Family Counseling

~by sfiddy~

Immediately following the story Relationship Therapy...

Sherlock was already hailing a cab by the time John closed the street door. Lestrade was listening intently to his mobile and ignoring the door his driver had opened for him. He finished his conversation and ran a hand over his haggard face. "When you get there you'll have to wait for an escort to take you to the records room. I've already told them you're expected." Lestrade listened to his phone and scribbled in a folder on the hood of the car. "Oh, and whatever you do, don't start telling them how to manage the pound, yeah?"

Sherlock tugged his gloves into place. "While I'm flattered that you imagine that I have expertise in such things, I can assure you that monetary policy is not among my specialties. As John can attest, I spend more time on the obituaries than the business section."

"You don't just spend time on them, you clip and file them based on cause of death."

A cab pulled up and Lestrade tucked the phone into his pocket and made for the passenger door. "Does he really?"

John squinted in thought. "I suppose it depends on your idea of 'filing' but, yes." Sherlock sighed loudly and opened the cab door.

"Blimey." Lestrade shrugged and tossed his files into the car. "See you there." Lestrade disappeared into the police car and sped away.

Sherlock crouched, about to climb into the back of the cab when his phone rang and a sleek black car approached. The hair on the back of John's neck stood up, for this was never, ever good. The black car cut off the cab, blocking it against the kerb.

"How rude." Sherlock glanced at the screen and sent the call to voicemail, then pulled out his wallet and handed the furious cabbie a few pounds.

"Who was that?"

"John, it appears Her Majesty is summoning us. Come."

The car purred as it pulled away, leaving the disgruntled cabbie free to do the same. Sherlock listened to his voicemail and rolled his eyes.

"What about Lestrade, Sherlock? He's expecting us at… wherever it is he's having us go. Where are we going?"

Sherlock began texting furiously. "Don't worry, we're still going to the same place. Mycroft wants to know where we are so he sent his shiny little retriever to fetch us. He also gets the bonus of having a modicum of control over our movements." He grumbled. "Ever the security guard."

John glanced out the window and then back again at Sherlock. "Then why are we in here if you hate him manipulating you so much?"

Sherlock stopped typing and glared at the back of the driver's head. "To save the fare, obviously. There will be plenty of cabs where we're going if we need one." The tapping resumed.

"Hang on. What did you mean, security guard?"

The typing paused. "Mycroft didn't spring into existence as he is. He was involved in security surveillance and consulting long before his career in empire building." Sherlock gazed past his mobile screen. "With the evidence at hand, I had assumed once that he was going to be a master criminal and thief."

"But he decided to devote himself to Queen and country instead?"

Sherlock slipped the mobile back into a pocket. "I still haven't worked out the difference."

John cleared his throat to cover the wince that came whenever he rolled his shoulders, shaking off Sherlock's comment. "You must admit," John mused as he felt the leather, "Mycroft knows how to travel. I just wish it wasn't always accompanied by a massive pain in the arse."

"Thank you." Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"Not you. Nothing is ever straightforward when your brother is involved. It's always some part of an awful game that we get mixed up in."

"Hmmm."

John sighed. "Don't."

"What? I'm breathing!"

"You did the humming, thinking noise again. Just… save it." He looked out the window and squinted at the signs going by. "Where are we going anyway?"

"Threadneedle. Any other questions?"

John started to shake his head, but stopped himself. "You're wearing pants, right?"

Sherlock smirked. "Yes. I save the sheet for Buckingham."

"Good."

…

The walls of the Bank of England's main hall were ornate with the sort of artwork that only time and great expense can acquire. Massive carved wood and stone columns soared overhead, artfully illuminated by powerful lighting while, far below, classical art shared space with the most modern technology the world had to offer. John had to stop himself from staring like a schoolboy on a class trip.

They were escorted by guards through the main offices to a series of gated security suites. Lestrade greeted them as they finally came to a set of doors with a simple keypad lock. Behind it was an ordinary storage room filled with metal boxes.

"Who is it now?" A reedy voice protested from behind a stack of paper. "Whoever it is, tell them not to move anything!"

Lestrade made a face and waved John closer. Sherlock broke away and peered at the rows of boxes and began walking around the room. "Mr. Phipps, this is Sher-," Lestrade spun around and sighed. "This is Dr. John Watson and somewhere in here is Sherlock Holmes. I've asked them here to take a look at the records."

John walked up to the stack and found a fussy, ginger coloured man with exactly the kind of spectacles you would expect on a man whose job was to look after outdated records. "John Watson, pleased to meet you."

The man looked up from his computer screen, a relic from another era, and appraised John with watery, myopic eyes. "Orson Phipps."

