Chapter Text
“There were no other gunmen at the scene, other than Moran and his accomplice, that is.” Mycroft tilted his head, and then added, “Assuming he did in fact have an accomplice, of course.”
John let out a breath between his teeth, but didn’t bother challenging the elder Holmes. He was at St. Bart’s, the patient this time, and Lestrade was leaning against the doorframe, looking as tired as John felt. Sherlock evidently had been there as well while John was still unconscious, but had been banished from the room since he’d been making everyone else agitated with his constant pacing by the second day after the rescue. John meanwhile was confined to a secured hospital room until the doctors had determined he was well enough to move.
According to Lestrade, who had been among the first to arrive to the scene, John was apparently unconscious and lying still, any kind of weapons missing from his person. He’d been shot in the shoulder… right in the same place as from the wound in Afghanistan. Moran was also lying not too far from John, dead from a bullet to the heart. Sherlock meanwhile had ignored Moran in favor of checking John over, and then noting that the lack of weapons in the general vicinity meant that someone, a third party, had come through to clean the evidence away. The MI6 retrieval team, which had arrived to collect a thoroughly pissed off Jeffrey, said they hadn’t gone anywhere near the storage room, and Lestrade hadn’t seen anyone else while going in and out.
“Is there any evidence of who killed Moran?” John asked, glancing at Lestrade, who shook his head.
“Anderson was able to find that someone took several potshots at him from behind at some point close to his time of death. For some reason, the gunman wasn’t aiming to kill but rather maim. Sherlock thinks that the gunman, another bloody sniper, might have been waiting for the chest shot for reassurance that Moran was dead,” Lestrade said, rolling his eyes. “We did speak to the director of MI6, and she said she had not authorized any of her agents to get involved in what she considers to be a gross security breach.” Shrugging, he added, “I’m leaving MI5 and MI6 to do the mud-slinging at each other, I’ve got my own work to do here.”
John frowned. “What is the crux of their argument?” he asked, glancing at Mycroft, who didn’t look too happy.
“MI5 is accusing MI6 of unlawful trespassing. MI6 denied the claims and pointed out the several security breaches MI5 suffered if two mercenaries were able to get into a supposedly secure facility with two prisoners, one of whom carries great significance to the MI6 infrastructure,” Mycroft said, sighing. “It’s going to be quite the nightmare at the Defense meetings this week.”
“And since no one has found him, the accomplice went missing. His name was Patrice, he was going to be taking Jeffrey to an anonymous employer. They wanted him alive with his hands intact,” John said, glancing at the door as Sherlock quietly slipped inside.
“No doubt someone who either knows of his MI6 connections, or of his abilities with a computer,” Sherlock said, startling Lestrade. Glancing at Mycroft, he said, “Aunt Emma made sure that his association with the family was nonexistent after the first kidnapping.”
“That won’t stop anyone with enough persistence,” Mycroft replied, shaking his head. “After all,” he added, and Sherlock looked up sharply at his tone. “Your ‘death’ broke your association with Doctor Watson, but that didn’t stop Moran from chasing the doctor anyway.”
Sherlock grimaced while John sighed, leaning back against the pillows on the propped up bed. “We are going to sit down and talk about that, whether you like it or not,” he said, looking up at Sherlock, careful to make eye contact with the other man. “As for 221B,” he said slowly, well aware that this was most likely on Sherlock’s mind, “I’d prefer that you came back, but I understand if you don’t want to. The only thing is that yes, you’d have to put up with Gladstone.”
Sherlock nodded quietly. Lestrade glanced suspiciously at him, but then turned back to John. “As for Mrs. Hudson, turns out she was with Mrs. Redding the whole time, Jeffrey’s sister, right?” he said, glancing briefly at Mycroft for confirmation. The other man nodded, and then Lestrade said, “Gladstone is all right as well, managed to bite one of Jeffrey’s kidnappers and put him in the hospital. The man’s under guard now, but he’s just hired help, and doesn’t know anything that could help us.”
“My people will help confirm that,” Mycroft said, and John caught the hidden promise. “In the meantime however, you need to rest. Sherlock, I believe it is time to cash in that favor you owe me?” he said, turning to face his younger brother, who scowled.
“Favor? What favor?” Lestrade asked, looking confused.
“How do you think Sherlock got out of the country unnoticed?” John asked dryly. “It must have been one heck of a favor though,” he said, noting that Sherlock was squirming slightly with irritation.
“Quite. But at least I was nice, and found a method that you might enjoy,” Mycroft said, watching Sherlock. “I trust you remember my acquaintance, Monsieur François Lefèvre, from Mummy’s little summer get-together a couple years before you went to university?”
Sherlock stopped squirming. “I thought he’d be dead by now,” he said, looking unexpectedly surprised.
