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my-head-is-an-animal · 10 months

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The Sitter

Mycroft Holmes x Bethany Wheeler (OFC)

Story Masterlist

Chapter 10 - Background Check

It was a long few days where Mycroft was overseeing the doctoring of footage to cover for Sherlock’s actions. It wasn’t easy, but they eventually got there with a cover story to go with it, an itchy trigger finger from an over eager squaddie, that was the story they were running with. For the most part, no one would ever see the footage or have any reason to ask about Magnusson, but there always had to be a plan just in case.

Mycroft managed to get Sherlock into a meeting with himself Lady Smallwood and Sir Edwin to go over the new story, he knew Sherlock wouldn’t like it, but he didn’t have a choice, this was happening and he needed to deal with it like an adult.

‘What you’re about to see is classified beyond top secret,’ Mycroft began once everyone had settled. ‘Is that quite clear? Don’t minute any of this.’ He said, seeing Vivienne about to take notes. ‘Once beyond these walls, you must never speak of it. A D-notice has been slapped on the entire incident. Only those within this room, codenames Antarctica, Langdale, Porlock and Love will ever know the whole truth. As far as anyone else is concerned, going to the Prime Minister and way beyond, Charles Augustus- Are you tweeting?’ He exclaimed, catching a glimpse of Sherlock’s phone.

‘No.’ Sherlock said, trying to hide his phone.

‘Well, that’s what it looks like!’

‘Of course, I’m not tweeting, why would I be tweeting?’

‘Give me that.’ Mycroft said, going in to grab the phone from Sherlock’s hand.

‘What? No.’

There was a minor scrap, but Mycroft came out victorious, letting out an exasperated sigh as he looked at what Sherlock had been doing.

‘Back on terra firm…’

‘Don’t read it out.’ Sherlock rolled his eyes.

‘Free as a bird.’

‘God, you’re such a spoil sport.’

‘Will you take this matter seriously, Sherlock!’ Mycroft demanded.

‘I am taking it seriously, what makes you think I’m not taking it seriously?’

‘Hashtag oh what a beautiful morning.’

‘Look, not so long ago, I was on a mission that meant certain death, my death and now I’m back in a nice, warm office with my big brother- are those ginger nuts?’ Sherlock was suddenly distracted and it only led to Mycroft rolling his eyes and sighing in frustration.

‘Oh god.’

‘Love ginger nuts!

‘Our doctors said you were clean.’ Lady Smallwood said as Sherlock grabbed a handful of biscuits.

‘I am, utterly. No need for stimulants now, remember? I have work to do.’

‘You’re high as a kite.’ Sir Edwin scoffed.

‘Natural high, I assure you.’ Sherlock said, taking a bite out of his biscuit. ‘I’m just… glad to be alive!’ He sang a little dramatically and even Mycroft was suddenly unsure whether the doctors had gotten it right. ‘What shall we do next? What’s your name?’ He suddenly spotted Vivienne.

‘Vivienne.’ She said, nervously, wondering if she should even have spoken at all.

‘What would you do Vivienne?’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘It’s a beautiful day, what would you do? Go for a stroll? Make a paper aeroplane? Have an ice lolly?’

‘Oh… ice lolly, I suppose.’

‘Ice lolly it is! What’s your favourite?’

‘Oh really, I shouldn’t-‘

‘Go on.’ Sherlock was starting to exasperate everyone.

‘Do they still do Mivvies?’

‘Mr Holmes.’ Lady Smallwood cut through everyone.

‘Yes.’ Both Mycroft and Sherlock answered at the same time.

‘We do need to get on.’ Lady Smallwood warned.

‘Yes, of course.’ Mycroft nodded, apologetically. He played the footage of Magnusson appearing to get shot by someone else, not Sherlock.

‘I see.’ Sherlock said, having calmed down a little. ‘Who is supposed to have shot him then?’

‘An over eager squaddie with an itchy trigger finger, that’s who.’

‘That’s not what happened at all.’ Sherlock disapproved, but this was the way out.

‘It is now.’ Mycroft told him.

‘Remarkable.’ Lady Smallwood said, staring at the doctored footage. ‘How did you do it?’