Discreetly sniffing his sleeve, John confirmed that it was Phipps, and not himself, that was filling the room with the smell of disinfectant and stale tea. He'd long since discovered that living on the kind of schedule Sherlock kept could create an atmosphere around one's self.

"Lestrade!" Sherlock's bellow reverberated through the long, narrow room. "Has there been a break-in here?"

"No."

"Has there been an assault on Mr. Phipps?"

"No." Lestrade's eye scrunched in confusion.

"An unexpected incident of any kind?"

"Well, no."

"Murder?"

John whirled around. "Honestly, Sherlock!"

Sherlock shrugged. "It was worth asking." He walked to Lestrade with his hands in his pockets. "So am I to understand that I'm at the storage site of the hard copy evidence of a possible crime that was cyber in nature and that occurred approximately fifteen years ago?"

Lestrade opened a closed his mouth once. Maybe twice. "Well, eh… yes."

With a swirl of wool, Sherlock spun on his heel and headed towards the door. "Excellent. Just wanted to clear that up. I'll text."

John hustled to catch up but Sherlock spun around, making him stop short. "Where do you think you're going? I need you to find and examine the records of the time periods in question. Consider the consistency of dates, ink types, writing styles, and anything that stands out." Sherlock pulled his notepad from his coat pocket and started scribbling. "They'll likely have the records in triplicate, so bring the ones in question as well as the back-ups to Baker Street when you finish up here." He snatched a blank envelope from Phipp's desk and ignored the indignant splutters.

"Where are you going?"

"I'm going to take a taxi and get out from under Mycroft's thumb. I have some research to do." He ripped the pages from his pad and slid them into the envelope. "When you finish here, go to this address and ask for Toby. Give him this note."

John tucked the papers into a pocket. "Who is Toby? Another one of your sniffer dogs?"

Sherlock smirked. "You might say that." With that, he swept from the room, banging the door against the wall on his way out.

Mr. Phipps shuffled papers about on one of the tables in the room, ignoring John. Lestrade nudged the little bureaucrat with his elbow. "Oh all right. Where would you like to start, Mr. Watson? Nineteen ninety-two and work up to aught-four," He patted the row of massive boxes on the table affectionately, "or the other way 'round?"

...

With scratchy eyes and a pounding head, John stepped onto the pavement of Threadneedle and squinted. A Bank of England guard rolled a cart with a mere two boxes behind him, the product of his painful examinations. John hardly noticed when the black car pulled up and the driver opened the boot and held the door for him. As he climbed into the car, there was a flash of orange over the driver's shoulder.

"Mr. Watson! Wait!"

"Mr. Phipps, please tell me you didn't find another box." John pushed against the pressure in his forehead.

"Of course not." Phipps sniffed and waved a hand. "I found the computer records. I thought these had been damaged, but it seems they are perfectly intact, however…" he trailed off.

"What? What's the problem?"

Phipps held up a brown flip top case full of three and a half inch floppy disks. "You may have some connection problems." John's eyes went wide. "Christ."

"Isn't this wonderful, though? These are all the files that the printouts were made from. Changes were cross-referenced by the secretaries back then and the files updated until they were signed off and closed. Just imagine, now the system generates the spreadsheets and the data stacks can be analyzed remotely in any configuration." Phipps gazed wistfully at the box of disks, then held it out to John. "Mr. Watson, are you alright? You look a bit red."

John snatched the box away at the same time the last box was loaded into the boot. "It's Doctor Watson. Good evening, Mr. Phipps." Phipps had to jump backwards to avoid being hit by the door as John slammed it shut.

…

The driver would not shut off the car, but unloaded the boxes and delivered them to Mrs. Hudson while John sat with the motor running. He leaned forward as the driver returned. "I don't suppose there's a chance we could stop for dinner? Maybe Chinese."

The driver glanced in the rearview. "No, sir." They pulled onto the street.

"A sandwich? I'm a very tidy eater. I wouldn't dream of mucking up Mycroft's car."

"Sorry, sir. Mr. Holmes said to take you to the address immediately."

"Sherlock called you?"

"Oh no, sir." The driver sniffed. "Mr. Holmes."

John sat back. Of course it wasn't Sherlock. He would have texted. "Coffee, then?"

The driver sighed and pulled over at the next café. "Leave the top on, sir."

…

Still hungry but at least awake and warm, they arrived at the address Sherlock had given them. John eyed the street warily and did not like what he saw. It was just dark out, and this was not a neighborhood he was familiar with.

"The number, sir?"

"Number three. Are you sure we're supposed to be in Lambeth?"

The driver sat up stiffly. "This is the only Pinchin Lane in London. Mr. Holmes is never wrong."

