The Call
Chapter Three
"Don't open your front door," Greg said breathlessly before I could react. He was the source of the odour. That's what was dripping off him. The blood wasn't his own, but there was a great lot of it. Given the pattern on his arms and chest, he'd carried someone to safety - someone with multiple puncture wounds, who had lost a life-threatening amount of blood. Actually, the blood near his abdomen was his own. It was still flowing. There was another scent - floral - dancing on the wind with the lighter fluid.
"Is she alive?"
"Maybe you should sit down," he suggested. He thought my concern was of a personal nature. At least I knew my plan, underhanded though it may have been, had worked.
I was concerned, though - concerned about him. "I think that's a luxury that would better serve you right now," I said, opening the door completely and stepping aside as to invite him in. Without a word, he locked his eyes with mine before walking past me to sit in my kitchen. He tried desperately not to make a sound, but I could see his body cringe with pain as he folded onto the chair. "How long ago did that happen?" I asked, pointing my nose toward his left oblique.
He stared at me for a moment, apparently surprised at my reasonably personable tone and genuine compassion. I took the opportunity to fetch a few tea towels from a cupboard. "A few hours ago," he finally stated.
That's what I had expected. Greg needed proper medical attention. I walked toward him, handing off the tea towels. "You should move your shirt before it sticks to the wound."
"She's alive, Mycroft, but she's critical," he explained as he unbuttoned his soaked shirt. "I'm sorry," he added, his neck dancing, trying to catch my gaze.
Lady Elizabeth Smallwood had somehow encountered a minimum of 9 blades - no, iron stakes - and lost at least two liters of blood, enough to be on watch for exsanguination. That estimate didn't account for the likelihood of internal hemorrhage caused by the puncture that had reached her right kidney. Greg was apologising with sympathy because he suspected I was romantically entangled with this woman. "She is a business contact, Greg," I clarified. My evening with Lady Smallwood was, of course, an absolute effort to create jealousy within my silver-haired ex-companion. The possible vindication of that seemed far less necessary in this moment.
"Oh. Okay," Greg muttered as he began to apply pressure to his injury with a towel.
He had removed his shirt and had dropped it on the floor. His shoulders were quite broad for his smaller stature. Usually, they were a beacon of shelter and comfort in my eyes. At this moment, though, they seemed weak, despite their vast span. His demeanor and comportment both signaled a feeling of defeat.
"My front door?" I was going to have to coax the information that couldn't be deduced, as he was wholly incapable of distinguishing between those categories for himself.
"Tripwire," he began. "If that door opens from the inside, everything within a square kilometer blows."
"How?"
"Nitroglycerin sprayed onto the water lines. The tripwire ignites flares set up every 9 meters or so. We've got guys out there trying to get to it all."
"And the lighter fluid?" I asked, remembering that his entire body was soaked in it.
"Pumped into the sprinkler system in Lady Smallwood's office." She had tried to escape the flames by climbing out the fifth-story window but had fallen on the wrought iron fencing. Greg continued, as he watched me pull together this remaining information, "We found a bomb at Downing Street. It's gotta be a terror cell."
I'd forgotten how endearingly inept he could be in these situations. "No," I said simply.
"Some random person is targeting the most powerful people in Britain?" He didn't understand how he could be wrong, but knew for certain I could not.
My phone rang in my pocket. "A bit late, aren't we, brother mine? Slow today?" I charged as I brought the mobile to my ear.
Sherlock scoffed at my dismissal of his abilities. "Do not leave home," he instructed.
"I will soon enough, little brother. They're neutralizing things as we speak."
"There're snipers planted around London, Mycroft. Do not leave home," he expounded.
"Guns for hire?" I observed, though my inflection denoted a bit of inquiry.
"Just stay put, Mycroft."
"Sherlock, I have control of every camera and surveillance service in this city. I'm not susceptible to a few maladroit marksmen."
"Stop and think, brother mine," he quoted me with sarcasm. I could almost see him childishly wobbling his curly head as he said it. "I am the fastest avenue to a solution. Your cooperation would be lovely." His gibe didn't inspire the approbation for which he was reaching.
"As you wish," I matched his trenchancy.
"No one enters or exits your property, Mycroft. Please."
My eyes darted immediately to the glorified Bobby sitting in my kitchen. I could feel my insides squirm. "No one enters or exits," I agreed, reluctantly.
***
"I want eyes on Sherlock Holmes. Do you understand?" I neared the end of my phone conversation as I noticed Greg shuffle into my parlour. "And Dr. Watson."
"Lucky thing, isn't it?" Greg suggested as he took the seat opposite me in front of the unlit fireplace.
"Hmmm," I reacted without a hint of confirmation nor query as I disconnected my call. I didn't look toward him.
"That I had some extra clothes here."
"Lucky," I repeated as I turned my eyes in his direction. He was dressed only in joggers, still holding a towel to the lacerated side of his freshly cleaned torso. He had cut himself on the bulletproof, reinforced glass of Lady Smallwood's office window.
"Thanks for letting me shower," he added.
