Title: Burning HeartsFandom: Cabin Pressure, Sherlock
Gene: Crossover, Drama, Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Mystery, Fluff
Character/s: Sherlock, Martin, Mycroft, John, Douglas, Carolyn, Arthur, Lestrade, Moriarty, OCs and other minor Sherlock characters
Summary: Round Two. Only this time, the stakes have changed... and so have the players.
Warnings: Violence. Bit of foul language. Spoiler for The Great Game.
Notes: Sequel to Thicker than Water. Reading that first will help understanding this fic.
...Bit of a delay sorry. Real life and such.
Thanks to Fifi for her betaing.
“Do you trust me, Martin?” Sherlock stands in the middle of Martin’s room, his eyes boring into Martin.
“Always.” Martin says from his position on his bed. He ignores the headache he can feel coming on, focusing on the warmth he always feels in his brother’s presence.
“With your life?” Sherlock presses, moving closer.
“Why?” Sherlock suddenly turns his back on Martin and steps through the wall.
“What? Sherlock!” Martin tries to stand, to chase his brother but his limbs are made of lead and his hands are behind his back and why can he hear Mycroft?
The room begins to disappear as darkness streams across it. Martin reaches out a hand, calling his brother’s name but all he hears is an echo of his voice, his words running together.
“Martin, you are conscious and hearing this. I would like for you to pay attention.” Mycroft’s voice is grating at the best of times and Martin doesn’t appreciate it chasing away the pleasant darkness now. Especially as his head seems to be throbbing; his stomach is twisting and twirling in unusual, horrible ways and his mouth tastes like something Arthur cooked. It’s a hangover even worse than when his father die-
Hang on. Mycroft? Martin opens one eye, expecting to flinch at the shady lights of his attic. He blinks in confusion when there is no noticeable difference, trying to check if he actually did open his eyes.
Oh God. What if-
“Martin, I can hear your panic attack coming on from over here. We’re captives, not blind.” Captives? Martin tries to sit up, even as his brain scrambles to assessable the events leading up to this. However as he tries something yanks on his hands, pulling him back towards the wall. It takes him a moment to recognise the feel of handcuffs on his arms and hear the sound of the chain dragging along the floor.
“Yes, I am Sherlock.” His own voice flashes into his head bringing with it the events of the last week. Mycroft gives a small huff of annoyance at…well him in general.
“Finally remembered, have you?” Another huff. “How does my brother deal with this?” He mutters but in the darkness all sounds are emphasised.
Martin’s hurt reply was lost, as at that moment a scream sounded from directly above them.
“What was that?!” Martin cried.
“I believe you are familiar with the sound of a scream Martin.” Mycroft stated his tone slightly angry. “However,” he continued, cutting off Martin’s spluttering “that is our kidnapper.”
“Our k-kidnapper?” Martin said as he tried to retreat into the wall behind him. “What, how, what?”
“Eloquent as always. What does my brother see in you?”
Irritated at the attack on Sherlock, Martin snapped a reply. “A hell of a lot more than he sees in you.”
Another scream hid the sounds of Mycroft’s flinch.
The door smashed into the wall of the cell as it was thrown open, the light streaming in blinding both men. Mycroft closed his eyes instinctively then kept them closed as he tried to catalogue the sounds coming from the open door. Heavy breathing-two distinct sources which could be covering the sounds of a third person; hitching breathing similar to that of someone trying not to laugh standing much closer and light footsteps moving towards him. The air coming in was not fresh nor could he feel heat from the light now blinding him. The floor was smooth and cold; with the walls feeling like exactly the same material.
Conclusion- We’re underground in a concrete bunker of some sort, our kidnappers were working for a light male who now finds our situation funny and has two henchmen at least.
“Moriarty, I presume.” Mycroft slowly opened his eyes, unwilling to lose his greatest sense to a little bit of light sensitivity.
But Moriarty wasn’t even looking in Mycroft’s direction. His laughter had faded away; replaced by a slightly confused look. He was staring at Martin, taking in every detail and coming to the oblivious conclusion.
“You are not Sherlock Holmes.” Martin’s eyes snapped open at the statement and suddenly seemed unable to glance away or even blink; caught as they were in Moriarty’s glance. One heartbeat, two breaths; and then Moriarty’s smirk seemed to signal the end of the staring and Martin broke away, taking deep breaths. Mycroft could hear the shuddering in his breathing that showed he was close to tears.
“A look alike, Mycroft.” Moriarty turned and crouched down before the restrained man. “How…unimaginative. I expected better of you.”
“A perfectly sound analysis but I was hoping you would go deeper.” Sherlock’s voice echoed in the concrete room, startling Moriarty enough for him to nearly fall over. Both he and Mycroft stared at Martin, who for a mere second seemed to almost be… Sherlock.
The weight of both glances was enough to break Martin’s concentration as the fear he had hidden for a moment to copy his brother came flooding back. He whimpered as Moriarty approached him, flinching at the palm placed on his cheek. He lowered his eyes, glancing all over the room in an attempt to avoid eye contact.
“You’re not just a look alike.” Moriarty breathed. “Recently dyed hair; home job but not done by yourself. Too neat. You were able to fool my little friends, not a hard job I’ll admit, but beyond someone with acting skills as poor as yours.” Moriarty grabbed Martin’s chin and forced the man to meet his eyes. “I will find out about you, Martin Crieff. Every detail of your sad, boring life. And I will destroy it, if you don’t tell me what I want to know.”
Moriarty was blocking Mycroft’s view of his brother’s eyes but he knew what they would contain. Fear for himself and his friends along with hope he could help them. He hid his sigh under his usual mask. Sherlock always relied on others in order for his plans to work perfectly and now this one was doomed.
Martin muttered something that had Moriarty blinking in surprise. When he didn’t react, Martin repeated it so Mycroft could hear.
“I said, go to hell.” Mycroft then winced at the sound Moriarty’s palm made as it slammed into Martin’s face.
“That’s not very nice language. We can’t have bad language. It’s not very fitting for a man of your rank Captain.” Moriarty released Martin and stood to leave. Pausing in the doorway, he looked back over his shoulder. “Be careful Mr Crieff. There are some very bad men out there.”
With a wink he was gone, the door slamming behind him returning the room to darkness.
Martin’s gasping breaths broke the silence. “Did I just do that?”
“Anger a criminal mastermind? Yes, I believe you did.” Mycroft eyed his younger brother, his surprise and slight amount of awe at Martin’s actions staying out of his voice.
“Oh God. Oh God, oh God, oh God.” Martin sniffed, the whimpers sounding between each word.
Mycroft ignored the tiny part of him that wanted to move closer to his brother and turned his mind to finding a way out. But when Martin began to sob loudly he felt one of his legs extend and brush against Martin’s. He couldn’t see his brother’s face but he heard the break in the sobbing before the leg he was touching moved in an attempt to get closer.
A small smile twitched on Mycroft’s face as he closed his eyes to help himself think.