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He let the words sink in for the other three people in the room. “But I can give you a map reference to Hell.”
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“Heaven may be a fantasy for the credulous and the afraid,” Mycroft mused as he neared the end of his story – his confession – his tone chilling and sober as a wry, grim smile crossed his face. … And so, the story unfolded itself from his lips. He, Mycroft, had no choice but to acquiesce. “THAT’S WHY SHE STAYS!” Sherlock had turned on him with such ferocity that Mycroft actually drew back for fear of a physical attack. He had worked too long and too hard all these years to ensure, not only the safety of the country but that of his family, to trumpet their secrets to two outsiders - least of all to Irene Adler, for God’s sakes, who had dealt with secrets and blackmail for a living when she was living. "This is family!” Mycroft had hissed at him in an attempt to exclude not only The Woman, but also John Watson. Sherlock and his damned sentiment… “And she’s here as a favor to me - well, actually to you, since this was your fault to begin with - so do shut up, Mycroft.” The slight tension in his facial muscles, the way he responded, minutely and seemingly unconsiously, to the Woman’s every shift in posture. “She is here at my request,” Sherlock murmured, looking at neither of them. He twirled his umbrella in his hand even as he itched to draw the gun from it, trying to decide which of them he wanted to shoot more - The Woman or his fool of a brother. “Why is she here?” Mycroft turned to his brother, his tone lofty, an annoyed drawl that only thinly concealed his shock and fury. And his own brother, a traitor – not just to the country for knowingly aiding and abetting a known terrorist, but to Mycroft himself.īut then again, neither he nor his brother were the honest type, were they? Five years, and yet here she was across from him, still the dark queen in black silk and Louboutins, instead of the hostage in the hijab that he had seen in the video of her “execution”. Trust Irene Adler to choose the position in which she could be at the head of the room, across from Mycroft so that she could see his shame and vulnerability straight in the face.Īs undeniably grave as their situation was, he knew she had to be enjoying her triumph over him immensely. The Woman sat in a chair in front of the fireplace between the detective and the doctor. It seemed fitting that the person who sat across from him be another who had conquered him and had nearly destroyed him and his brother. His vulnerability, his inferiority thrown in his face like a wet rag. Supplication was for lesser mortals, not gods in marble halls such as him – and yet, here he was, his hands empty save for his weapon that he clung to needlessly like a child clutching a security object. In the client’s chair, the unwilling participant, Mycroft Holmes found himself in a position he rarely, and in fact, had never occupied – that of victim and supplicant. John Watson sat across from him, in his old chair, but there was in his stance, a certain discomfit – as if the seat he was filling had somehow outgrown him, or perhaps he had outgrown it – and yet, still, he remained there. Sherlock Holmes was in his usual chair, fingers steepled under his chin as they were whenever he was deep in thought. Four people sat in the living room of 221B Baker Street, like pieces on each corner of a chessboard.