‘We have some very talented people working here.’ Sir Edwin seemed rather proud of his lie. ‘If James Moriarty can hack every TV screen in the land, rest assured we have the tech to doctor a bit of security footage. That is now the official version, the version anyone we want to will see.’

‘No need to go to the trouble of some sort of official pardon. It seems you’re off the hook, Mr Holmes.’ Lady Smallwood said, annoyed at everything the same as Mycroft who folded his arms and waited for a thanks from his little brother. ‘You’re home and dry.’

‘Okay, cheers.’ Sherlock said, getting up to put his coat on and leave.

‘Obviously there’s unfinished business. Moriarty.’ There was a new tension in the room.

‘I told you, Moriarty’s dead.’ Sherlock said with a mouthful of biscuit, Mycroft wished he could just show a little respect.

‘You say he filmed that video message before he died?’

‘Yes.’

‘You also say you know what he’s going to do next? What does that mean?’

‘Perhaps,’ Sir Edwin cut in. ‘That’s all there is to it. Perhaps he’s just trying to frighten you.’

‘No, no, he would never be that disappointing.’ Sherlock shook his head, thinking. ‘He’s planned something, something long term. Something that would take effect if he never made it off that rooftop.’ Mycroft just watched him curiously, something ticking away in the back of his mind, something he really didn’t want to think about. ‘Posthumous revenge. No, better than that. Posthumous game.’

‘We brought you back to deal with this.’ Lady Smallwood was fed up of playing games. ‘What are you going to do?’

‘Wait.’

‘Wait?’

‘Of course, wait. I’m the target. Target’s wait.’ Sherlock went to leave the room. ‘Look, whatever’s coming, whatever he’s got lined up, I’ll know when it begins. I always know when the game is on. You know why?’

‘Why?’ Lady Smallwood rolled her eyes.

‘Because I love it.’ Sherlock said leaving, making Mycroft roll his eyes again and allowed Sherlock to go.

‘He’d better be right, Mycroft.’

It was Lady Smallwood’s final warning before Mycroft left the room to return to work. He was annoyed that he couldn’t even get a simple thanks from Sherlock for all the trouble he caused, but he honestly wasn’t sure what he expected.

In the following few weeks he regularly checked in with Sherlock, finding out if he’d made any progress with Moriarty, but all he’d been doing was solving cases. Mycroft instead turned his attention to Bethany, he got regular updates on her progress at school, exams were just around the corner and she was looking at placements within a few institutions he was closely connected to.

‘Sir,’ Anthea walked into his office with an odd spring in her step. Mycroft frowned as she placed a file down on his desk. ‘Thought you might want to see this.’

When he opened the file, he was surprised to find that one of his colleagues, Scott Mathieson, was looking at a list of graduates, Bethany’s name was on the list. Mycroft frowned slightly, this was research into biological gene therapy, Bethany’s speciality was chemistry based science. He nodded to Anthea and listened to his assistant leaving.

According to the file, Mathieson was keen to take Bethany under his wing and offer her a placement in her third year with the potential to fund her masters and PhD and offer her a job. How had Mycroft not noticed how good she was in school?

Your name has appeared in a file on my desk. – MH

What? What do you mean? I’ve been at John and Mary’s helping with the baby, she’s due in a couple of days, I haven’t been running around with Sherlock for ages. – BW

Mycroft chuckled at her sudden panic.

Not Sherlock, though glad to hear you’ve been keeping out of trouble, especially with the Moriarty business. No, it came up in a file with a list of names for me to do background checks on before being considered for placement or work at Dr Scott Mathieson’s lab. – MH

Jesus Mycroft! You scared me half to death! I thought someone might have been after me. I didn’t realise it was just a bloody background check! – BW

If there’s anything you’d like to confess to, now is the time. – MH

Oh, I’m sure there’s plenty I could confess to, but nothing that would stop me being put on placement. – BW

You have me intrigued. – MH

I’m sure I do. – BW

Mycroft smiled down at his phone, he contemplated asking her a follow up question, but decided against it.

What kind of information comes up in a background check? – BW

Mycroft frowned, not sure why she was asking.