That was John’s first hint that he was missing something.
“Unfortunately, no, he’s still quite alive and I expect him to be so for another good several decades,” Mycroft said, looking distinctly displeased at the news. “Anyway, he was foolish enough to invest quite a significant amount of money into renovating an old Parisian opera house with the hopes of garnering public support for the upcoming elections. He wishes to have it open in time for the opera season. As fate would have it, there are daily problems surrounding the process, and several people have already been threatened with falling equipment and other such ‘freak accidents’, as Lefèvre put it. Many of the cast, crew, and workers are threatening to quit should this keep up, and Lefèvre does not want to risk bad publicity. He is willing to pay quite handsomely should you discover the cause of the accidents.”
John could tell that Sherlock was interested, but at the same time not motivated enough by the case to accept. “I assume that the personnel are a superstitious lot, and are blaming it on a spirit?” Sherlock finally asked.
“That is correct, especially given that this is the same opera house that inspired Gaston Leroux’s Phantom of the Opera,” Mycroft said tiredly. “Again, it comes down to a basic publicity stunt that is about to take a turn for the worse.”
“And if he wants to, John can come as well?” Sherlock asked warily.
“Yes. You would let me know when you were prepared to take the case, and then I would inform Monsieur Lefèvre of your arrival,” Mycroft said, gathering his umbrella. “Now if you gentlemen will excuse me, I have two agencies to soothe over. Sherlock, so that you know, Monsieur Lefèvre is staying with Aunt Alexandrine, she came to London a few nights ago to host him. Be nice when you’re there, please,” Mycroft warned before gesturing that Lestrade follow him. “Detective Inspector, I do have a few questions for you, if you don’t mind that is…”
Sherlock closed the door behind the two of them, and then slowly moved to the chair next to John’s bedside and sat down. He leaned back and for a moment, neither man spoke.
“Why didn’t you tell me about what Moriarty had planned?” John finally asked.
“Because there wasn’t enough time after the trial, especially when I found out how Moriarty was going to play out the rest of the story. You hadn’t asked to get that involved, and there was no time. My original intentions for the hospital encounter with Moriarty were that I would try to corner him and force him to confess. Then I would have returned with everything taken care of. What I didn’t know until that moment was that Moriarty had snipers in place to ensure that I died. It wasn’t safe,” Sherlock said, still avoiding eye contact with John. “After that… after I slipped, I didn’t want you to pay for that, so I did everything I could to keep Moran away from you and vice versa.”
“Sherlock, I’ve managed on my own pretty well before I met you, I think I can handle a little more danger,” John said, fighting off the yawn that threatened to overwhelm him.
“Yes, I do believe you. My younger cousin commended your actions while the two of you were still prisoners,” Sherlock said, looking unusually chastised; a first for him. “You should rest now, the doctors did anticipate some future potential problems, and advised that you rest for now until they are certain you are feeling better.”
“Are you going to leave?”
For a moment, Sherlock didn’t say anything. Then he said, “I will return once I receive the full case details from Mycroft, he should still be right outside the door.” Tilting his head, he added, “But I will return, I promise.”
John hesitated, and then nodded. Then he lay his head back down against the pillows and closed his eyes to rest.
“What in the bloody hell were you thinking?”
Jeffrey flinched involuntarily at his employer’s sharp voice, but otherwise did not answer the rhetorical question. He was sitting in the office of MI6’s director with three other agents, two of which were in this as deep as he was, one of which was there because he wouldn’t let Jeffrey out of his sight ever since Moran’s two henchmen had broken into their flat. M undoubtedly had plans to grill the three sitting in front of her, but the one in the back was getting on her nerves. “Get the hell out of my office, double-oh seven, while you still can,” she warned, looking up at the offending agent.
“Hm, I don’t know if I want to. Ma’am,” 007 said, still taking it easy. He smirked when the agent next to Jeffrey, 001, coughed to cover up a laugh.
M was not amused. “You will leave, or so help me I will send R here to another MI6 location while you are gone and he will be nigh untraceable,” she warned, straightening as Jeffrey swallowed at the mention of his own codename in the same sentence as ‘untraceable’. In MI6 terms, ‘untraceable’ was often synonymous with ‘dead’.
He glanced back at 007 and said, “I’ll meet you back at the flat tonight, all right?” Please don’t make her angrier than she already is, he thought, hoping that 007 would catch on.
Evidently he did. He reluctantly stood up, glanced once more at Jeffrey as though for some sort of reassurance before ignoring M and shouldering her door open, nearly barreling over the man on the other side.
“Ah, double-oh seven, don’t wander off too far, I might have a little something for you,” the MI6 quartermaster said pleasantly, easily moving out of 007’s way.
