The boy was about seven or eight, John had lost the real number in Sherlock's stream of words. With pale skin and cold blue eyes that took in everything they saw. His black hair lay in wild curls around his head, flicking into his eyes where it grew too long on his forehead. All in all, it was like looking at a mini Sherlock.
When the boy first turned up on his doorstep John had nearly had a heart attack. His first thought had been that Mycroft had been wrong, Sherlock wasn't inexperienced, and here was the proof. Really John still thought that.
He had brought the boy inside when he started crying. Asking who he was and where he lived while Mrs Hudson poured tea and biscuits into the boys mouth.
The boy had gotten around to sobbing out his name when Sherlock butted in with, "Good God Mycroft's spawned," and started in on his whirlwind analysis.
"Mycroft?"
Surely Sherlock saw it wasn't Mycroft the boy most resembled.
"What?" It was the boy, peering curiously at the new arrival in the room.
"No one," John had waved off, sitting himself down again to try and get some information out of the boy. "So what's your name then?"
"Mycroft Emrys," the boy said.
Right.
Not knowing what else to say he tried appealing to Sherlock. The man wasn't paying attention. After John dismissed him he had started taking pictures of the boy and sending them with scathing comments to his brother. From the way his phone buzzed John could tell he wasn't the only one to worry about the boy's presence here. When Sherlock ignored the ring John started his internal countdown for when Mycrof would get here.
Putting the older one out of his mind for now he focused on the younger.
"What are you doing here? Where are your parents?"
"At home," he said, his eyes drifting over to Sherlock. For the first time John noticed their suspicious dryness. "Are you Sherlock Holmes?"
In true Sherlock fashion the man tucked his phone away, flung himself onto the sofa and gave the most unhelpful response ever. "Maybe."
"You either are or you aren't," Mycroft challenged. John could tell that the boy already knew his answer, he just wanted to hear Sherlock confirm it. Maybe he was more Mycroft than John originally assumed.
Then John's day got really weird as the two of them adopted the same thinking pose. Their hands steepled and eyes speculative as they appraised the other.
"We both know I am, so why don't you just give me what you came here to give and be on your way," Sherlock posed.
"I would if you answered my question. All I have is your word after all," Mycroft countered.
Not wanting to sit through this long John took the initiative and dug out Sherlock's ID for the boy. Satisfied, Myrcroft then asked for a phone so he could call his parents. John left him with his mobile in the kitchen.
"What he came here to give?" John asked when he joined Sherlock in the living room.
"Of course," Sherlock said, his eyes trained like a bloodhound on the door. "You saw how he reacted when I stepped in. He's been looking for me."
"So all that crying was just a ruse?"
He was pretty sure he hadn't woke up this morning. This was probably just a dream.
Sherlock hummed, "Perhaps. However I'm more inclined to believe the boy didn't know who you were and thought he got the wrong address. On the other hand, judging from his journey here the boy isn't unfamiliar with lying."
Mycroft came back in and took his seat his hands already digging in his pocket for something. That something turned out to be a piece of paper. Images of countless movies where someone wrote 'they're your problem now' went through John's head. There was no way they could have a kid living with them. No, there was no way John could handle two Sherlock's under the same roof. It was bad enough when Mycroft dropped by for a visit.
Speak of the devil, the tell tale thumps of Mycroft's feet sounded just before he barged his way into their flat. Knowing where this was going John sat himself beside Sherlock to allow the man's big brother to take over interrogation.
Mycroft didn't disappoint. Starting with his parents, and the surety of his bloodline he steadily made his way through any and all questions John could hope to think of.
The boy was eight. He lived with his father, who was definitely related to him, in a house in the country. He had got here by train after finding Sherlock's name and picture online and had came to deliver what was in his hand. Here was where older Mycroft had trouble. No matter how much he coerced he couldn't get his counterpart to hand it over.
Even Sherlock had a go. The curiosity near killing John driving Sherlock to insanity. The man even tried to snatch it, but little Mycroft was too quick and had the paper close to his chest after that.
About an hour and a funny story about a gang from little Mycroft- his parents were going to kill him- a horn beeped outside.
Mycroft was on his feet in seconds, racing to the window and holding one pale finger up. Returning to them he handed the paper over.
"I found this in daddy's study," he said. "There were a tonne of them and a lot of journals as well."
Before anyone could think of asking a question little Mycroft was gone, a dithering 'bye' floating behind him.