The streetlights that functioned at all were flickering, and anything supposed to be green had been beaten into submission by neglect and footfall. John sidestepped a decomposing window box on his way the door marked with a scuffed brass number three. The door knocker rapped against a dent in the wood.

Thumping footsteps approached the door. "Oi, what you want?" A heavy man with thick hands answered. His fists looked the size of John's head.

John gulped. "I'm, eh, here to find a Toby Sherman? Is he in?"

"Who's asking? You a copper?"

"No, I'm here from Sherlock Holmes." John held out the note. "Is Toby here, Mr… Sherman?"

"Bates. Sherlock sent you?" The man looked behind John and saw the car. "Why didn't you say so? Come in, come in."

John followed, and was pleasantly surprised. Despite the wear and tear in the house, it was well kept. It looked to be a house with many children, for there was a board tracking which chore was whose. The man shuffled on rheumy legs and led John up a squeaky staircase. "Toby's up here. Been here regular the last few months. Good kid, hope he stays." The man paused at a door. "Toby? You in there? Man to see you. Got a note from Sherlock, he says."

There was a scramble from within the room. The man chuckled. "Well, that got his attention! Sometimes you can't pull him away from his contraptions." The door opened and an awkward, too-thin teenage boy with sloppy clothes and sloppier dark hair stepped forward. He closed the door behind him and held out his hand to take the note. Once his sharp eyes had devoured it he examined John as if he were an insect.

"John Watson?" The boy asked suspiciously.

"Yes."

"How do you know Sherlock?"

A touch annoyed, but prepared to do whatever Sherlock needed him to do, John just set his jaw. "I'm his flatmate. Sometimes I help out, other times I want to punch him."

He smiled and held up the note. "He said you'd say something like that." He flipped open the door and kicked it wide. "My humble abode." The man who had escorted John upstairs cleared his throat. "Alright there, Toby?"

"Fine, Mr. Bates. Thanks."

"Leave you to it, then. I'll be putting up the supper."

Toby led John into a room with bunk beds and desks. There was hardly space enough for the two of them standing. The room screamed institution with the exception of Toby's desk, covered in computer hardware and blinking like a Christmas tree garlanded by LEDs. "My office." Toby pulled a chair from the next desk. "Please, sit. What can I do for Mr. Sherlock Holmes?"

"What is this place?"

Toby spun in his chair, kicking the wall to gain momentum. "Group home. Some might think it's a zoo, but it's like finishing school for orphans. We're not old enough to do much on our own, and we need a bit of polishing up before we're let out of our cages."

"So, job training?"

"And sobering up, yeah." Toby started to prop his feet on the desk but though better of it. "Mr. Bates runs the place like a military camp, but he lets me use all the power I need." Toby pointed out the myriad of power strips that led from his desk. "He figures I can make a go of this on the outside, so he lets me work on anything I want. Got myself into trouble a few times, but Sherlock took care of it so long as I help him out, too."

Though John was used to Sherlock's extensive web of contacts, Toby's youth and bombast struck a chord. "I see. Sherlock has a way of taking care of things." John tried to envision Sherlock cleaning up after this boy's indiscretions. "He needs you again."

"Figured. He says the Yard and the government are involved. If that's true, I have a list of conditions to make." Toby got out paper and a pen. "Number one, I will only answer questions asked by Sherlock. No one else. Number two, no one touches my hardware, and I get a guarantee that they won't poke about in my coding."

John smiled and glanced at the screens. "Been up to something lately, Toby?"

Toby's eyes sparkled in a disturbingly familiar way. "Rule number one, sir. Rule number one."

…

List of demands completed and fifty pounds in 'earnest money' to Toby, the driver delivered John back to Baker Street. It was after eight and his stomach was rebelling against his coffee. There was a rather nice piece of meat left from Mrs. Hudson's Sunday roast, and John's mouth watered at the thought of slathering it with horseradish. If he was very lucky, Mrs. Hudson might even have some lettuce left.

He took the stairs two at a time and flung the door open-

And came to an abrupt stop at the sight of the table.

"What in the bloody hell is that!"

Sherlock leaned slightly back from the microscope. "Tissue adhesions and inflammatory responses. Was Toby there?"

"What? Oh my…" John walked past Sherlock and saw the mound of knotted flesh Sherlock was poking at. "Jesus, I thought you were doing some research on the case!"

After clipping off a bit of tissue, Sherlock labeled the top of the plastic tube. "Stab wound one, site three. I never said I was researching the bank case. I'm examining the effect of multiple separate stab injury events on fibrous developments in tissue." He slid the tiny lump into a tube and made a note in his lab book. "It will be exceptionally useful in Scotland. Did you know that one of our recent Exchequers was Scottish, and that he became Prime Minister?"

