Chapter Text
Outside, Mycroft was surprised to see DCS Alistair Hunter lingering beside the ambulance. John took charge of getting Greg settled on the stretcher, which looked like it was going to turn into a serious argument.
“Don’t even think about it,” John said, closing his eyes in the face of Greg’s protestations. “Not in a million years. You’re getting full-body X-rays and CAT-scans and an MRI too if I think you need it.”
“All I need is a pair of crutches!”
Mycroft stepped in and set his hand on Greg’s. “Right now, you are exhibit A in the case against James Moriarty. It may not take place in a court, but you are not going anywhere outside of hospital until I am certain we have documented every single bruise and injury.”
“I just want a bath, some food, and to sleep for a week,” Greg muttered, but it was in the tone of someone who knew he couldn’t hope to win.
Mycroft gave him a faint smile, then turned away, catching the Superintendent’s eye. “DCS Hunter. Are you satisfied?”
Greg tried to push himself up on the stretcher, trying to twist and see the man. “Jesus, guys, you didn’t have to...”
Hunter took a step forward, into Greg’s line of sight. “Oh, shut up, Lestrade. You were one of twenty-two officers taken. You didn’t think I was going to ignore it, did you?”
“Sorry, sir,” Greg said weakly, glancing from Hunter to Mycroft and back, still clearly uncomfortable with the two of them being together.
“John, get him into the ambulance, will you? I’ll be with you shortly.” Mycroft tipped his head to the side, and Hunter followed him.
“This is a pretty big mess you’ve got this time,” Hunter muttered, glancing around at the number of army uniforms and unconscious bodies being ferried into the building. “I know you’re good at covering things up, but this is a real monster.”
Mycroft gave him a half-smile, strolling along the side of the building, absently swinging his umbrella in his hand. “You’ll have every assistance with your side. I believe there is already a cover story in place, to do with extremists protesting, oh, something or other.” He ran a hand over his face, suddenly finding that he no longer cared about the details. He didn’t think he had ever felt like this before.
Hunter moved to stand in front of him, trying to catch his eye, and Mycroft realised he had come to a stop. “Are you sure you’re up to this yet?”
Mycroft looked past him for a long moment. It had been twenty-seven hours since he had slept in a bed, and then it had only been five hours’ sleep. He’d dozed a bit while awaiting reports in the last few hours before getting into a helicopter. Waterlooville. That was where they were. It had been such a long journey to get here, but it should have been so obvious, right from the start.
“Yes, fine,” he said, his eyes still focused elsewhere. “You should be hearing from someone in the next few days. Have you planned your holidays yet?”
Hunter shook his head, smiling at the apparent non-sequitur into small talk. “I’ve got a week in June, might go to the Seychelles, haven’t really settled on anything yet.”
“Not seeing family in Glasgow?”
“No.” Hunter shifted his weight onto one leg, studying Mycroft with an uncertain look. “I generally like to leave the country to make sure I actually stay on vacation. What does this matter to you?”
Mycroft looked back at him. “You seemed a bit put out earlier that I wasn’t allowing you to steer me. I thought it only fair to repay you for your cooperation. A very dear friend of mine has agreed to a brief, informal chat with you. I can’t guarantee how far you can get in ten minutes, but you’ll have to rely on charm and do your best.”
“Who? And what does this have to do with my holidays?”
“She’ll be in town in June, and that seems the most likely time she’ll have for things. But don’t worry. Someone will be in touch. Probably Harry.” Mycroft’s voice trailed off again, briefly, his attention wandering. Then he was back, focusing on Hunter and smiling quickly, holding out his hand. “A pleasure to work with you, Alistair.”
Hunter shook his hand, and blinked a bit as though just waking up. “I—thank you.” He nodded at the ambulance, behind Mycroft. “I think they’re just about ready.”
Mycroft turned, and saw John standing beside the back doors, waiting for him and pretending to be patient about it. “So they are.”
John stepped forward to meet him as he returned. “The paramedics are trying to insist that only one of us can ride with him,” he said quietly.
Mycroft looked past John at the man in the back of the vehicle, fussing over Greg’s stretcher. “Interesting.” He walked past John to the back of the ambulance. “Excuse me. I believe you’re done here.”
The paramedic looked up at him, surprised. “Yep. Just waiting on which of you is to ride with him. We can only take one.”
Mycroft smiled.
