The moment he first laid eyes on him, he knew.
Truth be told, it was a far more off-putting experience than he would ever admit. After all, he was a person who could read his surroundings like the pages of a book. He had never met an opponent that he couldn't beat. At times, his repeated victories drove him to the verge of perpetual boredom, but at the very least they could keep him entertained.
This, though, this was nothing like anything else he had ever encountered.
It was instantaneously apparent—bother appearances; no matter how hard he tried, deducing a thing about the man would be the chicken scratch on the surface of an ancient underground crypt. Who would want to waste their time doing such a thing? However, as their pleasantly tense discourse continued, it soon became clear that he was facing someone far more dangerous than "Jim from the hospital".
He had been tricked, played by a man who understood the depths of his mind, the worst his few weaknesses. And yet…
Situations that would frustrate other never failed to intrigue Sherlock Holmes.
That was the way he felt now. Sitting dormant, making neither motion nor sound in the hard black leather seat of Mycroft's car, he stared vacantly ahead, crystal blue eyes taking in nothing, giving away nothing. To anyone who did not know him well enough, it would seem that he had zoned off, thoughts scattering on the wind.
But there were some who knew better, Mycroft most of all. By the time Sherlock had made his way to his brother's office, the blank look had already manifested itself.
He had not been calm, Sherlock recalled. No doubt there was good reason not to be. When Mycroft lost control of a situation, it affected him in ways that he would prefer remain unknown to the general public.
"Little brother." Mycroft faced the window, gazing at London's perpetually murky skies. "The door." Sherlock complied, training his eyes on his brother's back. "Mycroft."
"Every screen. Every screen in London. He is, undoubtedly, looking for you." It would be difficult for anybody excepting Sherlock to pick it up: the halting tones of forced control in those few sentences.
Despite Mycroft's clear uneasiness, already, impatience was beginning to gnaw at Sherlock's resolve. Why let time get away? Every second that passed could have served as a second spent predicting that man's next move…
"Knowing him, the looking is already over. He would never advertise himself in such a way without being certain that he could discuss…terms with me as soon as possible."
Mycroft chuckled coldly. "Terms, brother? Do you mean to say that you intend to negotiate with him?"
Stony silence met the statement. The question was intentional, Sherlock was certain of it, and his brother knew full well what the answer would be.
At last, the younger cleared his throat. "I don't mean to cut you off early—well, actually, I do, but I believe I am currently missing a meeting—"
"Well then, why let me keep you?" Mycroft hissed, whirling around and approaching Sherlock until the two were nose to nose. "I assumed you understood what has happened here, but allow me to remind you. You, Sherlock, you and him both are criminals that some of the most powerful structures in Britain have permitted to fly free, returned to their normal lives! I am sure you realize…"
"How this looks to outsiders? Yes, absolutely, brother, and if I am not mistaken you are going to have a bit of a tough time restoring your own name as a result." An impassive blink punctuated his blunt remark. "Why so concerned? Slander here would cost you nothing elsewhere—"
"Because I have an incredible fondness for London; no, if I were to leave you unattended Sherlock, the damage you could do on your own is unthinkable!"
Mycroft drew a deep breath, eyes closed, as though willing away the uncharacteristically livid expression on his face.
"I will make this brief, as you evidently wish it to be," he said, retreating to the window. "This will not be a simple game like it has been before, Sherlock. Much more is at stake, and though you may not care whom you bring down with you in your attempts to win—" he threw out the word with disdain, clearly believing it to be too childish and petty for him, "I do. So…"
So.
So…what?
What had followed that last word?
No matter how hard he tried, not one word returned to him. He frowned slightly, his first show of emotion since the time he had entered the car. "Well, that wasn't brief at all," he murmured aloud.
"Say something?" The woman next to him asked, not once lifting her eyes from her mobile. He started. "Ah…no. No, nothing."
"Mhmm." Ava—no, Anna, she'd said (right?) continued tapping the keys of the phone. Now out of his trance-like state, he found himself unable to settle back into it, instead focusing on the constant tapping. He glanced over at her rapid fingers from time to time.
Interesting, he thought. Odd, but interesting.
What felt like hours later, they pulled up to his destination?
221 Baker Street.
He let himself out of the car, rather briskly walking to the door. His actions were mindless. Twisting the knob, making his way up the stairs—he put no thought behind them, having performed them so many times before.
There was no hesitation as he strolled to the entrance of the flat. No fear or worry, not even a hint of indecision.
And so, why was his hand simply hovering over the doorknob?
Again, he attempted to recall Mycroft's words. Not that they had meant anything of importance, of course, but nonetheless…
"So…"
With steady fingers, he placed his hand on the doorknob.
"Sherlock, I ask you one small favor."
He turned it to the right.
"There will be no blind guessing and checking. Whatever you do, take care that you get it right the first time." Mycroft had sighed, shaking his head. "And brother…"
He pushed open the door, right as his mind recovered those parting words:
"Stay out of trouble."