-Emily-
~~~~~~
"Let me clarify," says Mycroft, coldly. "You are asking me to sanction a multimillion-pound sting operation, several military-grade helicopters, and forty armed members of the police force to retrieve a woman who may well be dead, from an unconfirmed location?"
"She is alive. You saw the photograph."
Mycroft looks down at the picture on the table, eyebrow raised. "Yes. It's a lovely set of pixels."
"It's the most reliable lead we've had so far, and if we don't act–"
"We have been acting for the last fourteen months, Sherlock. We don't have the resources to endorse your chivalry."
"Oh, please. You've been sitting on your growing backside for the last fourteen months silencing media outlets. I wouldn't call that action. I'd call that laziness."
"I don't have time for this." Mycroft leans forward, knuckles white on his umbrella handle. He lowers his voice to a restrained hiss: "You've cost the country a small fortune already. Do you have any idea how foolish this little production of yours has made our department appear?"
I take it he is referring to the two helicopters currently circling the building and the armed police stacked like a pack of cards up the stairs. Sherlock's claims of being held hostage by the Slovenian mafia were taken a little more seriously than he anticipated – John is currently pressed between wall and guard, Sherlock is balancing on the sofa edge, and I am sitting on the periphery, struggling to maintain concentration. My mind is still with the explosion. I tell myself I can smell the smoke, hear the first ambulance mourning cry; I run through the possibilities, tantalising in their awfulness. It might be a death threat. It might be an invitation. You never know with James Moriarty, and I suppose that is what makes it so appealing. It is a line I find myself longing to tread again.
"Perhaps you forget the significance of Yakovich's current status," says Sherlock. "One of the most prolific serial killers the world has ever seen is walking free. The country looks pathetic. You look pathetic. One man versus the entire United Kingdom, and you still haven't managed to bring him in. If you want foolishness, look no further than the mirror."
Mycroft narrows his eyes. "There is a national crisis unfolding as we speak, and I am standing in my addict brother's squat, being insulted and listening to his attempts to rescue a dead woman. I had you down as irrational, not idiotic. It appears even the best can be proved wrong."
"What's one operation? Forget her," says Sherlock, brushing Millie's name aside for the sake of persuasion, "if she's dead, so be it. He won't be. I'm confident this is his location, and that a sting operation carried out within the next twenty-four hours would result in his capture. Tell me, how often am I wrong?"
"He has a point." We look up at John, surprised. "What?"
"You're defending him?"
John folds his arms. "Listen, I like Sherlock about as much as a man likes paying his tax returns–" He ignores Sherlock's indignant gasp. "But he's right. If Millie isn't... If she didn't make it, then that's no skin off your nose. You'll still get Yakovich. If she is alive, then that works to your favour."
"See? John gets it," says Sherlock.
"Don't push it."
Mycroft looks between his brother and John, silent and calculating – if tension were carbon, I would have asphyxiated a long time ago; the air is thick and sour with it, I can taste it at the back of my throat. After a small eternity, Mycroft turns to address the nearest man with a police rifle.
"A moment alone with my little brother, please."
Sherlock bristles at the derogatory 'little', but keeps his mouth shut. The man nods, and the unit begins their shuffling descent down the stairs, their firearms clicking in their holsters. I hear Mrs Hudson offer them all a cup of tea.
"And how do you suppose we execute your proposition?"
"We send bait."
"Bait?"
Sherlock sweeps the paperwork from the wall. He finds my old red lipstick on the floor, picks it up, and starts illustrating his thought process on the wallpaper in wax.
"One person. They're the tracker. They make their way to the location alone, we monitor their progress from afar." He draws a line connecting circle to rectangle. "That way, we confirm his presence on location without tapping into your precious funds. If he's not there, no money's wasted. If he is, and he will be, the bait will engage Yakovich. This ought to give you enough time to launch the attack–" Sherlock adds several aggressive arrows to his diagram. "And we pinpoint Yakovich before he manages to leave the scene. Happy press. Happy Mycroft." He draws a very round stick-figure, childishly chubby, marking a smile on its oversized head. "That's you."
John snorts. Mycroft smiles, coldly unamused.
"I'll entertain the idea. Who do you propose we send on your suicide mission?"
"I don't know. Or care. What about that woman in parliament everyone hates? You know, the Brexit one."
"Theresa May?"
"Perfect."
"This isn't a joke, Sherlock–"
"I'll do it."
Everyone turns to look at me.
"You?"
I shrug, trying not to find the incredulity in Mycroft's voice insulting. "Why not? If I get you your criminal, you get a national pat on the back. If I get stabbed in the process, all the better – then you don't have to explain why you let me loose from Bronzefield. Win Win."
"Emily–"
"It's a death wish," says Sherlock. "You know that. Let Mycroft send one of his drones."
"Ivan won't think twice about killing a stranger – by the time the helicopters are off the ground he'd be miles from the location. He knows me. He's more likely to listen. Should give you some breathing space."
Mycroft makes no attempt to conceal his suspicion.
