Title: Good luck, my heart
Genre: General/Suspense/Crime/Hurt/Comfort
Spoilers: Takes place right after S3, so all the way there
Warnings: Mild language, violence and suggestive themes; rated T for now
Characters: Mycroft-centric, Lestrade, Sherlock, John, Anthea, minor appearances of others, minor OC's
Pairings: subtle hints of Johnlock & Mystrade, bits of John/Mary; all might change as the story goes
Summary: As the long forgotten events of the past start resurfacing, rather than Moriarty it is someone else Mycroft fears returning and if he's right, no one is safe. Question is, will he be able to keep his brother and everyone around him away from harm this time?
Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, most of the characters, not even Moffat. I do want to own a teeny tiny Moffat so I could let him swim in the buckets of my tears ^^ All of that belongs to their respective owners, ACD, BBC, Moffat & Godtiss,...
Prologue - Easter is coming early
"Did you miss me? Did you miss me? Did you miss me? Did you -"
"I think we've heard enough of that already, Sherlock?" John said with a grimace, pausing the video with an overly violent click of the spacebar.
The man in question simply stared at the frozen image for a while longer before acknowledging John's words with a dismissive wave of his right hand.
"Noticed anything?" Lestrade's voice broke the momentary silence from where he was seated in the sofa in the opposite side of the room, but Sherlock paid him no attention. Instead of answering the DI's question he glanced at his brother, casually standing at the door as if prepared to leave at any moment.
"This is hardly a reason to raise the terror alert to critical nation-wide, Mycroft," he said mockingly, watching Mycroft shift his weight, not moving from the convenient spot by the exit.
He smirked, facing Sherlock with an unamused glint in his eyes. "Nor it is a reason enough to let you get away with murder yet here you are."
"Yes, like a small wooden chess piece moving to the whims of your masters. Maybe I would have been better off in Eastern Europe right now after all."
"Eh, no, Sherlock, no you wouldn't," John said, frowning at the consulting detective. "Are you saying this is not Moriarty?"
Sherlock rolled his eyes at him. "He shot himself. In the head. Right in front of me!"
"You jumped off a building! Right in front of me!" John countered.
"That was a completely different situation, I have - "
"No it wasn't. You faked your death and so could he!"
"It's NOT Moriarty!" Sherlock snapped, earning curious looks from everyone present.
Choosing this moment to intervene, Mycroft cleared his throat. "Whoever created and broadcasted this message has clearly set his mind on bringing James Moriarty back. Whether in a physical form is yet to be revealed. What is important as of this moment is that someone is using the face of an infamous criminal to spread panic among the citizens of this great nation all the while stirring the waters of the criminal underworld. I want him found," he stated firmly, looking pointedly at his little brother.
Sherlock glared back, narrowing his eyes. "Interesting. So all it takes is a face and a very bad attempt at voice distortion and the British Government reduces to seeking help from murder convicts. Interesting indeed."
"You were never convicted," John mutters.
"And yet still received a death sentence," he whispers back. "And now I'm on a house-arrest it seems," he turned back to Mycroft watching his face twist into a scowl.
"Don't be so dramatic, brother dear. You are merely…grounded, for the lack of a better word. Find this person and whatever it is he plots and we will discuss further details of your punishment then," he grinned and turned to leave only to stop to the sound of John's voice.
"What if you're wrong. What if it is Moriarty, no, Sherlock, you can't be sure!" he stopped Sherlock before he could say anything. "I don't need to be a Holmes to know the only possible reason for him to come back from the dead is so he can finish what he started. Continue the game you denied him to play. Needless to say I'm not at all interested in another year playing cat and mouse with the most insane man I've ever met! And I'm still having trouble deciding which one of you that is."
Sherlock frowned at the little outburst but said nothing.
"I assure you, Doctor Watson, that you are perfectly safe. You and Mrs. Watson both," Mycroft added.
"Oh I'm feeling better already," John scoffed and turned to Lestrade instead. "Is the Yard launching an investigation on this?"
"Wanted to. But someone," he eyed Mycroft suspiciously, "advised my superiors against it in a…very convincing way."
"I couldn't possibly have anything to do with that," Mycroft retorted, letting a tinge of sarcasm seep into his voice.
"Bollocks," Lestrade muttered loud enough for the older Holmes to hear, earning a glare.
Mycroft sighed. "I believe this is my queue to leave you gentlemen to your own devices."
