroft appeared unshaken by his outburst. “You need to give yourself a chance to heal. Stop rushing around-“
“Mycroft, I understand you’re undertaking what you view as your all supreme brotherly duties, but why don’t you do us both the supreme favour and piss off? Consider your duties spent. I’m not stopping.”
“I was afraid you would say that.”
There was a sharp jabbing pain in the back of his neck and he spun around, clutching reflectively at the spot that had been hurt. Mycroft was standing behind him holding an empty syringe and he had never wanted to kill his brother more than at that moment. Determined not to let the slowly lowering fog disrupt those excellent sounding plans he swung a fist at Mycroft, aiming for a certain place in the side of his brother’s neck that would disable him instantly leaving him free to dissect the older man’s body at will. Except his arm was heavier than he remembered and he ended up overbalancing, tumbling off the laboratory stool he had been sitting on while he worked. He would have hit the ground painfully if it wasn’t for Mycroft’s arms catching him and gently lowering him to the floor. He tried to talk, to call Mycroft any number of names and insults, none of which would have been the slightest bit harsh enough for what the other man was doing but he couldn’t make his mouth move enough to form anything other than an indistinct mumble.
He distinctly heard Mycroft say, “I’m sorry, brother, but I couldn’t let you destroy yourself over one doctor,” before he slipped into a dreamless unconsciousness.
Chapter 15
