Chapter 1

London, Present Day

"Did you kill him?"

She asked him that question every time she saw him, the challenge in her eyes daring him to give her the answer she wanted to hear. Or was it?

"No," Sherlock replied, his stock standard response each and every time.

Clearly it was time to leave. The tension in the room was mounting, as it usually did. Sherlock felt as if he were stuck in some kind of time vortex, where the same scene was played out over and over.

Wearily he sat up, swung his legs to the floor, and reached down to retrieve his boxers, the last item of clothing to be discarded. All he had to do was make his way over to her bedroom door, and he could easily dress himself by picking up each clothing item in the reverse order in which he had disrobed.

She did not disappoint with her next question, the one that always followed the first.

"Did Crofty?"

Sherlock couldn't help but sigh anyway. Instead of answering with his usual, "I dunno," accompanied by an indifferent shrug, he said, "You know, I don't think Mycroft enjoys that nickname any more than I appreciate you calling me Locky."

"That's too bad. They're the only names I knew you both by."

Sherlock rose from the bed as he drew on his boxers. One corner of his mouth quirked in a smile as he looked back at her said, "To be fair, you were only seven, and something of an idiot."

Her face brightened in a smile, and Sherlock momentarily forgot to be annoyed with her and this whole scenario.

"Such fond memories," she said wistfully. "You calling me an idiot and Crofty telling me I was too stupid to hang around you both. Actually, he thought you were an idiot as well."

Sherlock tutted and stooped to pick up his trousers. "He was a pompous arse at seventeen," he muttered darkly. "And middle-age has only made him worse."

"Well, you're both saints compared to Monty," she all but whispered.

Sherlock drew on his trousers without looking back at her. He had to end this nonsense now. It was all over and they had to move forward.

"This is the last time I'll be coming here," he said without turning around, and hoping the gravity in his tone was enough to convey his message this time.

He heard her choke back a sob and raised his eyes to the heavens. He continued in his progression toward the door. His shirt was next, and he hastened to slip his arms into the sleeves before pulling open her bedroom door. His jacket, scarf and overcoat were waiting for him in her living room. On stepping over the threshold from her carpeted bedroom to the cold tiles of the hallway, Sherlock realised he'd forgotten his shoes. They had been sort of discarded with his trousers and kicked fuck knows where—under the bed, most probably.

Sherlock spied them there, and reluctantly sat down on the bed by her legs, bending to retrieve his wayward shoes and socks.

She sat up and delicately wiped away her tears.

"I just want to know if he's dead or not."

Sherlock clenched his jaw before answering. "He's not here, why does it matter?"

She propped herself against the headboard and drew her legs in to hug her knees. She spoke in a voice considerably calmer than before. "I want to know whether or not I can check the little box marked 'widow' on the next form I fill out."

Sherlock waited a beat before answering. She always had this way of making jokes in the middle of a serious discussion. "Because there's no checkbox for adulterers?" he countered.

She reached out and nudged Sherlock's hip with her foot. "Shut up," she said playfully. "You've had sex with me four times now. You're hardly an innocent in all of this."

Sherlock's stomach roiled in disgust and disappointment in himself. He slipped on his second shoe and quickly stood. He still had his shirt buttons to fasten, a task he would normally attend to with a certain amount of dexterity, however this time he found himself fumbling.

"Well, the first time was because I thought we were going to be executed the next morning. Not really circumstances people normally find themselves under."

"And the second time?"

Sherlock glanced back at her as he finished with his buttons. "Out of relief that we weren't executed. And the third time because you lied to me and said you were being stalked."

"I was being stalked."

"And obviously I fell for the ruse again tonight."

"I am being stalked."

Sherlock began tucking in his shirt. He redirected his gaze to the young woman on the bed, and hoped his expression was sufficiently icy. "I won't fall for it a third time. You should familiarise yourself with a little tale called, 'The Boy Who Cried Wolf.' Don't contact me again."

"I know someone's out there," she retorted, her own gaze unfaltering. "What if it's Monty?"

"It's not."

"So he is dead."

"I didn't say that."

They locked eyes for a couple of seconds before her face fell and she looked away. Sherlock saw this as an opportunity to leave.

He strode out of her bedroom and along the short hallway to her tiny living area where he had left the rest of his clothing earlier. Sherlock had slipped on his jacket and was winding his scarf around his neck when she appeared at the entrance to the hallway wrapped in her dressing gown.

"Can I visit you in Baker Street?" she asked.

Sherlock furrowed his brow in irritation. "The whole notion of don't contact me includes coming to Baker Street."

"I want to offer my condolences to John," she said, her eyes welling with tears again.

Sherlock turned from her, and occupied himself with retrieving his coat from her sofa. He swallowed the lump in his throat and said, "That's... that's not a good idea right now."

"Does he hate me?"

There was that emotion in her voice again, the one that tugged at Sherlock's heartstrings, and he hated himself for it.

"John hates everyone and everything at the moment."

"I want to say I'm sorry."

Sherlock donned his coat, and resorted to his default manner with her: irritation. It felt safer that way. Plus it was easy to switch; she kept saying stupid things.

"Why do you keep thinking it's your fault?"

She folded her arms defensively, and averted her eyes once more.

"Because I knew what he was like. I knew him better than anyone else. He was the most horrid man on earth—"

"You married him," Sherlock muttered.

"You know he blackmailed me into it."

Sherlock glared at her accusingly. Perhaps she could have prevented it after all. "So why didn't you call me? Or Mycroft?"

"Australia feels so far away from the rest of the world, and Monty kept such tight control over who I could contact. You would've been the last people he'd have let me speak to. But I thought he was planning a reunion. If I had known what he was plotting to do—"

"You would've what?" Sherlock hated hypotheticals, and this discussion was pointless.

"Stabbed him in the heart," she said quietly.

Sherlock tried to quell the rage that was slowly bubbling inside him. He hated being around her these days, yet he couldn't stay away whenever she called.

But she kept bringing it up—if only this, if only that.

"There is no point," he said, his voice rasping with emotion. "You saying sorry to John won't bring back Mary and..."

He couldn't continue, because he could never say her name out loud.

Have fun not getting involved, Sherlock, Mycroft had said once upon a time. How he wished he could make that true.

Sherlock exhaled deeply, and shut his eyes briefly before saying, "I have to go."

He looked over to her, and was disappointed to find her silently crying. She angrily wiped the tears away and slowly approached Sherlock.

"Locky—"

Sherlock interrupted her with a death stare.

"Sherlock," she said, correcting herself. "Please don't cut me off. You and Crofty are the only family I have left."

"We're not family," Sherlock stated, his eyes darkening in anger. "Altamont Holmes ceased being our brother the day Mycroft got him banished to Australia. Don't contact me again."

:::


Author's note:

Lots of little post-HLV ideas I've had floating around my head, mostly about 'The Other One,' and they all came together in this. I didn't want to use the popular 'Sherrinford' for the other brother's name, so I chose the name writers usually pick for Sherlock's undercover name, Altamont, since ACD used it in His Last Bow. I also like how it's Sir Arthur's father's middle name, plus I could shorten it to 'Monty.'

Thanks for reading and indulging me. Reviews equal love!