"As if you were capable of doing that," Sherlock smirked. "Mycroft," he grumbled and waved him off as a goodbye.
Picking up his umbrella and regarding the men present with a court nod he went down the stairs and out the door into the chilly night.
It was a tiring day for the British Government, quite literally and something told him that it was far from over. Mycroft would even call it a successful day was it not for his brother's odd denial concerning the return of their former and present enemy.
As he breathed in the winter air he couldn't help but feel a little bit on edge himself but failed to reason the cause. Or perhaps the cause was staring him right in the eyes, he mused, watching the inconspicuous black car turn the corner and stop in front of him.
"Sir," his PA greeted him once he seated himself and closed the door.
"Is there anything else on the program today, Devon?" he addressed her by her name of the month and glanced outside the window as they drove away from Baker Street.
"Officially? No. Lady Smallwood called to confirm the 8 o'clock meeting tomorrow and you are also expected to meet with the Czech PM upon his arrival at noon, followed by a lunch concerning the…Esmond situation."
"Ah. Yes. That will surely be a lovely afternoon," he noted. "What about the unofficial part?"
"You have received an e-mail approximately an hour ago. You should see it for yourself," she added when he prompted her to continue with a raised eyebrow.
Frowning at her cryptic answer he opened his laptop, suddenly very interested in the message. Nothing could prepare him for what he was about to see.
"Do you remember when Spencer operated on our little abomination? Looks like Easter is coming early this year."
It took Mycroft the entirety of a second to know exactly what this message was saying and who it was for. Now he understood Devon's uncharacteristic confusion. There's not much she wouldn't be able to understand. Only this was something just three men yet of this world would decipher and only one of the three would dare to send.
"Does that mean anything to you?" He almost flinched at the sudden voice, but being Mycroft Holmes he simply closed the laptop and tossed his trademark fake smile at his PA.
"I'm afraid not. But I do not ravel in receiving ridiculous riddles this late in the evening. Find out where it came from. And preferably from whom as well," he commanded stoically and observed Devon some more as she nodded and returned to working her Blackberry at the speed of Sherlock's Mind Palace.
His gaze once again slipped to the lights passing outside the window. To anyone, perhaps with the exception of Sherlock, Mycroft looked as unfazed as ever. But on the inside his mind was a full blown storm. And it all revolved around what the message implied.
Operation Spencer. Sherlock. The dead shall walk. Danger!
Fear was an emotion Mycroft Holmes usually evoked in others and quite successfully so.
Operation Spencer. Sherlock. The dead shall walk. Danger!
It only rarely creeped up on his own mind as a result of someone else's actions.
Operation Spencer. Sherlock. The dead shall walk. Danger!
For fear was a weakness and he couldn't afford such commodity.
Operation Spencer. Sherlock. Sherlock. Danger!
Yet the more he read between the lines of the message, the more he realized that with every word his well buried fears were about to re-surface until they flood his world with their unwanted presence.
Sherlock. Sherlock. Sherlock. Danger!
This wasn't a game anymore.
This was war.
A/N: Hello again ^^ Every now and again, you know...when there's a good weather forecast, particular alignment of the stars and planets, excessive amount of UFO sightings, enough GoT characters dying or about die, Doctors regenerating and some deadly pollen in the air, I tend to start writing as opposed to my usual self-proclaimed reader-only persona.
And so it happened yet again, by a freak combination of the afore mentioned situations.
I absolutely love Sherlock (the show...and the man), and I absolutely love a certain British Government employee (or so he says). So naturally I love reading awesome works of your own that include this special person. But Godtiss knows I'll never have enough :D So here I go, publishing what shall be a short...okay, mid-length series mainly featuring the one and only Mycroft Holmes.
Hope I'll be able to quench if only a trifle of your Mycroft (and a bit of subtle or not so subtle Mystrade) fanfiction thirst ^^
Enjoy the read and let me know what you think ;)
Love ya, Lantia ^^
PS: I am not a native English speaker and I do not have a beta. If you spot an undisclosed number of insults to the English grammar, please do not hesitate to return such abominations to its owner (me) so I could transform them into their proper form. I have also been deformed by years of watching American television so if I ever had the ability to throw in a bit of proper English slang every now and then I certainly don't possess it now. So please excuse Lestrade and his lot in the Yard for being a bit...dull I guess? ;D