As the ambulance pulled away, Mycroft completely ignored the paramedic’s disgusted arm waving on the track behind them, which was much bumpier in the larger vehicle than Mycroft remembered it being on the way in. He set his fingers against Greg’s wrist. Greg glanced over at him and smiled a bit. “I must have been out cold when they brought me in because I’m sure I’d remember a trip along this,” he said, rolling a little side to side as they jounced along.
“If it gets too painful—” John began.
“Now, it actually feels damn good,” Greg cut him off. “There’s a bit of padding under me, and I’m not freezing to death. I’m fine with this.”
Mycroft tightened his lips, but wasn’t able to convince anyone that it was a smile.
“So what did I miss?” Greg asked, clearing his throat and glancing between them. “How long’s it been?”
“You don’t know what day it is?” John asked quickly.
“Well, by my count it should be Tuesday, but I dunno how long he had me out, do I?” Greg said defensively.
“It is Tuesday, so you’re all right there,” John told him.
“Okay. Last thing I remember before that was being on the platform at Waterloo, that woman under a train.”
“Sherlock’s sorted that all out. Moriarty staged it to get to you.”
Greg fumed, shaking his head at that. “Jesus. I remember the team seemed awfully big— I kept seeing new SOCO faces I didn’t know.”
“His crew. We don’t need to go into it now. The others were just drugged and left naked around the city, all just an elaborate ruse to get my attention.”
“Well he certainly got his share of that. You going to have him killed?” Greg asked bluntly, looking up at Mycroft.
“I’ve told you. No.”
John looked over at him. “I’m no particular supporter of the death penalty, but... really, Mycroft, in this case, I think... I think we should consider it.”
Mycroft held himself stiffly neutral. “ ‘We,’ John? Who is ‘we?’”
“You, Greg. Me. Sherlock.”
“What about Hunter? How many officers were taken?”
“Okay, ask him, but he’s never dealt with Moriarty before.”
“You already know what Sherlock would say.”
“He’d say kill the bastard.”
“This is not a democracy, John.” Mycroft shook his head. “I will not be drawn. There is no point allowing him a trial— he has no peers. There is no jury suitable. It could not be anything but biased. And the responsibility for the decisions that need to be made... no. This is my decision.”
“Don’t I deserve a say?” Greg asked.
Mycroft looked at him. “No.”
Greg lowered his head back onto the pillow. “Fine.”
John looked back and forth between them. “What, that’s it?”
Greg snorted. “John, right now... yeah. Yeah, that’s it. I’d like him dead. But not so much that I’m willing to do it myself. Mycroft knows. And sometimes, you just learn... some decisions you really don’t want to be yours.”
“Oh...kay,” John said, clearly not understanding still, but giving up. “Right. I should probably get in touch with the hospital and let them know what we’ll need. Mycroft, d’you know which hospital we’ll be going to?”
Mycroft sighed, reaching into his pocket for his mobile. “No.” He ran his thumb across the screen, working it with one hand, his other hand still resting on Greg’s wrist. “Here. Anthea will be able to coordinate.” He passed the phone to John, already ringing.
Once John’s attention was firmly wrapped up in the arrangements for Greg’s arrival, Mycroft leaned closer to Greg and said, “Your ring is missing.”
Greg looked at his hand, then up at Mycroft. “Yeah. You, uh... I think he filmed that. You didn’t...?”
Mycroft shook his head. “I refused to watch whatever he sent.”
“God, that’s...” Greg sighed, his chest heaving, suddenly moving much more easily. “You’ve no idea how glad I am to hear that.”
“I’ve a very good idea. I take it he took it. It can be replaced.”
“No, well, he did take it, but. He made me swallow it.” Greg looked up at him, wary of his reaction.
Mycroft pursed his lips, looked down for a second, then nodded to himself. “John,” he said, turning to him. “How will platinum affect an MRI?”
John lowered the phone from his mouth. “Why, has he got a stent or something?”
“Platinum, white gold, sterling silver— will any of those cause problems?”
John frowned. “Well, they won’t be pulled out by the magnet, but they could distort the images.”
Mycroft nodded, once. “You’ll have to wait for the MRI, then, if you need it.”
John shook his head, puzzled, then gave up. “Oh, tell me later.” He returned his attention to the call.
Greg turned his arm, trying to catch Mycroft’s fingers. “Hey, I’m sorry, okay?”
Mycroft blinked at him. “You have nothing to apologize for, Greg. It shouldn’t be damaged, but more importantly, I doubt it will damage you any further.”
“I’m gonna want it cleaned, though,” Greg said firmly. “Very, very thoroughly.”
“It shall be done,” Mycroft told him.