Yours won’t be that extensive unless we find something of note. We’ll look at the basics, family history, education, any recent events that make you ineligible to work within any co-operations that have a close connection the British government and anything that may make you susceptible to blackmail or taking bribes in the future. Why? – MH

It was a while before she answered and it didn’t make Mycroft sit particularly comfortably.

My mum was a doctor who went to Africa to help children who needed medicine and vaccines. She wanted to help them live without fear that other people’s children could be affected by the lack of basic needs like food and clean water. My father was a lecturer at Cambridge, he taught Engineering, he specialised in Aerospace engineering, I have no idea the depth of the projects he was involved with, but he did a lot of work with NASA in his spare time. They’ve never been poor, but always made sure to teach me how to earn my money and not expect it. I went to a public school, got decent enough grades, never anything exceptional, but I studied Chemistry, Physics, Biology, Mathematics and Music at A level. I suppose recent incidents would only involve Sherlock and I’m fairly certain you’re not going to hold any of it against me. I went travelling with my parents before coming back home to get my degree, my mum was stationed in Kenya, I went there for a couple of years and then to my dad in America, I didn’t like the people he worked with so only spent eight months there, before returning to England and finding a place to live with some friends. Oh, and Wheeler is my mother’s maiden name, my real last name is Colbeck, that’s what I was born with anyway, I’m sure when you do your check, it’ll become obvious why I changed it to Wheeler. I know you’re going to find all this stuff out and probably more, but I feel like you should hear some of those things from me personally, because they are personal. – BW

Mycroft took a moment to assess the information she had provided. The more prominent detail was that of her last name, why would she not go by the name she was born with? Colbeck was a familiar name to Mycroft, but that didn’t necessarily mean anything.

Thank you for telling me. I can understand why you felt it important. And no, anything involving Sherlock will not be held against you, I can assure you. You studied music? Seems like an out of place choice for a scientist. – MH

I suppose it does. It was enjoyable though. – BW

Mycroft wondered if there was any more to that statement than she was letting on, but suddenly the image of her hand tracing over his in the back of his car jumped to mind. Her fingers were long and slender, like that of a pianist. It suddenly occurred to him that there was a lot he didn’t know about her.

Pianist? – MH

Indeed. – BW

There was something nice about her confirmation, something cheeky and playful.

Perhaps, if you find the time, we could go to dinner again and you could save me a background check. There’s quite a few I need to get through these days. – MH

If you have so much to do, wouldn’t an evening spent working be more productive than an evening spent indulging in my small talk? – BW

Perhaps, but that would depend entirely on the agenda. – MH

And what exactly is your agenda, Mr Holmes? – BW

Mycroft suddenly realised he was staring down at his phone, flirting. If anyone walked in on him at that moment, they would surely know he was distracted and not getting on with work.

Let me know if you have an evening free. – MH

He left it there and she didn’t message him back. Mycroft wondered if he should have continued down this path at all, but for the first time in his life, he was being made happy by another human being and one that seemed to be more interested in him than his brother.

Mycroft heard about Mary giving birth and the christening but had yet to hear from Bethany. She had gone to the christening because Sherlock had seen fit to send him a picture of her and Molly posing together. She wore a white dress with green and yellow flowered pattern and a cream suit jacket rolled up to her elbows. She was again, stunning.

Mycroft never replied to his brother when he sent photos, he didn’t feel the need, but he was grateful nonetheless that Sherlock went to the trouble making sure he was kept up to date.

It was another couple of months and Mycroft had done his background checks on the list, finding nothing of note and wondering if Bethany just didn’t want to go to dinner with him. It hurt a little, but soon found out from Sherlock that she had been working most evenings and when she wasn’t working, she was either in the labs doing workshops, writing essays until the morning hours or with Mrs Hudson in the café. Plain and simple, she just didn’t have time.

‘Mycroft.’ Lady Smallwood said as she rounded the corner of a corridor Mycroft often found himself walking down, he suspected she wasn’t there by chance.

‘Lady Smallwood.’ He nodded curtly.

‘Those background checks for Mathieson, find anything of note?’ She asked, he knew where this was going a mile off and he’d prepared an answer.