John was tempted to remind Sherlock about the Solar System, but passed. "Gordon Brown. You just took the samples?"

"No, Molly had a pack of drug overdoses and alcohol poisonings this week. I'm reaping the benefits."

"You…" John took a deep breath. "Nope, leave it." He stepped around the stacks of reference books and notes to get into the kitchen. "Anything in the fridge?"

"The samples. Will Toby come?"

He paused, hand on the handle. "If you can meet his conditions." John handed Sherlock the note from Toby. "Sealed?"

"Closed, sealed and inside a wrapped box. I would have expected nothing less."

"Is there any bread?"

"Did you buy any?"

John sighed and took the container of roast beef and headed downstairs. Maybe Mrs. Hudson wouldn't mind if he nicked some bread and watched telly with her until Sherlock had cleared the kitchen.

…

"What time are we expected?" John poured tea and sat in his chair.

Sherlock poked at his phone on his way to the kitchen. "I told Lestrade ten. Sir Mervyn King will be there, and Toby texted and he'll meet us there just before."

With aching eyes, John squinted towards the window. "Are you sure about him, Sherlock? He seems so..."

"Unpolished? Unstable?"

John shook his head. "Actually the word I would have used was 'devious', but those might suit."

Sherlock smirked. "Sir King or Toby?" Ignoring John's exasperation, he sipped his tea and wafted the steam thoughtfully. "Lestrade hates that I can send batches of texts."

"What? Oh, yes. Sally mentioned that once."

"Only once?" Typing on his phone with one hand and balancing tea on a notebook in the other, Sherlock returned to the sitting room and took up his seat. "How do I think I learned how to do that?"

John stared. "But that was two years ago. He would have been…"

"Fifteen years old. His mind is his pedigree, not his breeding. So yes, he is young and absolutely devious but, like me, he is far from being one thing."

John sighed and reached for his tea. "What one thing is that?"

"An amateur."

...

Scotland Yard in mid-morning was a busier place than one might expect, and John watched the parade of suits file in and out of the building. Coffee and smoke breaks kept the grounds churning with activity, but, in John's opinion, even less productive than Sherlock on an off day. As they waited for Toby, Sherlock's phone continued to ring.

"Aren't you going to answer it?"

"Why? It's just Mycroft."

"He's going to keep calling until you answer. I'd rather deal with your tirade after the fact than the rants until you do."

"Fine." Sherlock accepted the call and held the phone up to his ear. "Hello brother, dear." Sherlock listened for a minute and then simply hung up without a word. He looked at John, who frowned deeply at him. "What?"

"You just hung up on him." John was still frowning.

"Yes, I didn't need to hear any more. Dull."

"So, what was he saying?"

"He wants to put me off of this case and leave it to Lestrade." Sherlock tugged his gloves. "That just makes me more determined."

"Is he offering to pay you to leave it again?"

"No. He's encouraging me to pursue it. He never asks me to, so I can only assume he wants me to walk away."

John scrunched one eye. "Are you sure? Sometimes you can be less than objective when it comes to your brother."

"I know exactly what I'm doing." He tucked a fist under his nose and surveyed the street again. "Ah, here comes Toby."

...

The ground rules were laid out and agreed to, much to Sergeant Donovan's dismay, and Lestrade led them back to a door labeled 'IT Services'.

"Hope you're happy, Sherlock. You've made the Governor of the Bank of England wait for you in a cupboard." Lestrade punched a number into the keypad lock with unnecessary force. "We've had to find the only set of real tea things in the place just to keep his personal assistant happy."

Sherlock smirked. "I'd make the Queen wait in a cupboard if need be, never mind Mervyn King. I need my personal assistants. One was late."

Lestrade shot a glance at the shaggy, arrogant looking teen and sighed. The resemblance was terrifying.

Behind the door was a massive bank of blinking, humming equipment. On the far wall John could see a set of cubicles with massive screens, towers, and keyboards lying atop tangled wires resembling spaghetti. A distinguished gentleman sat with what was undoubtedly part of the Scotland Yard tea set, listening to the stream of information being spouted by a nattering young woman with three mobile phones and an earpiece in each ear.

"Sir King, may I introduce Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock, Sir Mervyn King."

Sir King looked up from his tea. "You're late, young man."

Before Sherlock had a chance to formulate a snide reply, sharp heel strikes punctuated with intervening taps made his brow furrow in annoyance.

"I apologize, Mervyn, for my brother's tardiness." Mycroft Holmes leaned his umbrella against the desk. "He has a habit of assuming the rest of the world hangs on his very breath. His companion and colleague, Dr. Watson."