EPILOGUE
Jim woke up on a bed. It wasn’t surprising anymore. He’d been waking up on the same bed for the last three years. He sat up, felt his face, and opted to forego a shave. There was enough wood left to rekindle the fire and have a hot breakfast. Beans without toast, then. He’d tried to do eggs a few times, but they were all so tiny, and half of the time they’d been more small, crunchy creature than egg. Not worth it for the meat.
He missed bread. He missed sausages. He missed bacon and eggs. But of course that was the point, so he took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and forced the cravings down. He stirred the fire, opened the can of beans and set it near the flames, and waited. He watched the label singe, peel, bounce into flame and almost immediately die away. He envied it. After a few more minutes, he ate the beans.
He went out across the beach and waded into the waves, having his morning shit, wank, and piss. He screamed for a while, swinging his arms and legs at the water, then collapsing and letting himself be washed up onto the shore. Mornings were always the hardest. Being faced with another twelve hours of nothing to do, no one to coerce, no distractions but himself and the basic necessities, all of which were far more work than they were supposed to be. Food should be supplied and prepared by other people. There should be coffee and tea. There should be meat, and spices, and herbs. There should be telephones and televisions and computers. God, he missed computers. There should be other people. But Jim hadn’t seen another human being since Mycroft Holmes. He was beginning to realise that Mycroft Holmes intended to be the last human James Moriarty would ever see.
He sat up, rubbed the sand off his skin, and turned back inland. Which direction should he choose today? He’d been heading east yesterday, but he was tired of east. Maybe it was time to try north again. He was still angry at west. North it was.
He dragged himself back up to his shack and found his net bag. He’d made it himself, and still hated it. It was woven from every piece of plastic he’d saved from the last year. He’d carefully shredded the bags, wrappers, bottles, anything he could, and rolled them, melted them, softened them, chewed on them, and braided them into twine-like strands, then knotted them together. He’d tried fishing with it, but had never had much luck. He needed something to carry firewood. This was it. He headed off into the brush and bugs and worms and shit and weeds and started the day's collecting.
He knew he’d been here for more than three years. In that time, he thought he had learned the rules. First, he would never, ever see another human being. Second, he would never, ever hear another human being. He would have no batteries, no electricity, no contact with the world. Every three months, he might come across a box. Usually just over a cubic meter, a very cheap wood packing crate, and it would hold necessities. There were cans of food and sometimes a can opener (he had three, now). Dried food, too— dried fruit, sometimes dried meats, more often pulses. Flour, sugar, root vegetables, anything non-perishable. A few items of basic clothing: underwear, socks, canvas shoes. He usually stayed barefoot. Shorts, T-shirts, a fleece, a blanket, matches, basic first-aid supplies. He was allowed a straight-edged razor, and soap, which surprised him. Then he realised that the razor could never be used as a weapon against anyone, as he would never see anyone. And no one would notice or care if he killed himself. If they did notice, they would probably be pleased.
He never saw how the boxes were delivered. The island he was on was larger than he could cross in a few days. The crates always turned up on the beaches. There were a few empty shacks on the island, all seemingly built at the same time and to the same plan. No one else lived on the island, so he had figured out that the huts were there to facilitate his exploration. As if walls made much of a difference. Occasionally there had been storms, and he’d been glad of the walls. He would have been happier if there had been glass in the windows, or actual doors, but that didn’t seem to have mattered to whoever built the huts. He missed plumbing. He missed toilet paper. There was a small stream on the west side of the island, but the last time he’d been there, there had been rain, and mud, and snakes, and he’d slipped, and a bird had startled into his face and crapped on him, and the snake had bitten him. At least he assumed it was a snake. Nothing much had happened afterwards, but his ankle had been sore. It could have been a stick, or brush, or a sharp rock. Or maybe he had died and this was hell.
He gathered up what dry brush and sticks he could, made note of a larger log that he’d have to come back for, and headed back to the closest shack. He didn’t seem to have the knack for building traps for animals, and so food was usually any shellfish or seaweed he came across, anything from the crates, and as much water as he could find, which wasn’t very much when he was mad at west, where the stream was. He’d probably have to move to another shack soon, which meant days of walking, or weeks if he stuck to the shore. And no bed. And a lot of carrying, although he was about due to find another supply crate.