John watched him out the window. Whoever had been near enough to pick him up had little Mycroft in his arms for a hug. The boy in true Holmes fashion just stood there while the blonde man ran his hands over him. A minute later the two of them were off.
It turned out what had drove the boy all the way to Baker Street wasn't a new found heritage but a photograph.
On it were four men and a woman. The woman was light of hair, a trait she shared with two of her children. It was tied in a bun, but not even the countless clips in her hair could hide the mane of wild curls it must have been down. It only added to her beauty. Pale skin and round features, she sat primly in her dress, her face sombre for the camera.
Next to her was her husband. A young man, quite a few years younger actually, was standing proud his sons littered around him. Tall and willowy it was a good job the backdrop was dark. The man was as pale as a sheet. His hair was black and straight as it parted in the style of the time around noticeable ears. With pale eyes almost unseen on camera and sharp cheekbones he was no less handsome than his wife.
Around them were their three sons, and here was where John was sure his eyes were fooling him. It was Sherlock. Not just Sherlock but Mycroft. Much more like his mother than father in looks, yet there was something of the pale man there. They were noticeably younger. Sherlock still in his teens while Mycroft was rounding out in his twenties. Yet it was still them, and a third.
He too took after his father. In face he was the pale man, hair and form more Mycroft, or the mother he should say.
All of this was set in the backdrop of the late nineteenth century. Which was odd since John was pretty sure Sherlock wasn't that old.
"Is that..." Sherlock trailed, his mouth forming words that wouldn't come out.
Mycroft seemed to be having the same difficulty. Which went to show how hard John was taking this if two genius' like Sherlock and Mycroft were struggling.
John came back to himself when it was dark. Sitting in his chair he was sipping tea and watching as Sherlock paced in front of him. The photo was pinned delicately to Sherlock's thinking wall. Red streams were coming off it with more and more being pulled down or crossed off
The elder Holmes was strangely still here. Perched on Sherlock's chair he was texting and looking things up faster than Sherlock's muttering. John knew because he was often the one telling Sherlock to cross this or that off the wall.
So far they had established that the photo was genuine. Of that they had no doubt. The fingermarks were dating back a good few decades and even if it had been photo shopped Sherlock said they would never have been able to get that picture of Sherrinford, the last son in the picture, since no such photo existed to base it off.
'So Sherrinford's your brother?" By the looks the two of them gave him this wasn't the first time he had asked such a question.
"Yes John. Keep up," Sherlock snapped."Ances-"
"No," Mycroft vetoed. "But look at this."
Something dinged on Sherlock's computer, and after a few taps John was looking at a picture of himself and Sherlock.
"I need a lie down," John said, preparing to get up.
Sherlock stopped him with a hand on his arm. Thrusting the laptop onto John's knees he went back to pacing.
The picture was much like the last in that it was in the same century. His moustache was back and an old fashioned suit on his person. He still had his cane, which troubled him somewhat before he remembered that too was the fashion. Sherlock was older in this photo. His hated hat on his head he was glaring at the camera.
To add to the mystery there was a column beside it, a clipping from a newspaper. In it was a brief police report about a closed door murder Sherlock solved. Something about an adder, and hearing all about it in Dr Watson's new book.
Book.
Blog.
How much of his life was he reliving?
This other him was a doctor. A doctor in an Afghani war. John looked everywhere else for a mention of Dr Watson, wondering where his book was and how he had never heard of it.
There wasn't much apart from little newspaper clippings. Most of the sites were dedicated to him today, and were completely unhelpful in this life changing revelation.
"Where's his book?" John finally asked. Surely one of them would be able to find out.
"Book?" Sherlock.
"Unpublished," Mycroft. "A member of the family got hold of Dr Watson's work and persuaded him to hold off a couple of years. Ninety years later and I suspect the Emrys family will have it."
"Emrys."
The boy. Something niggled at his brain. Looking back on the article he realised what. Sherlock's last name wasn't Holmes. It was Emrys. Like the boy. It would explain how he looked so much like Sherlock if he was related to this man in the nineteenth century. It wasn't unheard of, after all, for some of the same genes to turn up again.
But that didn't explain how Sherlock and his brothers were here today. With the same names, bar their last one. Sherlock was even reliving his former life. All the clips he had looked at were of murders or mysteries that Sherlock Emrys had solved.