‘If you’re referring to Miss Wheeler-‘

‘Miss Wheeler? I thought it came up that her name was in fact Colbeck?’

‘It did, but Wheeler is the name she has chosen to go by and the one she has legally changed it to.’ Mycroft explained. ‘Colbeck was her birth name and Wheeler is her mother’s maiden name, hardly a reason to dismiss her as a candidate. And before you ask, I was in possession of that information long before the background check became necessary.’

‘She’s a bloody student Mycroft!’ Lady Smallwood hissed.

‘I am aware.’

‘It’s not appropriate for you to be seen socialising with a student,’ she warned a little quieter. ‘If the press get a hold of this, they will have a field day. She’s barely an adult.’

‘Miss Wheeler is twenty-seven years old, we employ many graduates below that age and hardly treat them as children...’ Mycroft was in no mood to be warned. ‘She made me aware of her given name some time ago and eluded to the fact that she changed it for a reason. Dr Richard Colbeck, her father and Dr Kathleen Colbeck, her mother, are fine examples of what this country is capable of and two people whose names literally open doors. I can imagine the pressure of being the daughter of such respected scholars is difficult enough for her to deal with, let alone rumours flying about her personal life. Which, I should point out, is all but existent. Miss Wheeler currently works part time at a hotel in Mayfair as a waitress and a café in Baker Street, in between working she studies, so please tell me what time she could possibly devote to anything else?’

Lady Smallwood didn’t seem to be any calmer. ‘You told me it was a business dinner, that she specialised in chemistry.’

‘She does,’ Mycroft shot back. ‘Though from what I hear, she’s thinking about forensic research as a possible career choice along with gene therapy and several other pathways available to her.’

‘Why did you really have dinner with her that night?’ She cut straight to the point and Mycroft hadn’t anticipated the response, but it did seem like she was jealous, maybe Bethany was right.

‘Fine.’ Mycroft said, looking down and giving into what she really wanted. ‘We were catching up. Miss Wheeler is also a friend of my brother’s and I wanted to ensure that all parties were safe and non-threatening to each other. Miss Wheeler is not aware of that fact.’

‘So, what did she think it was? A date?’

‘Of course not,’ Mycroft defended. ‘I told her I wanted to catch up. Her conclusion from that statement is unknown to me.’

Lady Smallwood didn’t seem at all convinced. ‘For Christ’s sake, Mycroft. Look, if you’re seeing this girl-‘

‘Lady Smallwood,’ Mycroft chuckled. ‘What time do you think I have for a personal life? Particularly one that involves a woman whose parents can make our lives difficult on a whim. I am not “seeing her” as you so poetically put it, but you may consider her under my protection. That should be enough for you.’

Mycroft didn’t bother saying anything else, he could see he made his point clear, but it only put him in a foul mood. Part of him wished he could answer yes, but that presented its own problems and he wasn’t ready to deal with that just yet.

He worked hard over the next couple of weeks, receiving the odd text from Sherlock and one that made his heart skip a couple of beats.

Exams are nearly done! Just one more to go and I’ll be home and dry. Sorry it’s been ages, I just didn’t want to get distracted, I also figured if you’re doing background checks on me, it’s probably not best to be seen having dinner. I’m not sure if that was clear or even the right decision, but if you still want to, I’ll be free from Saturday onwards. Last exam is Friday afternoon. Let me know. – BW

Mycroft sat back at his desk and ran his hands over his face. He had no idea what he was supposed to do. What did he say? He couldn’t risk being seen with her since Lady Smallwood had pointed out the problem the press posed, but he also couldn’t say no.

I will work out the details and let you know. – MH

It was all he could say. It wasn’t a lie, but he felt awful for saying.

‘Sir?’ Anthea called from his door. ‘It’s your brother.’ Mycroft sighed and took a few seconds to prepare himself.

Sherlock came barging in and handed him a phone, presumably with what was John and Mary’s baby, but he offered no explanation beyond that. He started talking about a broken bust of Margaret Thatcher and somehow it started to make sense, but not quickly enough for his liking.

‘I met her once.’ Mycroft said, remembering the moment well.

‘Thatcher?’ Sherlock asked, pacing.

‘Rather arrogant, I thought.’