Without a reply, I stood and moved my leather chair over to face his and pulled the gauze and scissors I'd scrounged up earlier from the mantelpiece. I suspected he'd need sutures but was confident enough in my rudimentary medical knowledge to dress the wound in a manner that would stop the bleeding. I took the towel from his still unsteady hands and began wrapping his frame. "It should feel tight but not irritating," I explained as I taped the end of the fabric to his skin. Having showered with my toiletries, he didn't smell of his usual cologne or soaps. He had no artificial fragrance on him at all. He smelled, to put it plainly, like a man. I knew well the science that could explain why that natural musk appealed to me so, but it still caught me off guard.
"It's perfect," he assured quietly. "Mycroft," he continued, taking my hand in his before I could move away.
"I know, Greg," I said quickly, not wanting to give him the chance to offer another apology. Knowing that both of our lives had been threatened was, to my astonishment, softening me.
"I left a letter for you," he mentioned, still not looking away from me.
I stood and moved my chair back to its usual place. "I read it."
"I wish things were different," he went on.
"So do I," I agreed. I sat in my chair, again facing the unlit fireplace. Greg's eyes were still on me. I used to revel in that. I knew how to influence both his emotions and his desires. Knowing his attention was fixed on me was usually a sure way to maximize my impact. Now though, I was still not entirely sure I wanted his emotion or desire.
After a few moments of silence, I heard him exhale audibly. I turned to watch as he finally took his gaze from me to the half-charred logs. His hair was still damp, which made it all the more inviting. The feeling of my hands in his hair was one of my favorite human experiences.
His hands, even resting on his lap, were still shaking. I stood from my chair, relocating myself so that I was immediately behind his. "Maybe after a few days, once you've settled, we can talk through things," I offered, in as comforting a tone as I was capable. "You had quite an experience today."
"And it's not over - is it?" he asked as he reached his right hand to his left shoulder and directed his palm toward the ceiling.
I accepted the invitation, placing my left hand there to rest. I reached my right arm around the winged back of the leather chair to knead his trapezius. At my touch, his shoulders relaxed, his head fell softly to the back of the chair, and his hand squeezed mine. My height allowed me to lean over the chair and nuzzle his right ear. He hummed with contentment. I closed my eyes and kissed his temple. It felt good to touch him. My lips on his skin induced a meridian response. I savored the shiver on my spine as I slowly pulled away slightly. I took a moment to brush my nose and cheek in his beautiful hair. He exhaled loudly again, gripping my left hand even tighter. He had hurt me - terribly. I never liked to admit that I cared. It was one of the most significant human weaknesses of which I was aware. If I had to have any amount of fragility, though, I was quite content with it centering around him. "I need to check the status of things," I explained, removing myself from our contact and walking toward my study.
***
I was just about to pour tea, and another rapping started at the back door.
"Cabinet Secretary." Sherlock was out of breath as he managed to utter the two words before the door was even opened.
"Missing?" I asked to confirm my deduction.
"For three days. Can we take your car?"
"Of course." I quickly texted for the car to pick us up.
"Scotland Yard!" Sherlock yelled so that he could be heard in any room of my expansive home.
Greg rushed into the kitchen. "They hit Scotland Yard now?" he asked in a panic.
"No. No. No," Sherlock yelled in frustration. "You're Scotland Yard. We're going to Downing Street. And it's she, Greg, not they. Do try to keep up."
Greg looked at me in astonishment. "She?" I nodded in confirmation. I had told him earlier it wasn't a terror cell.
The car pulled into the circular drive as I dialed my mobile. "This is Mycroft Holmes. I want an explanation now," I ordered as I slid into the back seat. "How is it that the Cabinet Secretary has been missing for three days, and I was not made aware of it?" I found myself roaring into the phone, now seated between Sherlock and Greg. "I'm Mycroft Holmes; my brother is Sherlock Holmes. My life is always in danger. That is no excuse," I barked. "I want someone waiting for me with a full briefing at Downing Street. Immediately."
Greg and Sherlock were both staring at me with grins on their faces as I placed my phone back in my pocket. I sighed, rolling my eyes. "There's no point in having power if you can't use it," I elucidated.
We all sat in silence for a few moments. As soon as I began to think how nice it was that Sherlock was so quiet, he interrupted the calmness. "So boys," Sherlock said in a sing-song tone. "How are things?"
"Sherlock," I warned.
"What? Oh," he crooned, "still trouble in paradise? I figured you'd had enough time to kiss and make up this morning. I tried to make it simple for you."
Greg looked down at his shoes.
"Where's John, Sherlock?" I asked merely to match the suggestivity of his comments. Dr. Watson was at Barts. I'd had him watched all day.
Before he could answer, there was a deafening noise, and the car stopped abruptly, then started again. We had a flat tire. "Mr. Holmes!" The driver was alarmed. I leaned over Greg's lap to gain a view of the car's side mirror. The vehicle behind us was speeding toward us. Hanging out the passenger's window was a hand holding a gun. Whoever it was had shot the tire.