Jeffrey sighed and resisted the urge to slouch in his seat. If his supervisor was about to get involved… well, there was no way to lie around him, since M could double-check Jeffrey’s story with the quartermaster now rather than later. Next to him, 001 fidgeted as well; their story had relied on being able to coordinate with the quartermaster before interrogation with M.
“Q, sit down. I want someone to tell me what the hell is going on. I have MI5 on the phone howling about perceived injustices, Holmes on another line attempting to schedule meetings on his watch, and somehow, it’s not double-oh seven’s fault this time,” M said as Q shut the door behind him.
“It’s not double-oh seven’s fault because it’s actually mine,” Q said apologetically as he sat down on Jeffrey’s other side. “I did what I felt was necessary at the time.”
Jeffrey prided himself on not reacting on instinct. 001 seemed stunned for the briefest of seconds before his usual expressionless mask returned. 002, on his other side, frowned slightly but didn’t say anything.
M was less than impressed. “Explain,” she quietly ordered.
Q nodded. “I felt that it was time for R to attempt directing his own mission with the double-ohs without any assistance from me, so I suggested to him that he work with double-oh one and two, since they are the easiest of the nine to manage, and have no personal ties,” he explained, and Jeffrey realized what it was that his boss was doing. Hopefully the two other agents with him would also catch the message…
“Is this true, R?” M asked, turning to face him.
“Yes, ma’am,” Jeffrey replied, trying not to squirm under her steady gaze. “We’d tracked Moran for several weeks, but did not think it concerning enough to warrant your notification as you were busy at the time,” he said, forcing himself to relax. “I just happened to miscalculate Moran’s intentions, and was not aware that he was actually chasing several civilians before coming after me in what appeared to be a contracted assignment.”
“Is he dead?” M asked, turning to 001.
“Yes ma’am. The headshot was too difficult without risking injury to the hostages. I had to provoke him into turning around for a chest shot, but ended up waiting until he turned on a hostage in order to kill him. The Met took the body,” 001 dutifully reported, 002 nodding beside him in confirmation.
M stared at the four of them, and Jeffrey realized with mute horror that she wasn’t buying it. “Do you four seriously think you can lie to me and expect me to fall for it?” she finally asked, eyes narrowing as she refocused on Jeffrey.
“No, ma’am,” Jeffrey said, hoping that Q could save his skin one more time.
“With all due respect, M, no one except Moran died. R did well up until he slipped and was captured, but he was retrieved, no harm done,” Q said, smiling as M turned to glare at him. “You yourself were just saying the other day that double-oh one and two needed to burn energy, which they did. R’s fingers will heal, and in the meantime, he can still work in R&D for now, he was working with some of the personnel in creating some new gadgets that can be field tested soon.”
Jeffrey nearly rolled his eyes when he felt 001 – and most likely 002, all double-ohs had one track of mind sometimes – perk up at the mention of new gadgets. Q had allowed Jeffrey to work in R&D early on in his employment, a concession after getting first hired, and then punished for hacking MI6. The punishment had consisted of working in the recruit pool, fixing someone else’s coding, and Jeffrey thought he’d be doomed there for the required year until Q casually reassigned him to R&D, commenting that he didn’t want to waste talent. M had been informed that the change was done to remove Jeffrey from further temptation. All in all, it worked out for everyone.
Now if only he could find a way to get the double-ohs to stop breaking their new toys…
“Very well,” M finally said after listening to Q; Jeffrey had zoned out. “You three are off the hook for now,” she said, leaning back in her chair. “It appears that we have a sensitive matter in Italy that requires our personalized attention. I need your assessment of the situation first, quartermaster. Perhaps double-oh seven would be able to accomplish it?” she said, looking pointedly at Q and not Jeffrey.
“Of course, he’s available as far as I know,” Q said, gesturing for Jeffrey and the two other agents to leave. Jeffrey took the hint and stood up, nodding respectfully toward M before escaping as politely as he could.
He stepped aside to allow 001 and 002 out, both visibly relaxing once they were out of the office. 007 started to move toward him, but M barked, “In here, double-oh seven. Now.”
“Tonight, remember?” Jeffrey whispered, squeezing the agent’s hand for the briefest of seconds as they walked past each other, 007 pausing long enough make eye contact for reassurance. Then Jeffrey turned and left the lobby, walking toward the lifts to head back to Q-Branch. He knew he was extremely lucky, that MI6 had found him first back in the facility before Patrice. Luckier still that Q managed to pull him out of the figurative fire, and thus keep him out of too much trouble with M. The only thing was that something didn’t sit right with Jeffrey about the whole situation, such as the fact that they still didn’t know where Patrice went or who he worked for.
Or why he wanted Jeffrey for that matter.
Jeffrey shuddered, and tried not to think about it too much at that moment.