John was about to clarify but Sir King waved him away and sipped his tea. The assistant protested the delays, but Sir King merely folded his newspaper. "Then we shall exhale now, Mycroft, unless you wished to relive your days locked away and staring at screens? This room must make you sentimental."

Mycroft poured. "I hardly think the sailor gets misty-eyed for the crow's nest, Mervyn." Sherlock scowled in greeting. "Mycroft."

"Sherlock. John." Mycroft glided past and sat with Sir King at the hastily assembled tea service. "I believe you have the preliminary evidence and data?"

With a sweep of his arm, Sherlock motioned for Toby to come forward. "This is Toby Sherman. I have retained his talents for this case. John, the files if you will." John dropped the bag he'd shouldered with the relevant files and the box of fossilized disks.

"A boy, Mr. Holmes?" Sir King set his cup down with an elegant porcelain click. Sherlock just smiled and gestured to the last open chair. Toby sat and pulled a laptop out of his bag. Mycroft nodded assurance to his friend. "Very well, Toby. I have my security keys here," Sir King held out a fob to Toby and was reaching for another. "So I'll have to synchronize the numbers on them, input and then retrieve a code that will serve as-"

"I'm in." Toby announced.

…

After an hour, Sherlock was beginning to chafe at the inactivity and chatter. Sir King and Mycroft were gathering their things and preparing to leave. It had become clear that any answers would take some time, and busy men cannot be idle.

Sir King tidied his jacket and picked up his newspaper. "How long did you make tea for Brownie?"

"Off and on for his backbencher years, and a bit less often after he became Exchequer. I think he liked to hide out in my office." Mycroft scrunched his nose. "I never could get used to pancakes and Brodies." Mycroft unhooked his umbrella from a rack and stood close to Sherlock. "I trust you will inform us when you find anything. Wouldn't want anything to happen to this information, would we?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes as John walked Mycroft and Sir King to the door. "John, I don't suppose you might send me an update on how things proceed?"

John smiled warily. "When we have something worthwhile, I'm sure Sherlock will let you know."

A corner of Mycroft's mouth twitched. "Of course. Until then, John."

...

John had spent his time initially helping Toby load the data from the disks and keep track of the dates. It wasn't long, however, before Toby grew silent and became an extension of the hardware. The screens scrolled, his eyes keeping pace as fast as they could refresh their contents. Sherlock, having discarded his sweeping coat for rolled shirtsleeves in deference to the heat, tapped Toby's shoulder. "Prognosis?"

The teenager never looked away from his screens. "I'll need tonight, but I'll have something for you in a few hours."

Sherlock nodded and started to turn away, beginning his exit from the room.

"Sherlock." John nudged him before he could get to his coat.

"Hmm?"

"He's a kid, Sherlock."

"Yes, and Alexander the Great was tutored by Aristotle until he was sixteen and was king by twenty. I'll let Toby know he's falling behind."

"No, you sod. He's a teenage boy." Sherlock inclined his head and raised his eyebrows. John cupped his forehead and wearily clarified himself. "He'll be hungry, Sherlock."

"Ah." Sherlock walked back to Toby and spoke softly so as to not disturb him. "We'll send something round." Without watching for a response, he lifted his coat and scarf from where he'd flung it earlier. "Ready, John?"

They exited the dark room, leaving Toby to work, for the main office space of the Yard. Lestrade waved them into his office and motioned for them to sit while he finished his call. Only John sat.

"Well? Any good news?"

Sherlock was busy texting and just waved a hand in John's direction. "Well, ah, it looks like Toby has some digging to do. He thinks he'll have something in a few hours, so…"

"So we're going to Baker Street." Sherlock sent his text and looked up sharply. "I've sent you a list of what Toby will need." Lestrade's mobile chimed. "Three espressos, a tube of Berocca, and an order of Malai Kofta?"

"Yes. In that order, beginning in one hour."

John stood and tossed his jacket over his shoulder.

"Bloody Malai Kofta?" Lestrade turned pink.

Sherlock looked at his watch calmly. "With onion naan. Toby is a vegetarian."

"Time to go, Sherlock." John muttered as he nudged Sherlock's arm. "Greg, just send us the bill. We'll be in touch."

John hustled them out the door and to the lift. In distance they heard Lestrade summon Sergeant Donovan angrily.

"Malai Kofta!"

...

In the cab, John sighed. "Honestly, you can't just take the piss at Scotland Yard. We could have got all that."

"This was more fun. Can you imagine the look on Sally's face? Besides, she'll take Anderson with her and they'll make a tryst of it."

"God, you're a git."

Sherlock's phone signaled a text. He smiled, and showed the screen to John.