‘You thought that?’

‘I know.’ Mycroft chuckled. ‘Why am I looking at this?’ He indicated the phone.

‘That’s her, John and Mary’s baby.’

‘Oh, I see, yes. Looks very… fully functioning.’

‘Is that really the best you can do?’

‘Sorry, I’ve never been very good with them.’

‘Babies?’

‘Humans.’ Mycroft smiled, handing back the phone.

‘Beth will be so disappointed.’

‘Why?’

‘She’s been working hard at school, didn’t you hear? Nearly finished her exams, well on her way to getting the top grades and is now babysitting when she can.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘She’s good with the baby. She likes children.’

‘Her mother worked with children, it’s no surprise. But why would she be disappointed?’

‘I have no idea, I just wanted to see if you’d dwell on the subject.’

‘Sherlock.’ Mycroft sighed, half in warning.

‘Moriarty. Did he have any connection with Thatcher? Any interest in her?’

‘Why on earth would he?’’ It seemed an odd question.

‘I don’t know, you tell me.’

Mycroft sniffed and leaned over the Moriarty file that he’d been looking at before Sherlock’s arrival. ‘In the last year of his life, James Moriarty was involved with four political assassinations, over seventy assorted robberies and terrorist attacks, including a chemical weapons factory in North Korea, and had latterly shown some interest in tracking down the Black Pearl of the Borgias, which is still missing, by the way, in case you feel like applying yourself to something practical.’

‘It’s a pearl, get another one.’ Sherlock snapped, making Mycroft roll his eyes. ‘Something important about this. I’m sure, maybe it’s Moriarty. Maybe it’s not. But something’s coming.’

Mycroft whilst mildly amused by his brother’s antics, was slightly concerned that he was investing himself in something that may turn out to be nothing. ‘Are you having a premonition, brother mine?’

‘The world is woven from billions of lives, every strand crossing over every other. What we call premonitions is just movement of the web. If you could attenuate to every strand of quivering data, the future would be entirely calculable, as inevitable as mathematics.’

‘Appointment in Samarra.’ Mycroft finally figured out where this was going.

‘I’m sorry?’

‘The merchant who can’t outrun death,’ Mycroft went on. ‘You always hated that story as a child. Less keen on predestination back then.’

‘I’m not sure I like it now.’

‘You wrote your own version as I remember. Appointment in Sumatra. The merchant goes to a different city and is perfectly fine.’

‘Good night Mycroft.’ Sherlock grabbed his coat to leave.

‘Then he becomes a pirate for some reason.’

‘Keep me informed.’

‘Of what?’

‘Absolutely no idea.’

And with that, Sherlock was gone. Mycroft wasn’t exactly sure what he was to make of his brother’s appearance, but he did look over the Moriarty case file just in case he’d missed something. Nothing jumped out at him, but then he didn’t expect anything to.

He thought more and more on Bethany, he wanted to see her, just talk to her, but he wasn’t sure dinner was the best idea. He decided instead to phone her late on Saturday evening once her exams were finished.

‘Mycroft, hi.’ She didn’t answer with her usual cheery tone.

‘Everything alright?’ He asked, taking a sip from his scotch and observing the fire in front of him.

‘Yeah, it’s fine, it’s just those guys in the house down the road. They just…’ she took a breath and cleared her throat. ‘Never mind. How are you? Is this a social call or am I in trouble?’

‘I wanted to congratulate you on finishing your exams.’ He said, not being convinced by her tone.

‘Oh thanks,’ that was better, a slight lift. ‘Yeah, I finished the last one yesterday, no idea how I did, but I feel pretty confident so maybe it’s fine. It’s just a waiting game now.’

There was an awkward pause between them. ‘Are you sure you’re alright?’ Mycroft asked.

Bethany let a long breath go. ‘You don’t need to worry, everything’s fine. What about you? It’s been a while since we last talked properly, what’s been going on? Any secrets you’d like to share?’

Mycroft took another sip of scotch. ‘Oh yes, are you sitting comfortably? I’ll just run through the list of state secrets I’ve uncovered today.’

‘Great, let me just grab some wine.’ She chuckled and Mycroft felt his heart lift some more. He loved that sound. ‘So, come on then, my background check, you want to talk about it?’

