Andrew Lane - Red Leech

“Go on,” Mycroft said. “If it can prevent Mr Crowe from pulling out our prisoner’s fingernails with a pair of pliers then I, for one, am all for it.”

“That man — the American — jumped out of the carriage to stop us when it looked like we might prevent the carriage getting them to the docks and out of England.”

“Correct,” Crowe rumbled.

“From what he said to me, he was prepared to send a telegram to the others telling them that he’d either succeeded or failed.”

“Accepted,” Mycroft said.

“And if he doesn’t send a telegram, if one isn’t waiting for them when they get to the end of their journey, they will have to assume that we overcame him,” Sherlock pointed out. “They will assume that we rendered him incapable of sending a telegram and that we are still chasing them, in which case their best option is to kill Matty because he’s not useful to them as a hostage any more.”

“Oh no!" Virginia whispered.

“So where would he have sent the telegram?” Sherlock asked. “I mean, it’s not as if the others were going to stay at a hotel until he arrived. They were heading straight for a ship, as far as we know’

Crowe and Mycroft looked at each other.

“The boy has a point,” Crowe said after a few moments. “They would need some way of getting a message back and forth. Maybe some agreed place near the ship — a local post office, or something, where any message he sent would be picked up.”

“They would have had to agree it in the few seconds before he jumped out of the carriage,” Sherlock pointed out. “What are the chances of him remembering in the stress of the moment—"

“Unless one of the others wrote it down for him,” Mycroft finished. “Sherlock, you have a fine mind on those bony shoulders of yours. We need to search that man’s pockets for an address.”

Crowe levered himself up from the chair. “I’ll go,” he said. At Mycroft’s warning look, he added, “Don’t worry — I won’t try to wake him up if he’s unconscious, and if he’s already awake then I won’t do any more than ask him a polite question before riffling through his pockets.” He raised an eyebrow enquiringly. “I take it that theft is acceptable, even if pressured questioning is not?”

“We’ll make an exception,” Mycroft said calmly. “In this case.”

Amyus headed off outside to search Gilfillan. Sherlock noticed that Virginia watched her father leave with a troubled expression on her face. He wanted to ask her about it, but Mycroft gestured him over with a flipperlike hand.

“Sherlock...” he said quietly, then hesitated. “Sherlock, I suspect that I am failing in my duty to look after you properly. I am sorry.”

Sherlock gazed into his face, trying to work out if he was serious or not. “What do you mean?”

“Our father entrusted you into my care. He looked to me to ensure not only that your education continued, but that you were kept happy and safe. In the time since he left for India with his regiment I have abandoned you into the care of relatives whom you had never even met and then stood by while you became engaged first in the lunatic schemes of a mad Frenchman with delusions of grandeur and now in some bizarre attempt to return to America the man who killed its former President. During the past few months you have spent more time looking death in the eye than most men experience during the course of a lifetime. You have been knocked out, kidnapped, whipped, drugged, chased, shot at, burned and nearly stabbed, not to mention forced to survive unsupervised in the dangerous London metropolis, in a foreign country and in rough Channel waves at night. If I had known everything that would happen to you, I would—"

He stopped, apparently overcome with emotion. He turned his head away. Sherlock thought he saw the gleam of tears in his brother’s eyes. He reached out tentatively and put a hand on Mycroft’s broad shoulder.

“Mycroft. . . you’ve always been the steadiest thing in my life. I’ve always come to you for advice, and you’ve always been more than generous with your time. You’ve never made me feel like I’m bothering you, even when you’ve had more important things to do.”

Mycroft tried to say something, but Sherlock kept going.

“We’ve never been the kind of brothers who would climb trees together in the garden. You’ve never had the energy and I’ve never seen the point. That doesn’t matter. You are the person I’ve always looked to for guidance, and you’ve never let me down. I doubt that will ever change. You are what I want to be when I grow up — successful, important and self-reliant. You have never let me down, and you never will.”

Mycroft looked at him, and smiled. “When you grow up,” he said, “I suspect you will carve a path for yourself in the world that nobody else has ever carved. I can foresee a time when I will be coming to you for help and advice, not the other way round. But despite everything you have said, I have stood by while you have been in danger.”

Sherlock shook his head. “I think there’s always danger, wherever you go. You can either ignore it, or you can wrap yourself in blankets so it doesn’t hurt you or you can walk towards it and dare it to do its worst. If you do the first thing then the danger takes you by surprise. If you do the second thing then you spend all your time swaddled up in the dark, letting the world pass you by. The only logical course of action is to go towards the danger. The more you get used to it, the better you can deal with it.”

Mycroft smiled, and for a moment Sherlock could see, within the folds of fat that now encased his brother’s frame, the boy that he had once been. “I collect information, and amass knowledge,” he said softly. “But you — you have developed wisdom. There will be a day when everybody in the world knows your name.”

“And besides,” Sherlock said, trying to lighten the mood, “I’ve had the time of my life recently. If anyone had told me that by the end of the summer holidays I would have learned to ride a horse, fought in a boxing match, sailed across the Channel and fought a duel, I would have laughed. I’ll bet the most the other boys from school have done is flown a kite and had a picnic on the lawn. There’s still a part of me that thinks I’ll wake up to find out this has all been a dream.”

Mycroft’s gaze flickered across the room to where Virginia was still watching the door, waiting for her father to return. “And I suppose there are other compensating factors,” he said.

“What do you mean?” Sherlock asked, suddenly uncomfortable.

“I mean the attractions of companionship.” Mycroft’s face was suddenly pensive. “I am a... solitary... man,” he said. “I do not suffer fools gladly, and I prefer to spend my time alone with a book and a decanter of brandy. Do not let my example become your exemplar. If friendship — or, dare I say it, affection — come into your life then embrace them enthusiastically.

Sherlock’s spirits suddenly fell as Mycroft’s words reminded him of Matthew Arnatt, somewhere out there in the hands of kidnappers. “I don’t mind embracing the danger,” he said sombrely, “but I don’t want it to affect my friends.”

“They make their choices, as you make yours,” Mycroft pointed out. “The same arguments apply. They are not puppets, and you cannot keep them safe, just as I apparently cannot keep you safe. If they want to be with you, they will be. They accept the risk.” He raised an eyebrow. “Certainly, by now, young Matthew must have worked out that being around you is neither safe nor boring.”

“We will get him back, won’t we, Mycroft?”

“I will not let my heart write a cheque that life will not allow me to cash,” Mycroft said gently. “I cannot know the future for sure, but I can use my knowledge and experience to predict the shape of it. I believe there is a high probability that Matty will be returned to us unharmed, although what other events may transpire along the way is another question.”