If he gets one drop of curry on the computer, I'll have you. GL

...

Sherlock tucked his violin away and contemplated the box of pink and blue stained slides. "Molly has outdone herself. I wonder whose biopsy was delayed while she made the technicians finish my stab wounds first."

"Eating, Sherlock." John stuck a forkful of lo mein into his mouth. "Stab wounds later."

John finished dinner and washed up, then put the kettle on. "I wonder how Toby's got on?" He wondered out loud as he dried the plates.

"We'll hear any time. It's been nearly four hours." Sherlock inspected his first slide, holding it up to the light. "Really John, these are lovely." He opened his lab notebook beside the microscope and slid the glass slide into place.

"Why is your brother so interested? It's not like it's any more involved in the government than a dozen other cases we've done." Sherlock adjusted the light and fiddled with the focus. "Not sure, but given the issues on the continent, I've no doubt he sees this as either an issue of national security, or an opportunity to advance the Empire."

"Since when did you care about European financial crises?"

"Since my dear brother decided to leverage it in his quest and embroil me in his mess."

"Mycroft is not intent on world domination, Sherlock." Steam rose from the kettle and John set teabags in the cups.

"Perhaps. I admit, he does seem to prefer this island, regardless of where he likes to stick his nose." He looked over the eyepieces and flicked a speck of dust away from the microscope's neck. "Never liked the heat."

John, for just a moment, recalled the scorching heat of the Middle East. He shuddered, and reached for his tea. As he lingered over his RAMC mug for a moment, John caught Sherlock's sharp gaze. "I can't say I enjoyed it myself."

Sherlock turned back to his microscope. "Or Americans. Especially not after the Savings and Loan crisis. He just uses them when they're convenient. Ah, here we are!" Sherlock scribbled in his notebook.

"What have you got there?"

"You recall the class of cells known as macrophages?"

"Sure. Some are involved in inflammation and tissue destruction, others in debris clearance and healing. See a lot in the lungs of asthmatics and the muscles of dystrophy patients. Constant repeated injury stuff."

"Exactly. So in a recent wound you expect to see fresh infiltration of macrophages. But if there's an old wound right next to it-"

"They can break up old scar tissue and encourage the healing of old damage. Sure." John sipped his tea. "I wouldn't recommend it as a healing method."

"All the rage in Glasgow, though. Now, look." Sherlock leaned back to allow John to look in the eyepieces. "Do you see the bright pink? With the lumps?"

"Fibrous tissue. Those purple ones are granular cells, early macrophages inside the scar." "And mixed in?"

"Hang on. Your eyes are odd." John set his cup down and moved the eyepieces to suit him better. "Huh, those look like embedded late stage macrophages, like they've been activated."

Sherlock grinned. "The new cells activated the old, causing them to renew their work, and old cells can begin clearing damaged tissue faster. Isn't it remarkable? It could also help date injuries, trace earlier trauma, and even link prior crimes."

John leaned away from the microscope and smiled back. It was nice to see Sherlock enjoying himself, even if it meant having trimmed tissue samples on the kitchen table. Maybe, just maybe, it was worth the bottle of formaldehyde he'd acquired in order to prep them, too. Only maybe.

The phone rang. Sherlock stood to answer, taking his notes and pen with him.

"Excellent, Toby. What have you found?" Sherlock put the call on speakerphone and handed John the pen and notebook.

"I should be paying you. This was more fun than I had when I got the codes for… never mind. So, I wrote up the details in an email. You'll get it in a minute, but the short of it is that there's new code inside the old codes."

John grunted. "What?"

"Computer languages. Programmers use different codes depending on the industry or the software's application. Engineers use different languages than, say, bankers. Ninety-nine point nine percent of what I looked at was in one language, but it was the point one percent that made the difference."

John took notes furiously, trying to keep up. Sherlock sat, legs tucked to his chest and eyes closed. "And what was strange about this point one percent?"

"Most of the code was in COBOL or a related language, which the banking and insurance world uses. This tiny bit was in another language that wasn't even used by anyone other than the original creators, hackers, and the security developers who had to beat them. It's still a boutique language, mostly used by people who like to show off how clever they are."

Sherlock steepled his hands. "And what did this new code do?"

"It's hard to be sure, but it looks like it was triggered by normal inputs in the COBOL language. There were a couple triggers: one in nineteen ninety-eight, another in two thousand three, and the most recent just a few months ago. It's all embedded in the computer modeling of markets. That's all I have right now, but if you give me a few hours I can work out the exact conditions."

"Go ahead. If you need anything else, just ask Lestrade. Thank you, Toby."

John finished his notes as Sherlock snapped upright and walked to the microscope. "What do you think it means?"

