Chapter Text
"Well, that's that, then. Nothing left for it but to wait." Greg settled back in his seat, fingers interlaced together to stop a nervous tap that he hadn't been able to quite settle down. He needed a cigarette. "Shouldn't be long, now."
Mycroft hmmed quietly, his own gaze affixed firmly to the video feed.
"...You're awfully nonchalant about this, you know."
"Hmm," Mycroft said again, turning his coffee from one hand to the other. "I fail to see the benefit in getting worked up. Sherlock isn't even concerned himself."
"Right, because Sherlock's the poster boy for taking care of himself." He frowned, trying to put all those thoughts aside, mostly just to stop himself from what was probably an inappropriate smile. "Well, personally, I know I'll feel a lot better when we've got them both safe and sound. ...Even if it seems I'm the only one worried to begin with."
Because Mycroft actually did have a fair point. Currently abducted to parts unknown, tied up, and left with seemingly nothing at all to do but stare at the camera some overconfident criminal had hoped to taunt them with, Sherlock looked decidedly... he was...
Well, he...
He looked bored out of his skull, actually.
At least John was moving about behind him, though, with the camera angle, all they could see was the back of his head. He was fidgeting enough to put Greg's worries at ease, shifting against Sherlock's back, but Sherlock himself looked as if he'd just off and died right there. Just expired from boredom after all, sitting stock still and camera treated to such a withering glare that it was as if he could see the both of them, right now, and wanted to know precisely why they hadn't turned up to untie him yet.
Or, in Greg's mind: creepy.
"How's he so calm, anyway? What, did he just deduce we'd be able to trace the signal, that everything would turn out fine?" He squinted back at the screen, watching the consultant's continued staring contest. His eyes were glazed and dull, a half-lidded glare in an expression of deadened placidity, his stare only broken by a pattern of rhythmic blinks. Rapid and constant. Almost as if he was nodding off, or- no... surely not...
"Is he falling asleep?" Greg started, aghast. "Is he so bored that he's about to take a nap in the middle of a kidnapping?!"
"Hm. No." Mycroft gave another scratch at his coffee cup, his smirk sly and faint. "It's Morse code, actually."
"Morse..." Oh. Oh. Of course it was. That made more sense, of course, Morse and Sherlock Holmes- obviously, as he'd say. "I- right. That's-" He racked his brain, scouring for old knowledge of the dots and dashes as he pushed files aside, searching for a notepad to start deciphering it all down. "What's he saying? Anything to help us find them? Or something about who took them? Hang on, I've almost got it-..."
A...G...D...C...
G...G...G...E...C...
"...hang on. Something's not right..."
"Quite."
"No, look, Mycroft-" He pushed the notepad over to him, though, truly, wasn't sure why he'd bothered; the man had probably translated whatever it was Sherlock was saying in his head. Or just deduced the end of the sentence before Greg had even figured out it was code at all. "This doesn't spell anything. It's just gibberish."
"Gibberish to those of us not musically inclined, perhaps."
"What the hell does that mean?"
"Gregory," Mycroft sighed. There was something long-suffering about his voice, now, like he was exactly as bored as his little brother and then some. About to nod off himself, having to explain matters to the mere mortals of Scotland Yard. "Sherlock knows we are tracing the signal, and therefore has no need to pass encoded messages through to us that he will just as easily be able to tell us in person. Nothing he is saying will help your investigation."
"Um. Okay." A stilted moment of confused silence. "So- what is he saying, then?"
"Previously, he was giving the run down of John's little speech. Apparently, John is less than pleased with their current circumstances, and has been complaining non-stop about it, even while gagged." He tapped his fingers once, something almost like a smirk still twitching in place. "Evidently, he blames my brother for this predicament entirely. Likely for very good reason."
Oh. That was what John was doing, then. The shifting around, was because he was yelling- or trying to, even with what looked like a pair of socks stuffed in his mouth. And the look on Sherlock's face was because he was a captive audience to it.
Which probably served him right. Greg had no doubt that Mycroft was correct: it probably was entirely Sherlock's fault.
"Wait- but you said previously? That's definitely not what he's saying now." He glanced down at the gibberish he'd abandoned on his notepad, not words at all. "What's he up to now?"
Mycroft gave a second sigh of the longest, most eternal suffering.
"He only took this case as a favour to me, of course," he gave at length, inspecting his fingernails now; Sherlock simply continued his dead-eyed stare. He knew Mycroft in particular was watching, oh, Greg was sure of it. "It is the only reason he does anything that I ask. Currently, he's telling me not to expect anything for my birthday, because this case has spiraled to end so unfortunately that it now encapsulates all societally obligated gifts for the rest of the year."
Greg stared- as blankly as Sherlock. He worked his jaw, turning the words over in his head. He opened his mouth once, then shut it again.
"Oh, for goodness' sakes, Gregory. He's spelling out the notes to Happy Birthday."
Greg stared, again.
Then, proceeded to simply drop his face into his hands, and laugh, while Mycroft sat there with his put-upon air of exasperated suffering, and Sherlock continued his dead-eyed stare right at the camera, performing his supremely screwed up version of Happy Birthday.