‘Why would I?’

‘I don’t know, because I told you my name was Wheeler when I was born Colbeck?’

‘Yes, but you legally changed it to Wheeler and you took the opportunity to tell me that before I even started the check.’ Mycroft explained. ‘What more is there to talk about?’

Bethany again paused. ‘So, you’re not upset that I didn’t tell you in the beginning?’

‘It never came up and I can’t imagine it would stay that way forever, so why would I be upset?’

He listened to her chuckling away a little more confused than anything. ‘I’m sorry, you’re right, it was a stupid question.’

‘Not at all.’ Mycroft suddenly had a thought. ‘Is that why you prefer to be called Bethany?’

‘Beth, if I can ever convince you to call me that, but yeah, partly that, partly…’ she stopped and he could hear her moving around, was she in bed? ‘Look, I know that my parents are these amazing people, but they spent their childhoods living in poverty, they worked hard to get to where they are, they’re principled and hard working people. I didn’t want to get anywhere just because I’m their daughter. It’s too much pressure, you know?’

Mycroft was simply hypnotised listening to her speak. ‘I can imagine.’ He said taking another drink. ‘We should have dinner again, when you get your results. We should celebrate.’

‘Do you think that’s a good idea?’

‘Why wouldn’t it be?’

‘Because if you know who I really am, others will know as well and people might start to talk.’

‘Why would that affect us having dinner?’ Mycroft had asked the question before he could stop himself.

‘Okay, look I just don’t want to cause any trouble for you,’ she said it as plainly as she could. ‘Lady Smallwood seemed really annoyed when she came to the table last time and I don’t want your life to be made anymore difficult.’

‘You shouldn’t worry so much about that,’ Mycroft finished his scotch. ‘If I thought it would cause any hassle I wouldn’t ask. Perhaps we don’t go out for dinner, we could watch another film? Or something else?’ Mycroft knew he was making a hash of things. He was messing up everything.

‘Okay.’ Bethany said, finally. ‘I’ll think about it.’

‘Good.’ Mycroft nodded. ‘Let me know.’

‘I will.’ He could hear her smiling and it made him happy. Maybe he could make this work. ‘Goodnight Mycroft.’

‘Goodnight Bethany.’ He said and hung up.

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ftb-writes · 2 years

Text

Here it is! The next fill is a free prompt!

"In this house, we believe," the small sign says, and Detective Moriart rolls his eyes as Officer Blaith reads it out loud.

"C'mon, man, we're investigating a missing household, can you show a little decorum?" Moriart mutters.

"Dude, these people are weird, just listen," Blaith grunts back. "In this house, we believe -- are you even listening? This may help with, I don't know, seeing what their mental state may be."

Moriart has moved further into the house, looking around. Everything seems to be in order, no items thrown around, leftover breakfast still on the plates at the table. It seemed like the three inhabitants -- three young, male, students splitting rent to afford living this close to the university -- had just stepped outside for a moment in the middle of getting ready for the weekend and just never came back. "Sounds like a basic, white-girly type thing. Probably from some girlfriend that left it after a breakup or something."

"We believe this place is a message, and part of a system of messages. Pay attention to it," Blaith recites.

Moriart frowns and sticks his head around the corner to look at Blaith and the small decor piece he's holding. "Is that… is that the extended nuclear storage message?"

"Yeah," Blaith laughs. "These guys are either crazy, or the kinda guys I could get drunk with."

"Blaith, quit fooling around and help me search for clues," Moriart grumbles. "Do sound like fucking hilarious guys, though."

Blaith laughs again and sets the sign back on the table. "Alright, alright, Mr. High and Mighty. I'm coming. Man, they look cool. Look, there's a photo here of them at a frat party or something. Looks like they've known each other for a while, this picture is from an event that happened five years back."

"Their parents say the three of them grew up together. They've been friends their whole lives," Moriart explains from where he's collecting samples of the molding food from their last breakfast. He glances up at a sign on the wall that says, 'Beer, Food, Weed.' "They do seem like just typical frat-type boys from the home decor. Check for any drug paraphernalia, too."