The slide scraped against the stage and Sherlock held the slide up to the light. He stared at the pink and blue slip of tissue in the glass. The mobile in his pocket beeped. He lifted it out and walked to the window.

"Sherlock? What's going on?"

"It means, John, that someone tried very hard to make sure that I would be the one to find the stab wounds." He tossed the slide to the table and snatched his coat from the hook, leaving John to scramble up from his chair and grab his jacket.

The door to the black car was already open and waiting.

...

The last time John had seen the wood paneling, he hadn't really appreciated it. It was very fine grained, and stained a warm shade of honey that glistened with the right light. It was quite unlike the two men facing off over the teapot. They were cold, and crackled under any light.

Mycroft poured. "Did you know, Sherlock, that there are two things in this world you never, ever insult?" Sherlock ignored him and poured milk in his cup. "No? Not that you'd know, but the first is a clever woman. Never trod on one."

John took his cup and nodded in silent agreement.

"The second, of course, is the money in the common man's pocket."

Sherlock leaned back lazily. "That was obvious."

"Not if you've ever run afoul of a clever woman. But yes, it should be quite clear."

John coughed. "You're doing it again. Both of you."

"What Mycroft is getting at, John, is that his actions are justified and righteous despite their unethical nature."

Mycroft poured for himself and set the teapot down. "Since when have you ever been concerned with ethics? Scone?"

"I can't be bothered."

"Clearly. I've seen your most recent clients."

John held up his hands. "Enough, girls!" Sherlock stirred his tea and Mycroft smirked. "What has all this got to do with computer programs?"

Mycroft dropped a spoonful of sugar into his tea and ignored Sherlock's mocking slurp. "When the American markets were proven corrupt in the late eighties, I was working for the Bank of England's early security team. It was shocking how quickly the banks crumbled there, and the bank created models to predict a similar effect here." He sipped. "In ninety-three, when we were under pressure to join the Euro, I embedded a program testing if I could trigger corrections in past models and put them in models from the eighties."

John took a scone. "Were you successful?"

Sherlock snorted.

"Indeed, I was. So much so that as the head of surveillance and cyber security I managed to bend the ear of then Chancellor of the Exchequer Clarke. We did not join the Euro then, and after a third round, I convinced Gordon Brown not to join the expansion in 2004."

"That's what Sir King was saying at the Yard. You made tea for Gordon Brown."

Sherlock drank the rest of his tea. "Yes, and that was where he acquired his dislike of Scottish tea and pancakes. Enough, Mycroft. Get to the point."

"The point is, Sherlock, I've managed to insulate much of the United Kingdom from the current financial crisis."

"You've altered entire markets here and overseas. You used your privilege to change the course of history."

Mycroft stroked a finger down the side of his bone china cup. It was so fine that John could see the tea through the English Rose pattern. "Wait, isn't this illegal?"

The brothers exchanged a glance and snickered. "Of course it is." Mycroft answered. "I've blatantly manipulated everything from the money in your pocket to the entire European economy." He leaned forward, the soft lighting of the room casting shadows angular shadows across his face. "The question is, what are you going to do about it?"

The Holmes brothers locked eyes. John watched Sherlock's eyes flicker in thought until they rested steadily on the teapot.

"More?"

"Yes, please." Mycroft held up his cup and saucer.

"John?"

"What?"

"More tea?"

"What? Aren't you… What the bloody hell do I care about tea now? What are you going to do? What are we going to do?"

Sherlock poured for John then refilled his own cup. "Nothing."

John was dumbstruck and did not even notice when Sherlock poured a dollop of milk into his tea. "Nothing?"

"People would only care if he was wrong, and the British Sterling became a weak currency. As it is now, we have more purchasing power than any European, including those few still using their old currencies."

"But, the law, Sherlock?"

"If we told Lestrade, who for all his faults is loyal to Queen and country, we would cause him to be so conflicted that his hair would likely set aflame. If we informed MI5 then nothing would happen, since they answer to Mycroft anyway."

John rubbed his face. "But the papers! The press will find out."

Mycroft set his cup down with a delicate click. "When or if the press found out, I would be held aloft as the hero who saved us all from the Irish contagion, the collapse of Greece, and the coming implosion of much of Southern Europe. Not to mention the Americas."

Sherlock smirked at Mycroft. "No, John, I think we shall hold our tongues."

"They will find out regardless."

Sherlock's lips twitched. "No one cares about fraud when it benefits themselves and their friends." He set his cup down and stood immediately, then slipped into his coat and doubled his scarf, coolly ignoring Mycroft's gaze. "Not your finest work, Mycroft. Sloppy, as a matter of fact."

