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The man with the kind face sucked hard on his cigarette and blew out the smoke with a quick breath. Using the cigarette as a pointer, he pointed to the picture of a man on the bulletin board and addressed the man beside him, "I'm going to break a man, that man. With words."
The man beside him, dressed in army fatigues leaned closer to look at the picture. The man in the picture stared at him, jaw tight, eyes laser like in focus. He turned his head to look at the pleasant faced man. "Only words?"
The pleasant man made his face more pleasant by nodding and smiling, "Yes."
"Eric, that sounds intriguing."
He snuffed out his cigarette in the newly emptied ashtray. "Care to wager on it?"
"Anything you want."
"Done."
There was a click as the lights came on, too bright after the darkness. He could see the red bleeding through his eyelids. There was a softer click as the door opened. He opened his eyes to watch the pleasant faced man from earlier, the one who had directed the uniformed goons to shackle him to the chair. He knew that evil lurked under the most pleasant of faces. Mycroft said nothing, just looked straight ahead.
The man walked across the room with a slight limp that had not been present there earlier in the day. He set his briefcase on the table and sat down across from Mycroft. He clasped his hands together and regarded Mycroft steadily. "So, Iceman, how are you faring?" He smiled faintly, "How's your visit with us been?" Mycroft did not respond. "Oh, you're just pouting. Come now, I want the truth. Don't make me make you."
Mycroft shrugged his shoulders, the movement slight due to the position of his shackled hands. "Well, since you asked. I can't really feel my arms and the chair, it isn't the best."
The man tutted. He motioned one of the guards from the door. "Release his arms. He's going to need his hands." Silently, the guard did as he was told.
Mycroft rotated his wrists when he was free, working blood back into his hands. He contemplated lunging across the table but he knew he would be dead before his hands wrapped around the man's throat.
The man opened his briefcase and took out a black folder. Opening the folder, he took out several pictures and began to lay them out in front of him, too far away for Mycroft to see what was on them. "These were taken fourteen hours ago, over a period of three hours. I think you will find them interesting." He slid the first picture over to Mycroft. "My name is Eric. Welcome to hell." He tapped a finger on the desktop. "Look at the first picture."
Mycroft remained looking at Eric.
Eric frowned, the lines in his pleasant face forming a mask of disapproval. "We will get along just fine as long as you realize that I am in charge here, Iceman. You will do what I say, when I say it. Or I shall be displeased and that is never a good situation for the man seated across from me." He smiled suddenly but his eyes remained hot. "Look."
Mycroft looked. And the breath froze in his lungs.
The picture was a headshot of a man, a man that Mycroft knew well, very well. Greg, his Gregory, stared mutinously out of the picture at him. There was a line of purpling along his jaw and his mouth was open in a snarl. He could imagine that he was yelling at the person or people taking the picture, the ones who had bruised his jaw. His wig had been wrenched off and his own gray hair was held tight to his head with pins and sweat. His brown eyes were slitted in anger.
Eric observed the man sitting across from him, this Iceman who he was sure he could break. He could see that he recognized the man but he controlled his actions well. "Who is the man?"
Mycroft wanted to keep looking at the man in the picture but he knew that Eric wanted an answer. He said quietly, "Silverfox. His name is Silverfox."
Eric's mouth moved into a little moue of disappointment. "Nice try. Again, who is this man."
"Silverfox." Mycroft's mind was considering and discarding all the reasons that Eric and his goons would have Greg's picture, especially one where he looked like that. His mind was rushing at a million miles an hour. He reassured himself that they did not have him, that he was safe.
Eric shook his head. He pushed the second picture toward Mycroft. "Let's see if this one will jog your memory. If this is the one that will loosen your tongue. Go ahead, take it."
Mycroft reached out a steady right hand and pulled the picture closer. His left hand remained on the armrest.
"This was taken an hour and a half after the first one. A lot can happen in just over an hour, don't you think?"
His left hand fisted as he looked down at the picture. The man who looked back at him was all defiance, his mouth in a thin white line. A thin trail of blood went from the corner of his bottom lip to his chin. His chin was raised high. Somehow he had lost all the bobby pins in his hair and it had dried a little, the short hairs unruly.
This shot was of his from the waist up. His hands were bound tightly in front of his, the skin on the knuckles of his right hand roughened. Inwardly Mycroft smiled, sure that he'd gotten a shot in.
The shoulder seam of the green fatigue shirt he had on was ripped, exposing a long scratch down his arm that disappeared into the small length of sleeve left. He sat quietly, his eyes burning, his hands clasped, despite the shackles.
He imagined that he was probably trying to talk the men who had his out of their actions. He was so good at that.
"Who is he?"
"Silverfox, his name is Silverfox."
"Don't lie to me."
"I'm not lying. His name is Silverfox like mine is Iceman."
"Okay, then, Mycroft." Mycroft's eyes shot to him. His own name dropped into the room like a rock. "Oh, yes, I know who you are. I know who he is. But you will tell me." He pulled the picture toward him and looked at it dispassionately. "One and a half hours in, so little damage. Tell me, am I frightening you?"
Mycroft made his mouth smile in response, "You don't frighten me."