"The dogs didn't find any earlier," Blaith replies from another part of the house. "And I'm not seeing anything that could even be faintly construed as a bong or anything. No needles, no sooty spoons."

"They do have a sense of humour about it," Moriart snorts. He steps into another room and discovers a table with some school things spread around on it -- papers of homework, open books riddled with sticky-notes and highlighter lines. "They clearly give a crap about their education, though. Looks like they all help each other study."

"Moriart? Up here. They've got a loft bedroom we didn't go in earlier when we stopped by -- we were just to see if they were here or if there was obvious drugs and alcohol use that could explain the disappearances. This is… this feels kinda important."

Moriart follows the sound of Blaith's voice up a set of open stairs, and finds a relatively normal loft bedroom for a bachelor pad, some clothes piled into a hamper off to one side, rumpled bed, bookcase full of an odd assortment of knick-knacks.

"So which one's room is this?" Moriart clarifies.

"This is the only bedroom," Blaith says. "Note the single bed. The single, very large, bed."

"Doesn't necessarily mean anything," Moriart sighs. "Don't jump to conclusions, Blaith, maybe the couch is a pull out and there's a futon mattress around somewhere."

"I'm calling it. They're secret lovers and ran away to avoid telling their families. Fifty bucks says they're lovers."

Moriart groans and rolls his eyes again. "I'm going to go look around for more clues. Since you are just goofing around, maybe you can just head back."

"Fine by me. Weirds me out, being around missing people's houses." Blaith slips back down to the main hall and heads to the front door. "Let us know when you're done."

Moriart notices a chest tucked into a back corner of the loft, locked tight when he tries the lid. "Yeah, will do. Go on, let me work." He casts around, carefully searching for a key with gloves fingers -- taking hair samples here and there as he goes -- but can't find any key except one he recognizes as a key to the bike lock one of the boy's mothers had mentioned.

Going back downstairs, Moriart begins searching for a key to the chest. It might be nothing, too -- maybe storage for the owner of the apartment to keep tools or bits and bobs so they can find replacement parts for things -- but his gut tells him it's something, and Moriart knows to listen to his gut at this point in his career. He notices the strange sign on the side table as he looks.

'Sending this message was important to us. We considered ourselves a powerful culture.'

Moriart frowns to himself, considering. Walks over and picks the sign up. It is a thick piece of plastic or some other material, and feels heavy enough. As Moriart sets it back down, though, it makes a small rattling noise, as if something is moving inside.

Moriart picks it back up and flips it over carefully to find a flat, sliding piece that reveals a small compartment hidden in the bottom of the sign. A key is inside.

Moriart has doubts this could be the key to the chest, but he's seen stranger things. He goes back up into the loft -- realizing grumpily that the couch is a wooden-framed old thing that is in no way a pull out, and there's no place a futon mattress would fit tucked away out of sight -- and tries the key on the chest. It clicks as it turns, and Moriart lifts the lid to the chest to reveal a whole host of papers. Some are more important -- birth certificates and passports -- while others are letters between the three young men spanning from several years back.

Moriart reads only one letter. Texts Blaith that he owes the officer fifty bucks. Closes the chest. He sighs and rubs the bridge of his nose. Sure, polyamorous gay men would be a new first for him, but that doesn't necessarily mean they ran away to be together. Moriart looks down at his phone and makes a call to the mother of the oldest boy.

After he introduces himself, he broaches the subject as delicately as he can, going back downstairs to replace the key as he asks what could be a very difficult question. 'This is not a place of honor.'

"Yes, we knew," she explains, tearily. "Don't know about the others, but my son wanted us to know. We didn't care, as long as he was happy. He loved those two. We loved them too. I can't imagine the three of them would feel the need to run away."

"I needed to ask," Moriart apologizes. "I'm the one paid to cover every base, ma'am. I may have a few more questions at some point over the next few days, and I know it might be hard to have to answer some of them. But I need to ask them to try and help find your son."

"You can call anytime," she assures. "We just want them back."

'No highly esteemed deed is commemorated here.'

Moriart frowns at the sign and pulls up Google. He finds the sign itself, on the website of a local resin-crafter. Well. Time to make a few more calls.

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