"I need a lie down," John repeated.
He set the laptop aside before he was tempted to throw it somewhere. Everything that had happened was surreal. Suddenly he was wishing the boy had been Sherlock's son. Or even Mycroft's. Anything was better than this mental breakdown he was experiencing.
"Perhaps that's best," Mycroft said. "This is probably best looked at with a clear mind. A night of rest should do it."
A pointed look was sent Sherlock's way. The man scowling back like the petulant child he was and took down another theory with some force.
"I'll make sure he goes to bed," John promised not wanting to start a fight that was inevitably going to break out between these two.
"Do," Mycroft drawled.
Picking up his umbrella and another pointed look Sherlock's way he tapped out of the flat.
Despite John's promise by eleven he left Sherlock to his own devices. The man would sleep if he wanted to. There was nothing really John could say that would make him do any different.
It turned out a good nights sleep didn't help. As soon as John clapped eyes on that photograph again his brain started hurting. It hurt more when he found Sherlock lying on the sofa.
Just because his eyes were closed it didn't mean he was asleep. Checking everywhere for drugs and cigarettes he finally declared Sherlock good and went about making breakfast. Maybe if he pretended the photo wasn't real his headache would go away.
It worked for all of an hour.
Breakfast was interrupted by a ding on John's laptop. Sherlock was there immediately, growling lowly before turning to his thinking wall.
John chanced a look, and wished he hadn't.
Sherlock wasn't the only Holmes brother to have a sleepless night. Through contacts John could only dream of Mycroft had found a picture of little Mycroft.
About six years old he had a cheerful grin on his face with the blonde man from the car on one side and his father on the other. How did John know it was Mycroft's father? Because it was the same man from the photograph.
The same ears, cheeks, skin. Everything was in the right century, digital and colour. His clothes were modern and the pose was even carefree. But it was the same man from the photo. John could just tell, and not just because he looked like him. There was an old weariness to his eyes. Sharp as they were in the scene they were still tired, like Sherlock often looked when he hadn't had a case for a good month.
"So what's the plan?" John finally asked.
He should have asked sooner really. The only reason they were still in Baker Street being that Sherlock was oddly tuned in to his needs. Leaving yesterday would have resulted in him being punched at the very least. Now...
"House in the country," Sherlock said, replaying what little Mycroft had said yesterday.
"I'll pack."
Mycroft had, naturally, found out little Mycroft's address. Not only that but he sent them a little biography of the boy and his family.
His father was called Merlin. He was twenty seven years old and married to the blonde in the picture, Arthur Pendragon for five years. Apparently the blonde was in town for a business meeting yesterday which was how he was able to pick little Mycroft up so easily.
"And the mother?" John asked.
The train was rumbling beneath them. A steady beat as towns and fields flitted past them. The image of the woman from the photo came to mind. Could it be that she too was here as well?
"Dead," Sherlock said, showing him a picture of a woman completely different to the one in the old photo. "Car crash. Not that it matters."
"How so?"
Apart from the curly hair there was no other way the boy resembled his mother.
"Her and Mr Emrys were estranged ever since the boy's birth. She wanted nothing more to do with him, and couldn't be bothered to bring up a baby so left them," Sherlock rattled off, playing with his phone again. "Strange." He muttered, his mind moving faster than John could catch up. Already he was thinking of something else as John was digesting this new information about the Emrys'.
"What is?" John asked.
Sherlock looked up. "Hmm? Oh, nothing." He waved off.
Sometimes John wanted to punch him.
After a train ride to the country and a short taxi ride they ended up outside a forest. John looked around, like they had missed something. Yet Sherlock seemed perfectly at ease as he strode forward and into the bushes.
"Wait!" John called.
It turned out that the trees were hiding a road. One Sherlock had refused to let the taxi drive up. It became apparent why when he made John stop every second step to examine something or other. He was sizing up the Emrys'. Looking for clues as to why they were messing with him.
It took longer than usual for them to emerge from the trees. Brushing nettles and twigs from his person John wondered if Merlin had any job opportunities going. Anyone who lived in a house like this should be making quite a bit.
It was three stories high. An old manor house with hills our back that stretched for miles. John fancied they had a stable somewhere around here. It was just that kind of house.
Sherlock took even longer getting to the front door than he had in the forest, grabbing John's arm and bringing him round if he so much as strayed too far from him. Sherlock really was like a hound, John mused as the man muttered something to himself.