"I stood next to his and slowly picked the bobby bins out of his hair, one by one." He stared hard at Mycroft, looking for any reaction. Mycroft locked his body down, unwilling to let Eric see him react, see how the words were affecting him. "One by one and I dropped them into my hand as I did so. I tried so hard to be careful but sometimes it hurt his." He reached into his open briefcase and brought out a slender bobby pin, one that had several graphite gray hairs caught in it.
The next time Mycroft blinked, he held his eyes closed for an extra second. That was the only reaction that he allowed himself.
Eric smiled, a nasty smile. Now they were getting somewhere but he still had his ace in the hole. He pushed the last picture toward him facedown. "You know what to do."
Mycroft didn't know what to feel as he slowly pulled the picture toward him. He knew that it was going to be bad, very bad. He'd known from the first picture that he was unlikely to survive. He just wasn't sure what Eric's game was.
The picture made a little scratching noise as he turned it over, his hand shaking slightly.
"Look at it. I want you to look at it."
Drawing in a shuddering breath, Mycroft did. And he closed his eyes again quickly but his brain was seared with the picture.
"Open your damned eyes, Mycroft. Look at his."
Mycroft wet his lips as he opened his eyes. It was a second head shot of Greg but so very different from the first one. His eyes were open but there was no expression on his face. He could tell that he was laying on a concrete floor. A small amount of blood was collected under his left ear. It had run down from his mouth. There were raw red scratches on his throat, small weals of blood just under his jawline.
And then there were the red fingerprints farther down his throat from the scratches. He could tell he wasn't merely unconscious but dying or dead. There were small petechiae in the sclera of his eyes as they stared out into nothingness, small little blood clots in the whites of his eyes. The velvety brown irises that he loved so very much were uninhabited by his dizzying intellect, by his dear self.
He sat very still as he stared at the picture, barely breathing. Rage was bubbling in his chest but that was nothing to the pain of his heart breaking.
"What do you have to say to me now, Mycroft, Iceman? Do you like it?"
Mycroft lifted one hand to his mouth, to stop the screaming that was coming. He had to keep calm, he had to rage, he had to find a way to obliterate this man. He whispered, "Do you think I fear death?"
"I told you these pictures were taken fourteen hours ago. I've had a very long day, Mycroft and I am tired. I want you to repeat what you said. Now!"
"Do you think I fear death? After what you have shown me, after what you have done to my teammate."
"Teammate? No, oh no, not that, not just that. There is another word for your relationship with this man and I want to hear it. You could save his, you just need to tell me what I already know."
"It won't matter. Greg is dead."
"No, no, no, not what I want, Mycroft."
"Gregory Lestrade is dead."
"Not good enough, Mycroft. I know his name isn't Lestrade, not anymore."
"Gregory Holmes is dead."
"Come now, Mycroft Holmes, that would make his your..."
The word was trembling on his lips but he didn't want this man, who had taken everything from him, to have the satisfaction of hearing it.
"Shall I tell you he cried at the end? He asked for you. And then, he simply screamed."
"H-husband." He would say anything to stop the torment. "He's my husband."
Eric beamed at him, "Ah well now, we are getting somewhe. What has happened to your husband."
"You killed him."
"Which makes him..."
The word, when it left his mouth was barely above a whisper. "Dead." He closed his eyes as he said it, trying to escape this room, this knowledge.
"All together now. You have two doctorates and a master's degree. I know you are smart enough to put together a simple declarative sentence. I want to hear it now."
Mycroft reached out a trembling hand and traced the line of his jaw in the last picture. He'd give this man what he wanted and damn him to hell for asking. He said simply, quietly, "My husband is dead."
There was a loud smacking sound and the table jumped when Eric brought his hand down on the table. "Again!" he demanded.
"My husband is dead." Every time he said it, he curled over in his chair a little more.
"Again, louder this time."
"My husband is dead." Tears were forming in his throat and his voice was thicker when he said it again, "My husband is dead."
Eric reached across the table and swept the pictures together. Mycroft watched him dully, not reacting to how near he was. He tucked the pictures and the bobby pin into the briefcase and closed and locked it. Pressing his lips together he reached out a hand, intending a handshake to end their meeting. As he did so, the cuff on his shirt rode up and there were clear marks on his wrist, scratches that had bled a little and were scabbed over.
Mycroft closed his eyes and exhaled slowly. Deliberately he dropped his forehead to the table, tucking his hands into his chest. It was the closest he could get to a fetal position.
"Well, then, Mycroft Holmes, I'm sorry our acquaintance had to come to this. I bid you a good day." He straightened up and picked up the briefcase, turning to go.
Mycroft's eyes snapped open as he heard the door close behind Eric and the guards. Digging his nails into his left hand he was determined not to make any more noise. Hate boiled within him and a desire to destroy, to raze this place and to seek vengeance on who had cost him so very much. He could, he would grieve later but now, it was time to teach these cretins a thing or two about death, about pain.
Eric stopped at the two way glass outside and addressed the man he's made the bet with. "Well. I think he is broken."
"No one said anything about pictures."
"A picture is worth a thousand words. I have more pictures but I thought that only three would do."