He made a point of keeping all of the cans. At first, he didn’t understand why they were allowing him metal. But he had no electricity, no tools, no batteries. He had flattened a few cans and used them as shovels, back when he was still hoping there were animals on the island that he would be able to trap and eat. He’d caught a lizard, and a few snakes. But the process of skinning them and figuring out which bits could be eaten had really put him off. And he could get by on the shellfish, the crates, and the vegetation he’d found edible. There had been a book in the first crate, a survival guide. He’d thought it must have been a children’s camping book at first, and ignored it out of spite. Then he’d read it, and thought maybe it was meant for the army. Only when he was nearing the end, and it had talked about what not to expect— visitors, shipping routes nearby, planes overhead, dangerous animals, winter, rescue, contact— had he realized that it had been put together purely for his benefit. Then he had shredded it, screamed at it, ground the pages into dust between two rocks, and burned it. He’d regretted this later, and there had never been any other printed material in any of the other crates he’d found. Other than labels and packaging. He’d remembered most of what he’d read, anyway.
He was ready to eat again, by the time he got back to the shack with his load of wood. There was some dried seaweed on the beach, and he scooped that up, tearing off pieces and shoving them into his mouth as he wandered the shallows, looking for anything he could catch. He found a squid-like tangle of tentacles dragging itself along the wet sand, chasing a wave back to the sea. He laughed, put his foot in the way, and the creature oozed up and across it. It was a decent size. He scooped it up, letting it cling to his fingers and climb up his arm as he looked for anything else that might be edible. There was a fish, dead, washed onto the shore. He picked that up, too.
Later, after he’d cooked and eaten the fish and some things in shells, he gave the octopus a few more pokes. It hadn’t moved much while he’d been eating. It had slid along the ground in the shack for a while, collecting dirt, leaves and debris. He finished off the last of his water. It was probably time to go get more. It used to be a lot harder, in the early days. The first crate he’d found had had a large plastic barrel in it. He’d spent a long time wondering what he should do with it, and had scraped some of the top edge down to make into his net. Then it had rained, and he’d figured out what it was for. But usually he rolled it back and forth to the stream, because it didn’t rain that often, and he’d taken the rain-collecting plastic and shredded it in another early tantrum. So far, he’d never found another one in one of the crates.
He was fairly sure by now that someone was aware that he was out here. He wondered what would happen when he died. Would the crates still appear? Would they notice that the last one hadn’t been touched? They seemed to be vaguely aware of his needs— the early crates had had a lot of basic supplies, but then the crates had become smaller, and it was rare that he got any functional, basic tools now. Clothes, food, consumables. If he got sick, would there be medicine? He had a few first aid kits— bandages, ointments, tweezers, iodine, rubbing alcohol, little more. If he broke a limb, or got cancer, or an infection and needed antibiotics, would a crate magically appear with what he needed? Would he be left to die?
The octopus had stopped moving. He nudged it with his toe. It felt different. He picked it up. It slopped over his hand, without moving. He carried it back to the water and dropped it in. It rolled back and forth with the water. He waited a few minutes, herding it back to the shallows if it started wandering too far out in the waves. It didn’t move on its own, though He nudged it a few more times, but... nothing. There was no life left in it. He rolled it down to where the beach was rockier, and stepped on it. No bones, no cartilage, nothing to put up any resistance to his foot or the rock. He scraped his foot clean, kicked it through the water, slid it against the sand.
At first, he had thought about escape. He’d saved every single scrap of metal, every can, every bit of foil packaging. He’d tried to build a boat, a reflecting dish to flash the sun’s rays at any plane he saw going past. But he’d never seen a plane. Never heard an engine of any kind. He’d piled rocks on the beach spelling out messages. He’d built an enormous bonfire, ready to light it if there was ever the slightest hope that anyone would see it from sea or sky. Then he’d been tired one day, and borrowed some firewood from it, intending to replace it the next day. That never happened. After sitting for months unused, he nibbled the pile down over another few months. He’d thought that maybe they would send him batteries, a torch, a radio, anything electric. But no.
He wondered if Mycroft Holmes would even know when he died. Would there be a taunting letter in one of the crates one day? A photograph? What had been said about him? Did anyone know that he had been involved? Was the name “Moriarty” mentioned in any of the newspapers? Would there someday be a journalist who wanted to reopen the question of Richard Brooks, or who Mycroft Holmes really was?
After a few more years, and no contact, he decided that Mycroft Holmes had shipped him off to this island, and all but forgotten him. He had set the situation up, and probably had just enough oversight of it to make sure that the supply crates never turned up when he was near that area. But he probably didn’t know any more than that, and Jim Moriarty would never be worth another moment of time from either of the Holmes brothers, or anyone near them.