"It was fifteen years ago. Software has come a long way, and frankly I've had more important things to do than tidy up old operations." Mycroft's reptilian smile chilled John. "The crown and Downing have had far bigger fish to fry."

Sherlock paced the room, pulling on his gloves. "Oh yes. Do let me know what the Queen's hat is this year before Ascot. I'm all a-quiver."

"That," Mycroft said, turning pink, "Is a matter of security. We cannot allow just anyone access to Her Majesty's hats!"

John failed to suppress a snicker and Sherlock simply adjusted his gloves with more care than needed. "I'm sure it's quite critical. Your roles in the service of the Union are simply endless. Please try not to collapse the economies of any more of our European cohort as you secure her Majesty's headgear." Sherlock checked his phone and adjusted his scarf. "I suggest you alter the program and say it was a glitch. If anyone asks, you can say it was a fortuitous error and thank Scotland Yard for their tireless work." He pulled out his phone and started to type. John hurriedly stuffed the last bite of scone in his mouth and put on his jacket.

Mycroft rose to see them out. "About that. We need to alter those programs quickly."

Sherlock smiled when his phone announced an incoming text. "It's been done. And I believe you owe the consultant a fee. What do you say to a position in your division?" Sherlock turned to leave without waiting for an answer. "Excellent, I'll let my consultant know he has a secured future. Laterz." Sherlock grinned in triumph as he exited the office.

"Make a note, Sherlock," Mycroft called after them. "We can work on the same side."

...

Sherlock played the violin until late in the evening. Mrs. Hudson came up with sandwiches and fruit. She stayed as Sherlock played Strauss waltzes and a nice piece of Handel. She bid them goodnight by nine and reminded them to clear up after themselves. Once she was gone, Sherlock began to play without direction. He concocted brooding pieces that meandered without returning to a theme.

John thought it uncharacteristic for his friend, a man who found nothing as interesting as a well-connected puzzle.

The kettle came to a boil as Sherlock's playing meandered into quiet. He set aside the violin and brought his cup to the table.

"You're quiet for having solved a case." John commented as he poured.

Sherlock made no sound, but sat in his chair and curled into it, holding the warm mug in his pale hands. John joined him in the sitting room and set down his tea. "Sherlock, I heard what he said was we were leaving. You aren't your brother. You aren't, I can swear to that."

"That's not it, John. I knew what he was doing and I danced to his tune right up until I saw the storage room at Threadneedle. I am not fond of being Mycroft's puppet."

"You could hardly have known before then- we'd barely learnt what was involved before that!"

Sherlock shrugged. "Still, have to admit, he's done a nice job keeping the price of tea down. Have you seen the import duty on the continent lately? Appalling." Sherlock's lips curled up as he sipped. "And I love nothing more than getting one over on Mycroft."

"How's that?"

"Toby. He'll be starting as a specialist for Mycroft's division next month." Sherlock peered at his chirping phone.

"Oh, I see. He was your consultant, and you got him a job." John frowned. "I fail to see how you're getting one over on Mycroft by assisting that kid."

Sherlock set his phone down with a satisfied smirk and retrieved his laptop.

"What?" John set his cup down. "What have I missed?"

"It's incredibly rewarding to foster the talents of youth, John." Sherlock tapped away at the keys. "You often find yourself repaid with interest."

"Oh really? I'm assuming Toby's not giving you access to special government top-up cards, then."

Sherlock stood and snatched a slip of paper from his desk and wrote a message in black marker. "Not exactly." He carefully tacked the note on the harpoon and propped it against his desk, facing the wall, adjusting after he glanced at his laptop.

"You know, your brother is only doing what he thinks is right for his country, despite his questionable methods."

"I'm not fond of having fools in wigs who debate whether they can die in Parliament or not telling me how to think." Sherlock returned to his laptop and proceeded to attack the keyboard. "I've never really been one for Queen and country."

John tapped his fingertips on his RAMC mug, feeling the twinge in his shoulder. "Some people are, Sherlock."

In a rare moment of gentle sympathy, Sherlock softened his manic typing and clicking. "Quite so, John. Quite so." He turned the laptop round on his chair so John could see.

John leant forward and saw panels taking up the screen, flickering with activity and numbered with a label at the corners. People crossed streets, went into shops, and plates of cars were highlighted as they passed specific crossways. Sherlock flipped through the tabs and the labels in the corners changed as the location of the feeds updated.

"Sherlock?"

"Like I said, John," Sherlock tapped a new tab. "With interest."

Taking up the entire screen, in slightly grainy black and white, was a large sheet with a scrawl in Sherlock's hand.

It read 'I WIN'.

...the end...?

Thanks for reading!