Finally they were at the front door. Three crisp knocks and Arthur Pendragon himself was opening it.
The man must have known about Sherlock. Seen a picture in 'daddy's study' or had looked him up when little Mycroft sidled into his car. John could tell since his face went from resigned to shocked and finally panicked in a matter of seconds.
Sherlock taking this as his cue held his hand out.
"Sherlock Holmes. I believe your son asked for my help."
"What?" He wasn't sure whether it was himself or Arthur that asked.
As far as he was aware they were here to solve the puzzle of Sherlock's doppelgänger. Then he remembered Sherlock's 'strange' on the train over here.
A little Mycroft.
A luring photograph.
A probably background check.
Little Mycroft had played Sherlock perfectly and the man knew it. He was even looking a little impressed as Arthur showed them into the house.
"I don't know what he's told you, but we don't need your help," Arthur said. "Mycroft!" He called anyway.
Sherlock didn't look deterred by Arthur's brush off. Really John didn't think he had ever seen the man deterred by someone saying they didn't want his help. In Sherlock's mind, all it took was one person asking, any person, and he was there to help them. Whether the rest of the involving party liked it or not.
Little Mycroft was still as cute as he had been the day before. Dressed in shorts and something sticky matting his hair he sidled over to Arthur, taking Sherlock's outstretched hand when he offered it.
"Knew you'd come," He gloated.
"How could I resist?" Sherlock grinned.
His gaze turned over the hallway, the stairs. His gaze taking everything in while little Mycroft did the same, only to Sherlock.
"He's upstairs," Mycroft said. "We're having a tournament day in one of our other houses. He's busy sorting out the contestants, but should be down soon."
Arthur snapped his gaze to Mycroft. "How did you-? You were in your room. You know what... Look Mr Holmes, we don't need your help. I'm so grateful you found Mycroft yesterday and we'll be happy to have you for tea, but we're fine."
The smirk wasn't gone from Sherlock's lips as he said, "That's not what your driveway says."
Merlin Emrys was a nice bloke in John's opinion. Witty, happy and completely normal. At least he would be if he didn't look so much like Sherlock. It was creeping John out watching a face so similar and so different from Sherlock's. It was a face that definitely could have spawned him. Him and Mycroft. He could see Sherlock's brother in the set of his brow.
He was nudged back into the here and now.
"Everything alright?" Merlin asked. His face grinning while his eyes told a different story.
"Just a bit full," He said, patting his belly for emphasis.
Tea had been lovely. Merlin feeding them a meal that John probably would have spent a fortune on in a restaurant and still wouldn't have matched up to Merlin's cooking.
Merlin nodded in understanding, reading John's uneasiness clearly.
"I'm sorry about Mycroft. I had no idea he was gone until Arthur phoned. He's sneakier than he looks," He joked.
"Oh I believe that," John agreed. "But he was fine. Polite and-"
He stopped as Merlin laughed in his face.
"Polite?" He scoffed. "That's not the Mycroft I know. He literally told his teacher last week she was an idiot to her face. He also went on a rant proving how idiotic she was. He's not allowed back there," Merlin muttered casting a worried look to his son.
The boy was showing Sherlock his chemistry set.
"Well he was nice to us," John tried.
Merlin appraised him, John getting the feeling he was being examined. "He must like you."
Mycroft interrupted then to grab something from Merlin's left, the boy hissing something before showing Sherlock a table he'd drawn up.
"Why Mycroft?" John couldn't help but ask. "It's such an unusual name."
He could see Sherlock perk up from his seat, still looking like was interested in what Mycroft had to say.
Merlin pursed his lips. Arthur on the other hand had been looking pale ever since Sherlock turned up. Now he looked like he was about to faint.
"Photograph?"
In one word he had transformed from normal look alike to full blown Holmes. The clipped tone he adopted coupled with the laid back pose he fell into was both Sherlock and Mycroft put into one.
"Yes," Sherlock said.
"The family one," Mycroft put in.
Merlin rolled his eyes, falling back in to his easy going role. "How many times do I have to tell you to stay out of my study Mycroft?"
"One more should do it," The boy quipped, trying to draw Sherlock back in to his attention.
Turning back to him Merlin said, "Mycroft was the only one who... had an easy life. I was hoping my son would follow in that path."
"An easy life?"