"How very generous of you, Ms Schott."
I smile without sincerity. "What can I say? I'm a giver, not a taker."
"You're a liability."
"You flatter me, Mr Holmes."
As expected, he does not require much convincing. It is decided: tomorrow I will be dropped a mile from the location, wired up to several devices that transmit my voice and my real-time position, and sent in like a suicide bomber. It strikes me as ironic, me fulfilling a lawful version of my father's dying wish. I almost smile. Once I've confirmed Ivan is on the property, the heavy artillery will be sent in: it should take ten minutes and not a second more, according to Mycroft. Ten minutes to die. Sherlock and – to my surprise – John will follow the military aircraft.
They continue talking about coordination and time management, but all I can think about is the explosion on Moorland Road and the red, red carnage.
~~~~~~
-Millie-
~~~~~~
It's early evening – that wonderful point before darkness where the sun seems to spill its cup of wine, pouring gold down onto landscapes and filling bodies of water with bronze. We coast along one of London's peripheral roads, silently, the wheels soft on tarmac. I lean back against the leather. The baby stretches in her sleep.
Today is my birthday. I came downstairs to Vivaldi's Four Seasons and was greeted by bouquets of flowers – from the grounds, I think – breathing colour from open mouths. He sat cross-legged and barefoot, drinking his coffee black, occasionally reaching out to rock the sleeping baby in her crib. My attempts to refuse the gifts laid out for me were rebuked, and so I obliged, unfastening bows and lifting lids: a dress in peach chiffon, ethereal and feather-light, Dostoyevsky's Crime and Punishment, Sigmund Freud's original manuscripts. I matched his mood with morphine. We danced to Vivaldi, discussed the moral descent of Raskolnikov, drank something tart and carbonated. It felt delicate.
We left an hour ago, to drive to a stretch of quiet parkland in Wye, where the chances of being sighted were slim. However, it isn't quiet – on arriving, we see the tell-tale peaks of a white gazebo, a local event, the park packed with stalls selling flowers and parents sitting with children on the lawns, weaving stalks into garlands and chains. He pulls up the handbrake, frowning. I look out at the people, perplexed by the strangeness of it all – they're not like the people in my memory, they're too vivid and animated, too saturated, almost like painted puppets playing at life.
I open the car door.
His fingers close around my wrist. I look over my shoulder and see him shake his head.
"We cannot, myshka. There are too many."
"They're only families," I say. "They won't give us a second glance – besides, you can't say no." I rest my hand on his arm. "It's my birthday."
He hesitates, his teeth white on his bottom lip – I sense him weighing up risk and reward. It's an externalised struggle. I smile encouragingly. He sighs, and turns the keys to shut down the ignition. I lift myself out of the vehicle. He reaches for the baby – swaddled in vintage lace – and we make our way towards the quietest stretch of parkland, under some sycamore trees.
"Isn't it strange?" I say.
"Hm?"
"Being so close to others. After all this time." I almost laugh. "They don't recognise us."
He smiles a crooked half-smile and mimes a Catholic cross over his chest. "You must not tempt fate."
"I don't believe in fate."
"It is better than a God, no?"
"I don't believe in Gods, either."
He grins. "You are too cynical."
"Did your crystal ball tell you that?"
He winks, and we sit on the damp grass, taking off our shoes and lying our jackets down as makeshift blankets. After a while, he stands, leaving the baby on his flattened blazer: he brushes down his shirt, pushes his sunglasses into place, and approaches a stall with the confidence of a conman. I watch him purchase an armful of flowers. As predicted, no one gives the man with the obscured face and visible child a second glance. He returns, kneeling next to me; the air is warm, and there's a light breeze lapping at the leaves above our heads. This is what they call the golden hour, I suppose. Liquid sunlight. His skin looks orange in the haze, glowing at his fingertips and the thinner cartilage of his ears. I rest on my elbows, studying his expression. He's threading the stalks of two white flowers with lavender, painstakingly intricate, slitting the stem with his nail.
I become aware of someone's attention, then; it is hot on my face, pricking like needlework.
I see a child, standing in front of us. She watches his handiwork longingly. He must sense her looking too, because he glances up – first tense at the possibility of recognition, then relaxing, acknowledging her age. He looks at her and her small selection of wilted peonies, then holds out one of his white flowers; a silent offering. She pauses, hesitant, one hand at her throat – her mother is some distance away and tending a screaming baby. He smiles – a dazzling smile – and she takes it from him, moving off to her familial familiarity, elated.
Turning to me, he lifts his crown of flowers, and places it on my head.
"Tsarina Shon."
I produce my own offering. He wasn't expecting it – his face registers surprise, then childlike joy. I tuck the little white daisy behind his ear.
He blows up at his fringe, shifting it from his eyes. "It is a good look, yes?"
I feel him move: he rests his hand on the grass, palm up, fingertips stained green, lavender-scented.
"Yes," I say, as I thread my fingers through his. "It's wonderful."
~~~~~~