Clipped Wings

Chapter Twelve

•Sherlock•

The woman in front of me was clever. Inhumanly so.

There's really no other just way to describe her. Even Moriarty paled by comparison because unlike him, being a criminal wasn't her job. It was her life. Her every move was an addition to the single strand of lies that slowly wove an intricate trap around her opposition. Her grey speckled eyes would never waver from her prey as she calculated where next to pull her endless string. There was a hunger in those stormy cesspools. A sense of devout desperation. The light in her was dying and she had to pull one last victim down with her. With only weeks left for her to reap mayhem, just a few more days to live like insanity, I was her last case. Her final problem.

But this wasn't a game to her. No, nothing as simplistic as that. She was an actress with red carpets and gowns and all the audience she desired. This case wasn't her final problem, her great game, her last bow. This was her curtain call and she wanted a standing ovation. I didn't even have to look at her to know that she was reading me like the dusty book of old poetry that she had successfully used to carve into my breaking soul.

Oh, she was clever, just not as clever as me.

And certainly not as clever as Mycroft.

The gentle tap of his umbrella on the hardwood broke her stare as she slunk behind the view of the open door. Soon he, posture and arrogance in tact as always, waltzed into the room with an impractical storm cloud around him. My captive must have a quality about her that makes people's eyes just pass over her because Mycroft never even acknowledged her. Just like John had last night, he began to talk to me like I was the only one in the room.

"Brother, mine." He greeted, his usual fake smile of strained pleasantry plastered on his disapproving face. My eyes rolled back in response, which he ignored as he continued to say, "I do hope you make room in your schedule for an unfortunately sudden meeting with me. I feel you will find it rather informal to your current activities."

"Activities?"

"Don't play dumb, Sherlock. It doesn't suit you." He scolded. "Tell me about your standpoint in Moriarty's recent activities."

"So, John has told you?" I said slowly and unimpressed.

"He's worried about you." He agreed in confirmation, eyes flicking downward to the bandaged hand. "Moriarty is not a simple matter, Sherlock. At least the good doctor has the brains to acknowledge that."

"He also has the heart to care, Mycroft." I said bitterly. I involuntarily cringed as the sound of John's short-paced, retreating steps echoed loudly in my head. "I do believe that it was you who once told me, long ago, that it was idiotic to rely on a mind lead by heart."

He frowned, as if startled that I remembered that. "Boys grow up... And sometimes these boys realize that they had been were wrong in their adolescence."

"And sometimes not even grown men have the heart to admit their fault." I replied sharply.

His gaze wavered downward. It was a subconscious maneuver of his that he did when he admitted defeat. Quite similar to the reaction of domestic pets when stared at for too long, actually.

"Sherlock, I--"

"Need to step out of this apartment immediately?"

"--can help you. This is too much for you, brother."

"So now you want to help? Not with Magneussen. Not with Moriarty. Not in the two years that I was alone. Not at the wedding. But now! Now you do, brother, what a surprise. You always do when you're too late."