If that Mycroft was anything like the one he knew then there was no way he had an easy life. Mycroft, while keeping out of Sherlock's games, was no less living a simple life. He was involved in bomb plots and civil wars for breakfast and conspiracy's by tea.
Merlin got up, leaving briefly to return with a leather bound book. Dr J. Watson was on the front and John realised what he was looking at. Excitement along with dread coursed through him.
"Sherlock ended up falling down a waterfall the first time and taking his own life the second. Sherrinford... was shot by a member of an occult he was part of. Mycroft was the only one who died peacefully. Well, he died."
Merlin handed over the book. It was quickly snatched out of his hands by Sherlock.
"Sherlock," Merlin warned, a reprimand John would have expected from a father not a man who he had just met. Seeming to remember himself he said, "Sorry. It's just he looks so much like Mycroft."
Silence descended. John trying his best to read between the lines. See what he had missed. But he didn't have Sherlock's gift, and could only conclude magic for lack of anything else.
"Tea!" Arthur said. "Who wants a cup?"
John raised his hand, anything to help alleviate the awkwardness.
It turned out staying for tea meant staying the night. Merlin offered them a bed as soon as Sherlock started reading. By nightfall the man was curled in a chair next to one of Merlin's fireplaces with little Mycroft on his lap. The two of them were looking over The Adventure of the Speckled Band criticizing everything they found. Apparently that John was as unreliable a narrator as him.
Sherlock took great care to say, "Your other counterpart seemed quite in love with me John." When he called Dr Watson stupid one time too many.
John just rolled his eyes and left the two of them to their book.
The rest of the manor was just as interesting as the rooms he had already seen. Mountains upon mountains of history in the forms of swords, shields, books... the books were the most interesting. He found a journal of a man named Merlin Emrys dating 1917. In it was quite a detailed story about WW1. Most parts of it were unbelievable. The man was obviously suffering from some sort of delusion or stress from the horror of the war as he described mythical creatures and sorcerers cornering him. Some of it was sad. The death of those he had made friends with. All in all as a fiction it was brilliant. As a history book, brilliant but unreliable.
John's favourite part was the mention of Sherlock. Apparently the man had taken up bee-keeping and was sending his relative frequent updates via letter about them while he fought the war. It seemed the man hadn't decided to take his life just yet.
Arthur found him like that. Hiding in another room of the manor, curled up like Sherlock in front of the fire.
The man was looking more comfortable. Merlin had sent away hours ago to check on the horses. Now, dressed for bed and no Sherlock in sight he handed John a beer and pulled up a chair next to him.
"We don't need help," He repeated. "I've got it all under control."
"Yes, you keep saying that," John agreed. Needing some clarity to the situation he finally asked, "What exactly are you keeping under control?"
Arthur sighed, taking a long swig of his drink he motioned to the window. Outside was the forest they had came through that morning. The small road drifting in and disappearing as the trees swallowed it up.
"A couple of weeks ago Merlin turns to me and says 'Isn't it strange how the pizza never comes on time?' I thought nothing of it. You know how takeaways are, they always come when they want and not when they're expected," Arthur took another drink, his gaze locked at the night sky. "A few days after that we get a Chinese. Merlin turns to me and says 'Don't you think it's strange how we always get the same delivery man?"
"I'm starting to think there's something odd going on with your takeaways," John guessed.
Arthur chuckled, "You have no idea."
Prompting John said, "So there's something strange?"
"Yes. It's been a week. We're playing with Mycroft outside. The boy loves our horses, thank God, and we went riding one day. Merlin sidles up beside me, phone in hand and tells me he had just got off the phone with the Pizza place, and the Chinese, and everywhere else we had ordered something from in the last few weeks. Apparently their drivers have took some unallocated days off. Dead Merlin says, like he knows. Which he probably does," Arthur added as an afterthought. "Which is when I start watching. We've been getting the same delivery man. The others have gone missing. I'm not stupid. I can connect the dots. There's something going on."
"And little Mycroft knows about it," John finished. "That's why he came to get us."
"I still don't know why," Arthur said. "No offence or anything. I didn't even know you existed until Mycroft told me yesterday." His eyes dropped to the book in John's hands. "Well, I knew about him."
"Who is he?" John asked, hoping Arthur's loose lips would give him the explanation he wanted.
It seemed he had overplayed his hand. With a brief goodnight Arthur left him, taking the book he had been reading with him.